Ditchbag

How about the best fishing story of your life

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I have to tell this story before I get to my own PB fish story.

 

So a friend of mine at work had started taking a bunch of us fellow nerds on fishing outages after work to a beach near his house in Rhode Island  

His wife would meet us there and we'd bring extra fishing gear and there would be hot dogs and hamburgers and it was great and we'd catch scup and dogfish and little stripers.  But everyone would leave when the sun went down. 


I started sticking around afterwards and fishing till midnight or so, but I would usually go home skunked.  Though every now and then I'd catch a striper or two and it would keep me coming back.

 

I had started making my own plugs that year as well.  Really rough copies of some other popular builders that I liked mostly.

 

So one night, I'm getting a good skunking when I see someone coming back from the rocky point I was too chicken to walk out on in the dark.  

When he notices me waded out into the surf he stops and I hear him say something to me with his light pointed in my direction... so I wade back out.  

As I approach him, I notice he has a striper slung over his shoulder, a big one.  bigger than I've ever caught to that date anyhow.

"Catchin Any?" he says?

"nope" 

" The bluefish were going nuts before the sun went down, I was catching them on metals.  but then the stripers came in and they were so big they were eating the bluefish"  

(I wondered how he could know that, but with me standing there with no fish and him clearly with a monster, he must know something I don't so I didn't question that.)

He didn't ask me what I was using...but he just said:

"Throw needles... do you have any?"

"yeah, I have one"  (I had a gibbs needle I had bought and never really tried in my bag, in green)

He looked at my rod and reel setup..

"you should be able to reach them.  Throw that needle as far as you can, and then reel it in reaally slow."

 

I had read old posts written by John Habrek on fishing needles and I remembered  something to the effect of "fish it slow, and when you think you're reeling slow enough, reel a little slower"


I thanked him and he walked on back towards the parking lot.

 

Just a few casts later (when I'm older, the story will change to "the next cast)  I reel just a couple times when WHAM I get this savage hit but no hookup.   

A couple casts later.. WHAM!  Another one, but this time I'm on.  The initial hit was ferocious but when I got the fish in, it was only a schoolie. 

But that night, and many nights after, that same recipe had me some nights when I'd catch a fish every other cast while the tide lasted.   

 

One night that Fall.  I got there late, not until 10:30 or so, and I had to work the next day.  I started as usual, casting at the parking lot end of the beach, and each cast I'd hook a schoolie.  Knowing that the bigger fish were near the rockpiles, I hoofed it the mile or so to the other end.

It turned out to be a night like no other.  Every other cast I had a decent fish on, all on needles.  After a couple hours, my arms were tired, but how could I leave?  

The next thing I know, it's 2am and I still had to drive an hour home, get some sleep and get up at 6:30 for work the next day!  So I started walking and casting... no good.  every cast I hooked a fish and had to fight it in.    I barely made it 100 yards in 30 minutes.  So I started taking a cast only every 50 steps.. no good... still a fish every cast.. . all the way across the beach!      I can only imagine what an aerial view would have looked like if the sun was up.    I finally hooked a fish deep, said thank you, bled it and practically ran to the truck.

 

I was so exhausted and bewildered I tried to take my sweat shirt off while driving, pulling it over my head and thus blinding myself. 

 

I wound up calling in sick.

 

 

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The weekend before memorial day is usually a hit or miss weekend. Sometimes you get lucky and find a few early bluefish before they really invade. We show up to the beach around 11 after getting everything ready. Drive out onto the beach and stop to say hello to some guys we knew who were having lunch. Nobody was fishing at all. So after talking I said, "might as well take a few casts since nobody else is" and hooked up with a decent 8lb + bluefish on my first cast with a roberts ranger. I chocked that up to good luck and I get another one on the next cast. Long story short, myself and everybody else that showed up around us had the same thing happen to them as well...until it got dark! And it wasn't just our spot, it seemed like it was the whole beach. This went on for 3 days straight! You could not throw a plug out without it getting hit at least. We caught hundreds of blues and only stopped when our arms were too sore to reel any more in. Some people even removed the hooks just so they could watch the fish hit the plugs.

 

Best part of the story is I only lost one plug and it was because my wire leader got bitten and I didn't see it until it was too late

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OK, here's another long one.  Timely also, with Valentine’s Day a few weeks away.  I wrote this true story many years ago for On The Water, but they never published it.  The editor at the time didn't like the reference to my getting drunk.  They wanted me to change that section but I decided to sit on it rather than change anything.  You don't mess with the truth.

 

 

                                             BLUEFISH AND ROMANCE

 

     With Valentine’s Day approaching, this fish story is told as a cautionary tale, aimed at the younger, unmarried members of our surfcasting community.

 

     Way back when I was 28 and single, I dated a drop-dead gorgeous, 23 year old. I thought that I was quite the stud since she showed an interest in me while every guy in town was chasing her.   

 

     Up to that point, I had been able to to keep my sporting interests unencumbered by any serious romantic entanglements. 

 

     Then one day I mentioned to her that the following weekend I was going to be camping at Charleston Breachway and fishing with my uncle. Her first reaction was to wrinkle her nose in distaste, then she did an uncanny and immediate face change. She then gave me the type of smile that would stop you right in your tracks, and said “I’d love to come along.”

 

     I quickly back pedaled and explained that it wouldn’t be much fun for her since I would be keeping pretty strange hours, like sleeping during the day and fishing all night, but she said “No problem, I’ll lay on the beach and entertain myself.”

 

     I should have known better, I really should have. 

 

 When the weekend arrived we drove down to Rhode Island. I pulled into the State Campground lot and parked my camper next to my uncle’s rig. We visited with my aunt and uncle for a while, and I made plans to meet my uncle at midnight, and fish thru until dawn.

 

     My girlfriend and I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon taking a long walk along the beach. I felt more than little strange walking the sands in the bright daylight, and a bit naked without a rod and reel.

     After an early supper, I told her that it was time for me to get some sleep, as I would be fishing the outgoing tide at midnight. She calmly said “Oh, by the way, I made plans with some friends of mine from Providence and they are coming down to see us”.  

 

     Now, I might not be the sharpest hook in the tackle box, but I did recognize that my plans were being twisted to suit her personal agenda.

 

     Soon her friends arrived and they brought with them the ‘party-hardy’ attitude that goes along with being in your early 20’s. The three of them were insistent that I join them in hitting a couple of clubs over in Newport. 

     At this point, I should state that I have never cared much for alcohol and nightclubs, and that my idea of nightlife has always involved a bucket of live eels and a deserted stretch of coastline.

 

     Why I allowed them to change my plans I’ll never know; Maybe it was because no man had ever said “no” to this girl, and I couldn’t be the first; Or maybe it was the idea of her being in a club without me that made me want to believe their hollow promises of having me back by midnight.

 

     What time did we get back? Dunno. How much did I have to drink? Dunno. What did I say or do that night?Dunno.

    What I do know is, I woke up with the early morning sun shining through the camper window on my face. My tongue felt so nasty and sour I wondered how my eel rag had wound up in my mouth. The sunlight was blindingly painful and my brain was being dashed on the rocks of the past night’s alcohol. 

 

     As bad as I felt, the guilt of standing up my uncle on our fishing plans somehow seeped through my fogged mind, and it piled right on top of my misery.

 

     Slowly I was becoming aware that there was some sound that had awakened me. I could still hear it, but in my dazed condition I was unable to process it. There it was again........then it finally sank in, it was the sound of screaming sea gulls and camper doors slamming.

 

     I had to pull myself upright with my arms, because my right leg was completely dead numb from the way that I was laying on it. Looking out the window, I saw two fishermen scurry past my camper heading towards the beach. It seemed that every sea gull in Rhode Island was wheeling and diving out over the surf.

 

     As I thrashed around in my camper for my gear, my excessive nymphet gave me a sleepy sigh from the bed, and raised one arm in a seductive ‘come hither.’  I thought to myself “sorry lady, I hear another siren call, and that one I do have to answer.”

 

     I literally fell out of the camper door, then pulled on my hip boots. Because I found myself in a pair of sweatpants, I had nothing to fasten the straps onto. In my confusion, I also hadn’t been able to find my sunglasses and had to squint out of one eye to deal with the low blinding sun and the small craft warnings in my head.

 

     So, with my hip boots at half-mast, straps a-flying, I swung my useless, still dead asleep leg around and lurched over the dune towards the beach like a hung-over, blinded Frankenstein.

 

     Topping the low dune I saw an enormous blitz of bluefish pounding thru the baitfish. The twenty or so fishermen spread along the surf were casting for all they were worth, but the fish were just beyond their reach.

 

     Stumbling blindly forward, I failed to notice the three foot shelf that previous storm waves had carved into the top of the beach. My next step was a doozy, and I pounded my head straight into the sand and came very close to breaking my rod tip. I knew that the casting crowd were concentrating on the fish and had their backs towards me, so I tightened my dignity up a couple of notches, blew the sand out of my nose and ambled towards the surf, looking and feeling pretty much like the wreck of the Hesperus.

 

     During my triple-lutz, my plug bag had gotten flipped over and was tangled on the handle of my reel; With every step I took, a couple of lures were deposited onto the sand. About the time that my bag was completely empty I dropped it, and realized that a plug had gone down my boot top. I tried to extract it, but one treble hook was caught in my sweatpants leg, so I chose to ignore it for the time being.

 

     I saw my uncle back away from the waters edge, saving his energy should the fish move closer. I wobbled into the spot that he had just vacated, but was unable to check my forward advance and succeeded in filing my left hip boot with water. Surprising myself, I did manage to get off a pretty impressive cast considering my condition.

 

     Honest to God, and I’ll go to my grave swearing this on the Surfcaster’s Bible, I popped my old Point Jude Surf Popper exactly once, and instantly had a bluefish on. 

 

     Oddly enough, all of those very capable fishermen were unable to reach the blitz that was now moving away, but I somehow dropped my plug right on the nose of the one looney bluefish who couldn’t find his way to the two acre menhaden bonanza.

 

     By the time that I landed the one and only fish that was caught, everyone had quit casting. Without saying a word, I quickly handed the bluefish over to the grumbling fisherman standing next to me. The tight 4 to 5 foot chop in my stomach precluded me from even considering filleting that fish.

 

     I walked up the slope of the beach and picked up my empty plug bag, then worked my way up the debris field of my lures, gathering them. Out of the corner of my one squinting eye, I saw my uncle standing there studying me. I couldn’t meet his gaze, so I wasn’t sure if his look was reproachful, or if he was simply puzzled by my odd, very uncharacteristic behavior.

 

     I spent the rest of that Sunday lying low, nursing my ills, and endlessly repeating the mantra “never again”. I also did my best to ignore my pretty friend’s pouting entreaties to keep the party rolling. 

 

     By the way, she was absolutely none the worse for wear, and like long painted fingernails dragged across a blackboard, she kept up a constant screeching whine about how boring this place was. She bombarded me with demands like: “Let’s go back to Newport and go window shopping”. (Ya, right!)  “Or let’s go visit the Mansions, then go out to a fancy restaurant”. (Ho ho, sure!)  “Or maybe we should go lay on the beach at Misquamicut, at least there are lots and lots of people there.”  (Now that would be a real treat for a surfcaster, wouldn’t it?)

 

     My only consolation was that I had been granted a timely warning as to what my future might hold with this girl. The next time that I planned a surf fishing /camping trip, that girl coming along wasn’t an issue. I had already given her the ‘goodbye look’ and she moved on and found another willing party-animal. I must say, that was just fine and dandy with me.

 

     As a post script, I should add that I am now happily married to a wonderful woman who is very understanding of my need to frequently be at the surf’s edge. I am also very lucky in that she enjoys joining me, with a rod and reel in her little freckled hand if the outing isn’t going to be too long or too overly uncomfortable.

 

     So, the moral and message of this story for the young, single surfcaster out there is simply this: DUDE..........Choose wisely, the sporting life you save may be your own!

 

Alan Landry

 
Edited by clambellies

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1 hour ago, clambellies said:

OK, here's another long one.  Timely also, with Valentine’s Day a few weeks away.  I wrote this true story many years ago for On The Water, but they never published it.  The editor at the time didn't like the reference to my getting drunk.  They wanted me to change that section but I decided to sit on it rather than change anything.  You don't mess with the truth.

 

 

                                             BLUEFISH AND ROMANCE

 

     With Valentine’s Day approaching, this fish story is told as a cautionary tale, aimed at the younger, unmarried members of our surfcasting community.

 

     Way back when I was 28 and single, I dated a drop-dead gorgeous, 23 year old. I thought that I was quite the stud since she showed an interest in me while every guy in town was chasing her.   

 

     Up to that point, I had been able to to keep my sporting interests unencumbered by any serious romantic entanglements. 

 

     Then one day I mentioned to her that the following weekend I was going to be camping at Charleston Breachway and fishing with my uncle. Her first reaction was to wrinkle her nose in distaste, then she did an uncanny and immediate face change. She then gave me the type of smile that would stop you right in your tracks, and said “I’d love to come along.”

 

     I quickly back pedaled and explained that it wouldn’t be much fun for her since I would be keeping pretty strange hours, like sleeping during the day and fishing all night, but she said “No problem, I’ll lay on the beach and entertain myself.”

 

     I should have known better, I really should have. 

 

 When the weekend arrived we drove down to Rhode Island. I pulled into the State Campground lot and parked my camper next to my uncle’s rig. We visited with my aunt and uncle for a while, and I made plans to meet my uncle at midnight, and fish thru until dawn.

 

     My girlfriend and I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon taking a long walk along the beach. I felt more than little strange walking the sands in the bright daylight, and a bit naked without a rod and reel.

     After an early supper, I told her that it was time for me to get some sleep, as I would be fishing the outgoing tide at midnight. She calmly said “Oh, by the way, I made plans with some friends of mine from Providence and they are coming down to see us”.  

 

     Now, I might not be the sharpest hook in the tackle box, but I did recognize that my plans were being twisted to suit her personal agenda.

 

     Soon her friends arrived and they brought with them the ‘party-hardy’ attitude that goes along with being in your early 20’s. The three of them were insistent that I join them in hitting a couple of clubs over in Newport. 

     At this point, I should state that I have never cared much for alcohol and nightclubs, and that my idea of nightlife has always involved a bucket of live eels and a deserted stretch of coastline.

 

     Why I allowed them to change my plans I’ll never know; Maybe it was because no man had ever said “no” to this girl, and I couldn’t be the first; Or maybe it was the idea of her being in a club without me that made me want to believe their hollow promises of having me back by midnight.

 

     What time did we get back? Dunno. How much did I have to drink? Dunno. What did I say or do that night?Dunno.

    What I do know is, I woke up with the early morning sun shining through the camper window on my face. My tongue felt so nasty and sour I wondered how my eel rag had wound up in my mouth. The sunlight was blindingly painful and my brain was being dashed on the rocks of the past night’s alcohol. 

 

     As bad as I felt, the guilt of standing up my uncle on our fishing plans somehow seeped through my fogged mind, and it piled right on top of my misery.

 

     Slowly I was becoming aware that there was some sound that had awakened me. I could still hear it, but in my dazed condition I was unable to process it. There it was again........then it finally sank in, it was the sound of screaming sea gulls and camper doors slamming.

 

     I had to pull myself upright with my arms, because my right leg was completely dead numb from the way that I was laying on it. Looking out the window, I saw two fishermen scurry past my camper heading towards the beach. It seemed that every sea gull in Rhode Island was wheeling and diving out over the surf.

 

     As I thrashed around in my camper for my gear, my excessive nymphet gave me a sleepy sigh from the bed, and raised one arm in a seductive ‘come hither.’  I thought to myself “sorry lady, I hear another siren call, and that one I do have to answer.”

 

     I literally fell out of the camper door, then pulled on my hip boots. Because I found myself in a pair of sweatpants, I had nothing to fasten the straps onto. In my confusion, I also hadn’t been able to find my sunglasses and had to squint out of one eye to deal with the low blinding sun and the small craft warnings in my head.

 

     So, with my hip boots at half-mast, straps a-flying, I swung my useless, still dead asleep leg around and lurched over the dune towards the beach like a hung-over, blinded Frankenstein.

 

     Topping the low dune I saw an enormous blitz of bluefish pounding thru the baitfish. The twenty or so fishermen spread along the surf were casting for all they were worth, but the fish were just beyond their reach.

 

     Stumbling blindly forward, I failed to notice the three foot shelf that previous storm waves had carved into the top of the beach. My next step was a doozy, and I pounded my head straight into the sand and came very close to breaking my rod tip. I knew that the casting crowd were concentrating on the fish and had their backs towards me, so I tightened my dignity up a couple of notches, blew the sand out of my nose and ambled towards the surf, looking and feeling pretty much like the wreck of the Hesperus.

 

     During my triple-lutz, my plug bag had gotten flipped over and was tangled on the handle of my reel; With every step I took, a couple of lures were deposited onto the sand. About the time that my bag was completely empty I dropped it, and realized that a plug had gone down my boot top. I tried to extract it, but one treble hook was caught in my sweatpants leg, so I chose to ignore it for the time being.

 

     I saw my uncle back away from the waters edge, saving his energy should the fish move closer. I wobbled into the spot that he had just vacated, but was unable to check my forward advance and succeeded in filing my left hip boot with water. Surprising myself, I did manage to get off a pretty impressive cast considering my condition.

 

     Honest to God, and I’ll go to my grave swearing this on the Surfcaster’s Bible, I popped my old Point Jude Surf Popper exactly once, and instantly had a bluefish on. 

 

     Oddly enough, all of those very capable fishermen were unable to reach the blitz that was now moving away, but I somehow dropped my plug right on the nose of the one looney bluefish who couldn’t find his way to the two acre menhaden bonanza.

 

     By the time that I landed the one and only fish that was caught, everyone had quit casting. Without saying a word, I quickly handed the bluefish over to the grumbling fisherman standing next to me. The tight 4 to 5 foot chop in my stomach precluded me from even considering filleting that fish.

 

     I walked up the slope of the beach and picked up my empty plug bag, then worked my way up the debris field of my lures, gathering them. Out of the corner of my one squinting eye, I saw my uncle standing there studying me. I couldn’t meet his gaze, so I wasn’t sure if his look was reproachful, or if he was simply puzzled by my odd, very uncharacteristic behavior.

 

     I spent the rest of that Sunday lying low, nursing my ills, and endlessly repeating the mantra “never again”. I also did my best to ignore my pretty friend’s pouting entreaties to keep the party rolling. 

 

     By the way, she was absolutely none the worse for wear, and like long painted fingernails dragged across a blackboard, she kept up a constant screeching whine about how boring this place was. She bombarded me with demands like: “Let’s go back to Newport and go window shopping”. (Ya, right!)  “Or let’s go visit the Mansions, then go out to a fancy restaurant”. (Ho ho, sure!)  “Or maybe we should go lay on the beach at Misquamicut, at least there are lots and lots of people there.”  (Now that would be a real treat for a surfcaster, wouldn’t it?)

 

     My only consolation was that I had been granted a timely warning as to what my future might hold with this girl. The next time that I planned a surf fishing /camping trip, that girl coming along wasn’t an issue. I had already given her the ‘goodbye look’ and she moved on and found another willing party-animal. I must say, that was just fine and dandy with me.

 

     As a post script, I should add that I am now happily married to a wonderful woman who is very understanding of my need to frequently be at the surf’s edge. I am also very lucky in that she enjoys joining me, with a rod and reel in her little freckled hand if the outing isn’t going to be too long or too overly uncomfortable.

 

     So, the moral and message of this story for the young, single surfcaster out there is simply this: DUDE..........Choose wisely, the sporting life you save may be your own!

 

Alan Landry

 

Alan great story . Blue fishing in the surf with many women during my life time never beat the times when My wife and I fished together for them down At South Cape Beach over the years with my three sons.

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Short story

We were  16 yrs old and we just bought 10’ prom for Frestwater.  We put in at Horn pond , Winchester Mass.  it’s 4 o’clock in the morning , flat calm  we are out in the middle of the pond and I am rowing and trolling.  All of a sudden my oar hits a big rock ? What the hell ?  There’s no rocks out here?  I look down and this big turtle 3’ dia. Sticks his head out of his shell.  4 am in the morning , scared the hell out of me   I almost fell out of the boat    

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13 hours ago, ccb said:

Short story

We were  16 yrs old and we just bought 10’ prom for Frestwater.  We put in at Horn pond , Winchester Mass.  it’s 4 o’clock in the morning , flat calm  we are out in the middle of the pond and I am rowing and trolling.  All of a sudden my oar hits a big rock ? What the hell ?  There’s no rocks out here?  I look down and this big turtle 3’ dia. Sticks his head out of his shell.  4 am in the morning , scared the hell out of me   I almost fell out of the boat    

Those old snappers will do that . Like one time I was skipping along the shore and I placed my foot on the next stone, only to have it move , now that was a shock.

 

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On 1/24/2019 at 4:33 PM, robc22 said:

Many of us on this forum have been friends for so long we already know each other's fishing stories.........:shrug:

 I'm sure there's a lot of new people that haven't heard these stories

Screenshot_20181231-141616_Chrome.jpg

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Unblieveable

ever gone out and got into fish for hours and your all by yourself?  So you think, I wish someone could see me because no one will believe me ? 

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6 hours ago, Ditchbag said:

 I'm sure there's a lot of new people that haven't heard these stories

Screenshot_20181231-141616_Chrome.jpg

Well you asked for it and you other guys don't get mad coz I repeated myself!!!

 

It was during the dog days of summer.......Early august........My bud and I had a pretty good routine down. We would spend sunset and an hour or so after sundown gillnetting pogies in our local harbours. The pogies were used for hook baits and sometimes as chumbait as well.

Our goal was to fish a late slack tide in the canal and then spend the rest of the night fishing the beach. We did this for years with some pretty good success.

Anyhow, With plenty of fresh bait we arrived at an east endish location at 12:30 AM. The high slack was at 1 AM.

We fished the beginning of the slack and both got a fish in the low twenties. After the tide turned west there was a bit of tough bottom in the area we fished. The fish tended to hold in that rough. If you tried to bounce a bait into them you got hung up every time. You had to fish short in the clean bottom not to get hung up. Fresh hook baits would always pull the fish out of their hide.

My bud bounced a bait through there first and got a 3 pound bluefish.

I cast, as I was letting my hookbait roll I felt a bass mess with it. She played with it forever. Favour was on my side that night as I set the hook and felt a solid set.

I knew it was a very good fish.

I got the fish to the rip rap and it was just huge. My buddy called down to me about the fish. There was some cedar trees between us and he could not see so I just yelled it was another 3 pound bluefish but I was gonna keep it for the grill.

When I dragged that fish up to the service road his eyes just popped out of his head. He was more excited then me! Me.......I dunno....I was so overwhelmed I really didn't know what to think or feel. I had spent so much time trying to catch a fifty out of the ditch. So many tides and so many tired nights.....But overall I guess I felt pretty darn good.

The fish weighted 58 pounds.....Honestly I think it was a sixty but it left pounds of poop on the grass next to the service road as we dragged it back to the parking lot.

Didn't even fish the rest of that night.....We went home and had beer and hot dogs on the grill!......I was just really happy and honored I  became a member of the fifty club and I did it in the canal.........

 

58 canal pig.jpeg

Edited by robc22

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1 hour ago, Angler #1 said:

Red top weigh in ? How old were you then my friend?

Yes weighted at RT......I was much, much younger then! With the energy to go get em!!

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"Her"

 

There was this fish............

It was a stormy night, not unlike other stormy nights......

There was a particular piling that she would be in front of, only on an ebb tide and east wind. Only when those occurred after midnight. Only sometimes, when all was "right", she would be there. I tried to get her for years, at least 4 or five summers; I swear she was "well over" 80 pounds. 

No matter how quiet and careful I was, she always seemed "aware" that I was there. After long periods of study, just staying very still and watching her movements in the shadows of the bridge, I would finally make a cast that I was 100% sure would line up right with her because I knew I would only get one try. Like I said, this went on for years. Inevitably, as soon as that cast would hit the water she would disappear for the night, perhaps for the year. In later "attempts" I would cast out 2 or 3 times farther than what would be considered "normal". Sometimes my offering got to her just right. But it was always a different variation of the same thing, she would be gone for the night and my next "chance" would be weeks away, if ever. 

I spent time in a dive shop looking at spears that I couldn't miss her with. Ones that opened up inside of her like a wedge so I could lift her out of the water and to my feet. I walked out of there, ashamed of myself. I couldn't do that, not for money, glory or anything else. I guess that is why I never went to nets.

On my last "chance" it was August, 1988 and I was waiting for that "right night", when the conditions were right for her to show. I tied a bucktail that was all black and purchased a bottle of Uncle Josh "Black Widow Eel" pork rind to match the new bucktail. Don't get me wrong, I checked that bridge regularly as it was part of my routine. I caught plenty of fish there too, some what you may consider to be very, very large (but nothing like "her"). So the end of August brings this northeaster that has the wind howling and I find myself out there in the rain and I can't see a thing! I only wanted to make one cast to one fish and I concentrated my efforts at the one place where I had seen her in the past. At about 2 am the wind let up a little and the chop eased off as well and now I could see that she was there! She probably was there all along but I wouldn't allow myself a better spot to see her from because I knew she would know I was there. From where I was it was tough, but doable. 

Finally, after another 20 minutes of observation I took my chance, a small pod of about 6 or 8 bunker passed by just outside the shadow line, right in front of her but she did not take any. I figured she might be just ripe to eat something easy after seeing that and not pulling her trigger. I made a long cast by bridge standards, about 100 feet almost directly into the northeast breeze. I reeled very fast for the 1st 60 feet or so to get into a normal approach set up. Alternating speed with wind effect and current flow so that the Black Widow hit the shadow smoothly just 6 inches under the surface and 6 inches past her nose. She turned for it!!!

Instead of taking though, she just followed the thing under the bridge. In the past I have had many big fish do the same thing and then pound the lure when it finished the swing and straightened. 

I hung on and waited and then POW-I got hit! I struck back right away and the Black Widow came flying out into the bridge lights. That was the last I ever saw of her. 

Captain Jason Colby
Little Sister Charters

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Why did she leave and never come back?  She seen you plenty of times?  

how long did you have the fish on?  

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6 hours ago, ccb said:

Why did she leave and never come back?  She seen you plenty of times?  

how long did you have the fish on?  

I never had "her" on. She whacked the end of the pork rind, missing the hook completely. 

I never saw her again and if you want to know why, I guess you will have to ask her. My guess is she knew that she was being tricked and that I was after her. She set up somewhere else...

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