5 am Georges Bank,
Montemoy spit 5 miles south of Chatam light Cape Cod
This is a curious part of the world ; a place unchanged since the end
of the last ice age ;
There is no record, no trace of humanity having ever been here . Well
on the surface anyway .
It lays as a long sand dune barely a 100 yrds wide feathering the arm
of the Cape like a finger pointing out to the North Atlantic.
A bird sanctuary, and nesting ground if there ever was one. It is the home
for thousands of Terns , Frigates, gulls;and assorted avian travelers that
make the coast their birth place and home .
It is also a graveyard of centuries old shipwrecks .Including
those of Vikings and Pirates
The morning sun is late;
In triumph it breaks a
lead grey cloud bank and spills
out over dark sea dazzling it
with dramatic splashes of
emerald and dancing the tops of
large swells with the
bright foam of little white caps.
Cold purple clouds ride the horizon, as puffly pinks sail over head
.
The sea breeze and
swells
push us Aft
as the slap and sudden spray drenches our face and beards.
We work the deck wearing yellow oils and Glousters laying out a choice of deep sea reels
and antique lures, then constructing
intricate bloodlines for the bait made from the
gaily colored deceivers.
The spray wets our appetites and we give
into smells of black
coffee and the warm of left over
pastry from the galley .
The
day is not lost on us ; our boat the Sea Gill ;is a happy little Black fin of
about 30ft
With a good sturdy disel that can take an open sea
.
We pepper along at about 4
knots and set the compass on
course of 182 deg to sally the shore while we set the outriggers up with heavy sea
poles rigged with steel wire
and adorned with fearsome looking lures and deceiving streamers to mimic sea worms.
.The banks themselves are a sight to
behold ; a long churn of
thrashing white water that breaks the air in the
salted diamonds of multicolored
mists.
Somewhere between the rise of
the mists and the churn of the prop lays an etherial kingdom
worthy of
mystical nymphs and the
legends of sea gods ..
Here in the morning light jitterbugging rips and dancing whirlpools spin and weave
a chaotic line of water unto the surface;
where Underneath plays out
a drama as old as time itself.
It is here that the water rises
first from 100 ft to 50 f then to 25 and so on until there is a huge collison
of currents meshing with and colliding into from the
cold water of the North meeting the (relatively) warm water of the
South ..
The amount of bait life brought
with it especially at the changes of the seasons is a fisherman's dream..
Here at the Harvest moon
schools of stripped bass, shad
and warm water
bonita compete with hordes of Blue Fish and if you are lucky occasional
tuna to feed on the masses of sea eel, worm and
the bait fish which gather
at this feeding paradise.
But you have to be lucky. There
is no guarantee.
Three hours of fishing as
yeiled 2 blues and one bonita,
we break pattern and move
further up the shoal.
To be continued)
Caught
the debate on ship to shore ; As for politics
Take
it from a pyrate ... ....When we fish we use lures to deceive the fish
; frankly I do not see much difference in the bait ..and the
fish.... they all smell the same ..
perhaps
if they let Nader have a voice ;....but ..oh heck ...
that
would be too democratic Py
......Ps.. I
rather be fishing
...........................
