Putting on some mileage

One of the functions of having a bigger inshore boat is the ability to handle some rougher water and longer distances.  2fly, our Yellowfin 24, cruises nicely between 35-40mph while burning about 10 -11 gph-- pretty solid numbers considering the load of anglers and fishing gear we normally have aboard.

After a long summer with slower fishing activity in local waters, the brief window of early fall when false albacore make their appearance is thrilling. They don't call it "albie fever" for nothing! These little speeders can maddening, and light tackle anglers develop a love hate relationship with them.  Often challenging to locate and then finicky to hook, success attaches you to one of the more thrilling inshore species the Mudhole and surrounding waters have to offer.

We heard the first reports of 'hard tails' trickling in from waters east of us. Rhode Island first, followed by the New York waters of Montauk and Fishers Island, and then the eastern Connecticut shoreline. Like a nervous tick, the brain jumps back to chasing albies, distracting you from whatever task is at hand. finally, it's too much.  Despite busy schedules, we freed a Sunday and started prepping for the trip. Gear was laid out days in advance. We just needed to put the boat on the trailer.

The weather was the big uncertainty. As the weekend approached, east winds blew strong. That's rarely a good sign for good fishing. The forecast changed by Friday, and on Saturday it showed that Sunday would see rain progressively clearing eastward and then light southeasterly wind.

Having a plan in important. Adapting the plan to the situation is more important. We changed gears. Instead of trailering to Niantic (Plan A), we launched from the Mudhole in the late morning after the rain cleared. Plan B was to drive east and stop either when we found birds and fish or when we hit the rain line.

So we drove. The seas were confused but not big, and 2fly loped easily along at 35mph. We slowed to sight see in the Thimble Islands and poke around a few rips. We paused in Clinton to throw flies at a brief surface blitz of bluefish. We passed Niantic in fog and a brief sprinkle.  In front of the old Seaside Sanatorium we found birds and small blues blitzing-- along withe a blitz of boats! We paused and fished with the herd for a while hoping for albies. They may have been there, but we didn't see them. We chatted with some friendly folks as we tossed flies in a slowly increasing wind and then moved on.

We passed New London and continued down the shore. With no real action to speak of, it was time for a game change. "Let's run over to the Race," I suggested. By now it was noon, so we enjoyed a light lunch and cool beer as we reached the eastern end of Fisher's Island.

Immediately we saw fish on the surface.  Lunch was on hold as we cast into small 1-2 lb bluefish. It was entertaining, but these weren't the fish we'd driven all this way for. We moved south toward the The Race.

And then we found them.  Pods of albies up on the surface, here, there, gone, then back. Tucked into the lee of the island made the fly rods the best and most fun tool for the job. With Allie on the bow and me at the stern, we cast epoxy flies into the busting fish.

Laying it out

The of a tug on the line in your hand travels up your arm and down your spine like electricity.  Drags set tight seem to hardly slow these little speeders, which run as hard as anything pound for pound.

We boated a couple, broke one off, cursed at a few that nipped our flies but didn't connect, and laughed when our cast landed right in the boil on the water without success.  Albie fever indeed!

50mph does wonders for your hair

Three smiles for the camera

Meanwhile the weather was changing.  The wind had picked up, and we could see showers moving in from the southeast.  The radar showed a wet ride for the first 15 miles home.  We pulled on the foul weather gear, stowed the rods, and started the run for home.  The first 30 minutes were wet-- this is the tradeoff of having an open boat to maximize fishability.  We rode down sea in 3 foot waves, eventually running through the storm and into clearing skies.

Driving rain

Opening up the throttle, we pushed for home. Sun beamed through multilevel clouds, guiding us home in a golden glow.

No PhotoShop required

103 miles isn't something to do every day, but it's mighty nice to know you can. Bringing albies to the boat while waters in the Mudhole were empty made it all worthwhile.

Long run

A Martha's Vineyard vacation with the family is a grand slam

Menemsha's swordfish harpooner

We had wind all week. 15-20 kts and greater was typical, and it was mostly northeast. This wasn't shaping up to be a good September vacation, at least for the fishing part. It meant more beach time with the kids, and that's also great.  Unfortunately with the strong winds, even finding a beach in the lee was tricky. On a Monday we ended up at Menemsha, and my daughter wanted to fish so who could say no? Unfortunately family patience being what it is when traveling with a 3- and 5-year-old meant that lasted about 15 minutes. Casting off the Menemsha jetty was just a tease.

The wind just wouldn't let up. A few of the places I wanted to kayak like Cape Poge Bay were just off limits. It was frankly frustrating, but at least it validated the decision to bring the kayak and not bother with the boat.

On Tuesday I was back at the jetty in Menemsha.  Recalled scenes from David Kinney's The Big One, the story of the Martha's Vineyard Derby played in my mind.  Sure enough, the fly rodders camped on the Lobsterville side, and the spin casters on the Menemsha. As a kayak, I was odd man out. I launched on the sound side from the beach and bobbed in steep 2-3 foot chop. I rode the strong current into the pond and fished there. I padded back out and fished the sound again. A small blue and a porgy were the only activity for me. The boys on the jetty didn't seem to be doing any better.  After a few hours of getting slapped around in the waves I called it a morning and headed for the house.

Wednesday was evening windier. I slept in. 

Finally there was break in the wind on Thursday. 

Ready

The weather window opened up only the night before. At first I was on the fence-- we had other family plans-- but this was the only window and I jumped on it. I got the boat ready the night before and headed out around dawn directly from our rental house on the pond.  

Windless sunrise

The tide was mid-outgoing. I threw a x-rap minnow in the water and trolled my way toward the pond cut. Bang! Fish on within 200 feet and I had my first striper of the trip. Just a schoolie, but a nice sight.

There were a couple other kayaks inside the pond near the bridge. I waved and headed under the bridge. It's low enough that you need to take down your rods, so plan ahead if you're sweeping through on a strong current. Now outside in Nantucket Sound, I set up to the side of the outflow and drifted with it a few times, casting into the current and letting my lure swing.  The fly rod was rigged and in the rod holder, but for blindly searching water the spinning rod is a more effective tool.  The bottom here is only 4- to 5-feet deep, but a 100 yards past the jetty tip it drops off quickly to about 25. I drifted past and then padded back up toward the bridge for another drift.

On the first return, I picked up my next customer, a bluefish who was also caught trolling as I paddled back upcurrent.  Released him with smile. "You know," I thought to myself. "Add an albie and it's a slam." It wasn't a greedy thought, more idle musing. 

I decided to fish the drop off and switched over to a bucktail tipped with a zoom fluke. On the first drift I had several sharp taps. No connection. The next drift I got the tap again and set the hook hard. This time it held true, and a nice fat black sea bass came to hand.  He looked awfully tasty, but the house didn't have a cutting board and I was feeling lazy, so he went back in. "Three species morning," I thought.  This was fun. 

A couple power boats drifted in the area, waiting for albies to show. One had a couple guys with spinning gear.  The other was a solo fisherman with a fly rod.  The gear guys were impatient, fanning the water with casts, getting nowhere. Fly guy waits. Eventually the gear guys get tired of flogging the water and motor off to parts unknown.

Now it's me and fly guy. I slowly paddle toward the jetty tip and set up just west of it out of the current. Silverside form clouds in the clear water. They are everwhere.  My spinning rod is stowed. An 8-weight is in my lap with line stripped out. I throw a few casts at the jetty to see if anything's stirring there.  Then I drift and enjoy the view.

Fly guy and I look at each other and nod. "Lot of bait," I say. "Now we just need to guest of honor." 

"Look behind you," he says, and points. 150 feet away the tell tale slash of false albacore on small bait blows up in the shallow water off the jetty tip.  I grin and paddle in their direction, 15-20 hard strokes. Then the rod is in my hand and I fire a cast. Buck fever has a grip on me and it's not a great one. I back cast again and fire it off. Strip, strip, strip and the fly is in sight.  Another cast, and this one gets some distance. It lands in the area where they'd boiled ten seconds before. I strip once, twice...

and the line stops.

In my limited experience with albies, the hook set happens so quickly that I've focused only on getting the line cleared and the fish on the reel.  This one was different. A head shake. A pull. The fish didn't run. "Bluefish?" I wondered to myself.

ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!!!  The fish was off to the races. Denial was over and it ran for it's life, burning drag and streaking backing toward the west. I laughed out loud and called out a thanks to fly guy, who waved. He was quietly motoring into position for his own shot. And my fish headed for for the horizon.

He began to tire and slow. I glanced down at the GPS display on my kayak and found that mighty little 8-pound fish was pulling almost 250 pounds of kayak and angler at 2 mph. He tired and I gained line. With the shallow water he couldn't bring the fight vertical, and I had a hand on his tail in short order.  A quick photo op and off he went.

And an albie completes the grand slam

It was then that I realized I'd pulled off my first grand slam, from a kayak.  I chased another school for 10 minutes, but it was time for breakfast and it really couldn't get any sweeter. I paddled back into the pond, where I had a slight delay casting at yet another albie boil before heading back to the house.

For our next trip I now have some intel on where to trailer launch a boat. That creates some interesting possibilities so long as there's a place to store the boat on shore. The ferry fee is less than a slip, and it eliminates the uncertainty of a bad weather crossing forcing you to change your plans.  The wheels are already turning...

The beginning of my downfall

Certain fish form addictions faster than others.  I caught my first false albacore in 2011, and the hook was immediately set (in me).  The excitement I experienced chasing them and the frustration I felt failing were almost maddening.  Here's my tale of that experience.


Back from Block Island after having had a great time with family and friends. I thought I would share a brief summary of the week's fishing.

My mission for the week was simple: to catch a false albacore. On fly if possible, but there were no rules. I brought fly gear plus two spinning setups. Whatever it takes. Needless to say, we were well equipped.

Geared up

To make the most of the time available, I opted to spend the week fishing the early shift. The girls would be up around 7:30 to 8am, so my window was 5-8. My friend Patrick joined us for the first two days, and together we hit the dawn shift.

Dawn

Before dawn we cast to schoolie stripers in the shallows, but the bait was so plentiful that we didn't find takers. Getting a fly to stand out was a tough sell. As soon as the light crept into the sky, the stripers vanished and the hunt for albies began.

From Saturday through Tuesday, I plied the shore game. Saturday we watched as birds blitzed bait on the far side of the Coast Guard cut. It was well out of reach, and eventually the action stopped. We explored some of the area.

 

No birds, no players. All was quiet. We retired for the evening to make a plan, and to tie a few flies.

The next day brought change. Friends Jim and Lori had taken the ferry over to join us for a couple days. At 5am Patrick and I met Jim at the foot of the stairs. “I’m taking the first ferry home. Lori having contractions.” Sure enough, their little daughter joined the world the following day.

So, without Jim we arrived at the water at the same time-- o'dark thirty. Again the schoolies teased us, and again the bite shut down at dawn. We fished the Coast Guard cut. Suddenly we heard a ruckus from the Salt Pond. Cormorants were flying in, landing in waves of two dozen. There were hundreds of birds, frantically searching the water. Then all hell broke loose. Miniature tunas flew from the water, bait surged from the water in great sprays trying to escape the twin deaths from above and below. The fishermen were whipped into a frenzy, but like frustrated teenagers on a date, the desire was strong but we couldn't close the deal. The fish never came within 200 yards. We watched in awe as the frenzy lasted perhaps ten minutes, and then was gone. The only thing that remained was a few cormorants hopeful for more, and the dull ache in my casting arm from futilely hurling 100+ foot casts in the direction of the blitz in the vain hope a straggler on the edge of the school would find my offering.

This was a game of chance. A lotto ticket. Be in the right place, at the right time, with the right offering, and maybe you'd get lucky. Maybe.

I went back on Monday. This time I was in the right place and right time. A small blitz blew up 20 feet away. I fired a cast. And another. Three more. Then it was gone. 8 anglers present and one hookup. And then it was done.

Fish madness starts to set in. I've fished three days without so much as a tug. I wanted that albie. I thought about doing the night shift for bass, but that wasn't going to do it. So, with my figurative lottery ticket in my pocket, I went back on Tuesday.

Block Island Coast Guard Station

It is an interesting group of anglers that lines the Coast Guard cut. Everyone understands the game is a waiting game. Some think it is tide driven. Others prefer dusk and dawn. I think it's both. And a lot of random chance. And a huge helping of madness.

Tuesday we again had one very brief blitz from shore, but it was brief and never came close to me. Then it was gone.

But worse than gone. The fish moved into the harbor, and for over an hour I watched as pods of albies chased bait straight into the sky and into the mouths of waiting gulls. By 8 am I was sitting in my truck, shaking hands on the wheel. This could truly cause insanity if it went on for too much longer. I needed a solution. A comment Patrick made early in the week came back to me.

Roto-molded Salvation

I spent a good two hours on Tuesday trying to hunt down a kayak. With many of the businesses wrapped up for the season, it felt a bit like a drug deal. You need to speak to Gabriel. She has Tory's phone number. Tory runs the boats for Charlotte. Be there at 2:30. I pull up. Someone runs out of the back of the restaurant kitchen next door. Cash is exchanged. I drive away with my score. I'm a junkie and I'm hoping this is my fix.

It takes me a while to get sorted out for fishing from a boat. I find cord to tie my rods and paddle to the boat. I sort through my gear to get spinning and fly gear down to one bag. Pre-dawn, I drive down to a beach in Cormorant Cove and rig up in the darkness. I'm slow, I'm late, but I have my solution.

It's not to be. I'm in my boat along with one other kayaker. A center console patrols the area. Fishermen line the shore. We're prepared. The albies aren't. They decide not to show today. Madness continues. Tomorrow is my last shot.

I'm back at dawn.

Today is my shot. Today the winning ticket is mine. I paddle to the Coast Guard cut. I'm the only boat. The sun rises. All is quiet.

Birds!

I paddle!

They're gone....

 Again! Birds! Paddle! Gone...

This repeats itself. If nothing else, I'm getting my exercise.

Then it pays off. The boat isn't a magic solution, but I'm getting shots that I wouldn't otherwise. The wind is up, about 15 mph. Screw the fly rod, I'm using my spinning rod loaded with a Deadly Dick.

Whatever it takes.

I fire casts into the Blitz but there are no takers. Guys from shore are getting in the mix, too, when the fish are close.

Another blitz! I fire a cast. The braided line is taken by the wind into a long arc away from the lure, when... disaster! The braid catches a flying cormorant and snaps. The bird croaks in disdain and then flies on toward the carnage of bait and leaping albies. I'm left holding my spinning rod, contemplating how long it will take to tie on a new leader and lure. I tie off the braid and pull out the fly rod.

My range is short. The shots are fewer because of that. But the offering is right. On the third cast I get a satisfyingly solid pull back as I strip in a small surf candy.

Albies are known for their fast runs, and this one didn't disappoint. Line quickly spun off the reel.

I quickly discovered that fighting a fast fish from a kayak can get a little interesting. It ran back at me, under the boat, and then shot off the opposite direction. The pull was impressive. I gained line and saw leader. Then it sounded.

The rod bent to a U as the fish went straight down. A standoff ensued. For a few minutes I gained lined a couple feet at a time, levering the rod bod against the fish. Again I saw leader, and again the fish was off. A few more runs, and then the end game began.

The end game with an albie from a kayak is a challenge. The fish circled the boat, and I did my best to avoid letting the rod tip contact the bow and stern. First attempt to tail it failed. Second, failed. Third time I went for the leader, dropped the rod into the boat, and tailed the fish.

Euthynnus alletteratus

The photo doesn't do this fish justice. The colors are gorgeous. The skin is perfectly smooth. The tail seems impossibly skinny (makes a great handle). The shape is perfect for speed and ballistics.

Heart pounding, I fired off a couple shots and then released him back to the water.

The sun was coming up from behind the trees. The blitzes continued a bit longer and then shut off. The heart pounding insanity of the chase, the cast, and the fight began to fade. I had one break off and landed an 8-pound blue. I pulled the 'yak and called it a day.

Albie, on the fly. Mission accomplished.