While not cast in 24-karat gold, JT and Hilary were learning the exhilaration of hooking into albies, and then some. With torpedo-shaped bodies topped with brilliant, oil-in-mercury swirls of green, blue and black that give way to a mirrored silver, they’re taut with muscle and capable of incredible speed and en-durance, as evidenced by the amount of backing that sang off their reels. Also called bonito or “little tun-nys,” false albacore are the most common tuna found in the Atlantic. But since they prefer warm water, Cape Cod fishermen only have a short window during the dog days of summer to chase them as they rip around in endless pursuit of prey. A testament to Tony’s expertise, he kept their rods bent almost nonstop, gunning after schools as they vanished into the depths, somehow knowing just where they’d reappear. Adrenaline hung in the air, its giddy energy almost physical. It’s the adrenaline rush that draws those with an addictive personality and love of living on the edge to fishing. Often, this personality type is also drawn to the copious amounts of illicit substances that have woven their way into the Cape’s culture. Myths abound of JFK’s father, Joe, famously alleged to have been a bootlegger, standing sentry along the coast under the guise of angling while keeping an eye out for the cops or awaiting a black-market delivery. All too often the Cape Cod Times has headlines implicating fishing boats in the illegal importing of drugs ranging from pot to cocaine. One legend in particular holds that a group of well-known Irish sympathizers sent contraband the other way, smuggling guns to the IRA. Most recently, the Cape has found itself to be ground zero of our na-tion’s opiate epidemic, subject to countless national articles and even an HBO documentary. As the body count rises, finding orange-and-white syringes along-side the usual cigarette butts and piles of nip bottles in parking lots has become the norm. JT and Hilary had finally come to visit after false starts and countless scheduling conflicts, lured by hog stripers that could tie a nine-weight in knots. While that had yet to happen—the seasonal striped bass migration can be fickle, and we were pushing the envelope between late summer’s dead season and early fall’s blitz—I hoped this bluebird day of whining reels and leaping mackerel made up for the lack of striped beasts a little. I’d been worried. Being entrusted to entertain and find steady fish for a couple of professional guides— Hilary is a legend on Montana’s rivers and JT leads clients to fish all over Colorado and Texas—bore with it some weight. Despite being more of a dirtbag adventure-chaser than polished angling professional, I was well aware it was going to be challenging to pro-duce the epic fish I’d played up when we’d first made this plan months back. But this was when schedules aligned, and I was determined to make it work. I’ve heard something about boundless optimism being a good mask for stupidity. After prowling the Cape’s coastline hunting striped bass, it became clear we were ahead of the curve, mi-gration-wise. Schoolies—young stripers ranging from 8-20 inches—popped up here and there, but the le-viathans I’d raved about were proving elusive. Luckily, Tony had offered to take us out, magically finding a hole in a schedule that can book out months in advance. His reputation as a guide and character proved well deserved amid a combination of fish-finding and yarn-spinning. I breathed a sigh of relief at the smiles on JT’s and Hil’s faces at the end of the day—at least the trip wasn’t going to be a total waste of their time. And after wearing ourselves out cranking in all those fish, good food was one thing I knew how to guarantee. At any given moment on Cape Cod, you’re not more than 10 minutes from the best damn seafood of your life. I’m talking fried clams so golden, so crispy, so fresh, every bite is like the flour-encrusted mollusks are making love to your mouth, their hot salty juices mix-ing with your own in climactic gastrointestinal ecstasy. Our lobster rolls are second to none, unless you happen to be from Maine and want to get all pah-tay-toe/pah-tah-toe. Every clam shack has its own chowder recipe, each better than the last, leaving you blissed-out with a sweaty sheen of heavy cream running down your chin. Then there’s smoked bluefish, a local delicacy that transforms brutish, oily-fleshed monsters into a deli-cate treat. Save room for a stuffed quahog, deep fried in its shell and as soaked in microwaved butter as you are by now in local beer. THE FLYFISH JOURNAL 075
The Flyfish Journal Volume Eight, Issue Four: Page 75
