Free Willie...

Anyone who has been under the Lighthouse in Montauk on a stormy fall morning knows how treacherous it can be. With ten foot waves slamming into the jetty, the white water and spray soak the soul, the place takes on an almost surreal atmosphere. Just watching the casters vie for that perfect rock hovering over the perfect hole that will provide a trophy fish is a spectacle unto itself. There is no doubt that these mornings will yield a slob or two and on the rare occasion, will provide a fat striper to every fisherman who will brave the sea. This circus of fools becomes even more intense as the season progresses and all the tournaments figure into the equation. There are times when every rock is occupied and all are taking a beating by the weather and surf. I have been the witness to many a scene such as this when the “Locals” hog the front and cast with relentless abandon into the strong rip of a flooding storm tide. Under such circumstances, a relay of fishermen may be seen fighting one fish after another, their rods held high above the audience as they skillfully slip between the rocks and fishers to land that thirty pound bass in Scott’s cove, you see, a big striper will scream down tide and if you do not follow him into a less chaotic environ, you will loose her to the rocks.

I can recall an occasion when all the sharpies were under the light during a Nor-Easter. We stood at the top of the jetty with our backs against the fence that surrounds the lighthouse bluff at the back of the stone plateau. The sea had been particularly deceptive that afternoon. There would be long periods of white water rolling into the jetty and a person could get the idea that the lower tier of rocks might be fishable. Time and tide, however, would prove this to be a dangerous assumption as great waves would sweep the abutment every so often with senough force to cause a tremor along the rock face.

As I was watching with my pals, I noticed a fellow stumbling along the stones to climb down to the water’s edge. It was clear that the man had imbibed a nip or two for courage before he had the nerve to attempt the situation. He was drastically under equipped, wearing only foul weather gear and boots.

“Hey Pal!” says I, “You’re gonna get killed down there! The waves are fierce!”

He looked up at me with a glazed eye as if I was some interloper into his dream. I suppose the fact that he was alone in his precarious position did not occur to his addled brain, as he faced the sea and made a cast. As he lifted his rod, he was slammed in the chest by a great wave that tore his rod from his hand and slammed him into the rocks.

Someone yelled, “Hey pal! Are you OK?” and the dazed fellow looked up at us with a frightful stare.

At that exact moment, a following wave of much greater intencity slammed into the dazed fellow and swallowed him whole, within a surge of white hell. As the wave receded, the rocks ware he had stood had been swept clean. He was gone…
“Where the hell did he go!!!” Joe Gaviola said to me with a look of panic on his face.

“Did you see that!” says I, “He just up and disappeared!”

We searched the waters hoping that we might find the hapless caster. Much to our surprise, we saw him stumbling up the rock face almost twenty yards from where the sea had taken him with its great white hand. He made for the top of the rocks and shook himself off like some wet mongrel. His rod and tackle were gone. As we watched to see if he was alright, we saw him slink off into the storm, apparently to his car and home to Hoboken….

Thus brings me to the story of “Free Willie” after this short interlude which I had added to stimulate your imagination.

It was another one of those deceptively quiet mornings when the sea pretended calm, but hid an ulterior motive. As the sun climbed onto the horizon, it took on the appearance of an orange mushroom for the first seconds of dawn. A thermocline caused the waves of light to shimmer in a silvery mirage creating a strange paralax. The ocean was rolling into the jetty with a five foot swell. There were distinctive lulls between these breakers, abut we decided to chance it. We were situated on the second tier. I was in a wetsuit. It was clear that this morning was to be a soggy one…

The sunrise was bright, and the new light had a warming effect to the morning chill. Great streams of purple and gold clouds passed overhead, in stark contrast to the white caps of the choppy sea a quarter mile off the Point. The fish were there. Bass and Bluefish waited to gulp at the first sign of movement in front of their snouts. If you missed a fish, two more cranks would inevitably bring another strike. Their size was an enjoyable treat, you see, the ocean had been baron of life for the last four days. All of us were in such a great mood and basked in the joy of a blitz of stripers.

To my left stood an older guy with a green hooded slicker cinched tightly under his chin hiding his face. He also was enjoying the excitement of the “hot bite”. The two of us were into a hole that was holding only bass. Attila was off to my right on the next rock.

I landed another fish in the rocks below, and the crest of a wave worked its way towards my perch. I saw it coming and jumped into a hollow in the rocks, ducking for cover as the wash flew over my head and crashed down the jetty. My fish was gone. It was a “Palm Beach” release. As I climbed up the rocks I gave a hoot of joy, the cold water was invigorating! I glanced to my left to see what havoc this wave had caused the other casters as it rolled along the Front.

“Holly Shit!! Attila! Hold my rod! That guy is in trouble!” The fellow next to me had taken a direct hit and was down in the rocks!

I scrambled across the boulders and reached the fellow who was still sprawled out like a cold fish. It was Willie Young…

Willie had gotten himself jammed between the rocks! I could see that one of his Korkers was firmly stuck in a crevice. He frantically was trying to free himself, pulling at his leg, to no avail. Another wave was fast approaching. I jumped to his left and leaned into him as the wave rolled over us. It took all of my weight [I am a bit more massive than Willie] to hold us firmly in place. I could taste the salty white fingers of foam as they flowed into my nose and sinuses. As adrenaline pumped, I managed to keep my ground and Willie’s too. I looked into Willie’s wide eyes. He had the appearance of a frightened rabbit. More waves were on the way…

“Hold Still!” I shouted over to him as I tried to free his jammed foot. I could see his leg bending sideways in a most unnatural way. I hoped it wasn’t broken. I had to forcefully pull his boot down below the boulders to get his foot released from this trap. I am sure he got a good bruise from this maneuver, but what the heck….

Even though there was pure panic on Willie’s face,he clung to his gear in a vise grip and never dropped his rod or tackle. It was Willie’s surf stick that had broken his fall. Once freed, the old mountain goat scrambled up the shear face like a twenty something athlete as the next wave set into the jetty. I followed close behind.

“Boy that was a close one! Thanks buddy, thanks a lot…”

“Piece of cake."

Willie fished for the rest of the tide even though he must have been soaked to the bone.

Later, I watched him limping away.

He was gonna need a good shmear of Bengay that evening….


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Hey all! The winter blows (literally) and I am stuck inside with my comp. I have noticed quite a few people who post videos on U-Tube about skishing. Bummer. They seem very good at catchin' bluefish. I would be careful about using live Mullet though... Might bring up the wrong kind of "Blue". I'm back in the surf come May. Just now I am tweakin' my gear. I'm glad that I am old, 'cause time goes by twice as fast... Soon come....
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The Christmas Goose

As long as I have been with my beloved wife Dawn, we have had a customary Christmas Eve dinner. As a rule, we have roasted a domestic goose for this ritual. There is nothing like the taste of this bird. The closest thing I can compare in the flavor it to is RoastBeef- Chicken (everything tastes like chicken!). We would buy our bird fresh killed from the Iacono Poultry Farm on Long Lane in East Hampton. It has been a regular traditional journey for me on this glorious Christmas Eve morning, to pick up the goose and finish up my shopping with stocking stuffers, and candy for the girls

As I reminisce, I recall that I once was given a wild goose that was taken by a co-worker. We prepared this bird with all the trimmings and I found it delicious! My wife, on the other hand, did not enjoy it because someone (that bastard, as she called him) shot the poor thing. I will never understand this twisted form of feminine logic. In my mind, it would seem to be more humane to be killed in the wild as a free spirit, as apposed to being penned up for six months and then have your head whacked off!

God loves all the women of the world. I know that I would have been dead many years ago without my darling’s even keel to keep me on course, no matter how rough the sea. She is my converse, an opposite opinion in almost every situation. I am sure this has kept me from diving head first, into the shallow end of the pool many times. But for her form of pretzel logic, I don’t think that my life could be finer. We have been together for 34 years. I must have been thirteen when we married, (It seems so…) she had robbed me from my cradle…

Before my children were issued forth, wet and screaming into the world (this was another one of her swell ideas) my wife and I would take long walks on the beach, each Christmas Eve to enjoy nature and combing for flotsam, jetsam and believe it or not, coal.

Coal on the beach you say? Well, it seems that some time in the early sixties, a coal barge had sunk off the shore at Ditch Plains. On a regular basis, usually after a storm, chunks of coal would wash up in the surf. These hunks of carbon would range from an inch to ten inches in diameter. As most young couples, we had a tough time making ends meet for these early years. We could pinch every penny dry. I don’t need to tell all you old timers how expensive oil was back in the seventies, after “That Carter Regime” screwed up Iran and consequentially, the entire Middle East.

With inflation, in comparison with the cost of living of today, the equivalent price in ’07 dollars would be about $4.25 a gallon for gasoline. There were lines of cars around the block to buy the stuff! So, to supplement our fuel expenses, we picked these smooth black gems from the sand to burn in our wood stove. They would sparkle in the afternoon sun. We would gather these oblong treasures, weathered in the surf in buckets as the dog romped in search of dead things to roll in. A good haul could be a garbage can full. On a good day, we could pick this peck within a half mile of the car. This coal would burn like uranium and could heat our home for a week!

On one cold winter solstice day, we found ourselves particularly wanting on the income scale of life. We were so poor during this particular Christmas that we were supplementing our goose with a big chicken. So wanting, were we that we had to go into the woods and cut our own Christmas tree. You might think that I would feel self conscious about this event, but I truly enjoy this memory. It was a scrub white pine which we chose and dragged from the depths of Hither Woods. The smell of that fresh pinewood will always lead me to reminisce. The mid morning sun beamed through the pines causing shimmering light to form broad patches between the low and twisted pines, illuminating the sandy soil. We swept a path of dark brown pine needles as our tree-broom was dragged along the wooded trail. I can remember the clouds of vapor that our breath sent streaming that cold morning, but we were kept quite warm from the task. Our hearts were warmed too. But I digress…

That afternoon, after trimming the little tree (bush?) we went to the beach to take a nativity constitutional and hunt for coal. At the time we were childless except for my surrogate son, Quill, our 165 pound black Great Dane. Quill would adore running the beach! He would bolt from one rock or log to another, leaping about on his long legs and depositing as much scat as his metabolism could muster. His bowels were bottomless. Dawn and I walked hand in hand, daydreaming as young lovers will do. We were bundled up like Eskimos. The thermometer had dropped well to below zero. Quill, being of short hair, wore one of my sweatshirts to keep him from the cold. You know, he looked better than I did in it, with a rope tide around his waist to act as a sash.

There was no wind on this frigid afternoon. Any breeze would have made it impossible to walk through the arctic blast that had sat on the East End for days. The air was so cold that the ocean was steaming, like a stew pot, with long tendrils of wispy white vapor. It gave the impression that the sea was on fire… There was actually a layer of slush rolling in the surf which collected at the tide-line.

We rounded the bend with our bucket of coal and there saw the dog barking and hopping around a peculiar downy lump huddled next to the bluff. As we moved in to investigate I saw that it was a wild goose! It was an enormous beast which was flapping its wings and hissing at the dog. As I neared to it I noticed that the creature could not move on its feet.

“Look Dawn! A goose!”

“Oh Paul, don’t let the dog hurt the poor thing!”

Poor thing? I was waiting for Quill to snap it’s neck! By god, this would be our Christmas dinner!

“Paul, the poor thing is sick! What do yah think we should do?”

“Do? Why, we’re gonna eat it! Good dog, Quill, Good Dog!”

“Don’t you dare! Quill get away from that bird!” The dog moved away from my dinner, more attuned to my wife’s commands than mine, traitor that he was…

“Oh Paul, we have to do something about the poor beast… You go and grab it. We’ll take it home and I’ll call the Vet…”

Take it home? Yeah! It is sure to die on the way! I was that much closer to my roast…

Have you ever tried to grab a goose? The creature, even though it was lame, was biting and snapping at me like a cornered Lobster! It grabbed a hold of my glove and I thought my finger was in a mousetrap!

“Gimme the shirt off the dog. I’ll cover it’s head with it.”, sure enough, that did the trick and I had the beastie covered up and docile. I swear, that goose had blue feet, ice-cold and clammy. We got back to the car and I sat with the goose on my lap. Quill sniffed at it from between the seats and moaned like a lost child.

“Shut up you bad dog.”

Traitor….

The goose perched on my legs with it’s frozen tootsies chilling my thighs but they seened to warm up a bit by the time we took it into the house.

There are no Veterinarians open at 5pm on Christmas Eve. There would be no Vet till December 26th. The bird went into the shower stall with a dish of water and an open can of corn. We ate that Dad blamed stupid chicken for dinner, although I have got to agree that it was good with the yams, cheese stuffing, and gravy. Not as good as that goose would have been…

The goose was silent all the Eve. I got up to look at the poor thing a couple of times during the night. When I would open the shower door, it would flap it’s wings at me. It’s feet were now a nice shade of black and it was hopping around.

Along with the a meager pile of gifts under the decorated scrub pine, Christmas morning brought with it a vast change in the weather, The temperature had risen to a balmy 30 degrees in the night. The sky had opened with rain. We had a happy time.

You know, that goose seemed to have recovered during the night. I swear it had eaten some of the corn. It was now honking and prancing around in the stall. I began to like the stupid thing, Good Samaritan that I am. We named it the “Honker”. That was that. Have you ever put name to a farm animal? There would definitely not be a goose dinner now. By noon I was thinking...

“Dawn, let’s put him outside and see what happens.”

“Ya think?”

Yeah, I think. You ever hear the expression “Like shit through a goose”? Well you should have seen the shower. The goosie’s feet were now green! I took the goose out the door, wrapped in a towel. Dawn followed. I put the goose on the ground and removed the towel. The goose took off in a run and hit the air like a B-52. It circled the house once and made for due south, making that low honk that geese will do as they fly.

“Oh Paul, how wonderful! This is a Christmas we’ll never forget…” I got a big kiss.

You know, it was a wonderful Christmas after all, even without the goose dinner…

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The Montauk Sea Turkey…

I have always had good luck during the Thanksgiving Holiday. It is just a thing for me. I have even won the locals Tourney [OK.. second place..] on Thanksgiving Weekend. Billy Addeo caught two fifties one turkey day. There is no doubt about it, the kickoff to the holiday season is a winner.

There is one particular Thanksgiving that I will never forget though…

I arrived at the Point in the dark, with a perfect dropping tide. Maybe it was five a.m.? This was my day to win the Local’s Tournament and I was psyched. The lead fish was a puny thirty six pounder. Not a real contender in this contest of sharpies…

I was dressed in my waders and Dricore top when I jumped down to the five flat rocks at the water line. My favorite perch. There was whitewater all over the place with a Nor’east wind at 15-20. Conditions- perfect! Best of all… I was absolutely alone… I put on a darter and immediately caught a rat. The waves were hitting me pretty hard but I didn’t care… Every cast brought another bass! They were there…

As I was reeling in a teen fish, I looked up to see a guy strolling along the jetty. I swear to God, the fellow was dressed in yellow foul weather gear, with white boots. He was also carrying a cute little tackle box… No Korkers… He stopped right above me and began to cast.

“Wow, you are catchin’ fish! What you usin’?” He had something crazy at the end of his line. It had a propeller on the front…

“Hey fella, yah think you could move over a bit, You’re castin’ right over my head…”

“Oh… Sorry…” He moved.

Three more casts gave me three more fish. They were getting bigger too. My new Pal was fishless and getting frantic.

“I just can’t seem to catch nothin’… What am I doin’ wrong?”

“Try usin’ another plug… That one is for Pike. No muskellunge in Montauk…” I’m a wise ass…

He opened his pretty little tackle box and took out another freshwater plug. It flew about ten feet into the wind and got lost it in the rocks.

“Darnit!”

“Look, the sun is commin’ up… It’s time for a bucktail..” Says I, not wanting to wear his next hook and giving him a little lecture, super sharpie that I am…

”Bucktail? What’sa bucktail?”

You’ve gotta be kidding… I held up a 3 ounce Jetty-Caster and showed it to the dude.

“Oh boy… I don’t have one of those… You think I can use something else?”

“You could, but you would tangle us all up. When someone under the Light is usin’ bucks, every body has to throw them, or it will be a mess…” My mood was starting to get sullen, I was not in the mood to give free fishing lessons…

“Aw hell… I came out all the way from Brooklyn to fish, This sucks…”

Now this plaintiff whine touched my cold heart and I felt sorry for the goog. What could I do? I took the most beat up bucktail out of my bag and tossed it to my new friend. On the business end it had an old, dried up pork-rind cemented to the rusty hook.

“Here! Now cast it into the wash and do what I do!”

“You sure this is gonna work?”

Please…

In unison, I casted… He casted… Our bucktails landed in the wash no more than ten feet apart... I reeled in the slack and immediately tightened up on a nice fish! I must have hit it on the head!

“Hey! I got one!” I heard over my shoulder.

Sure enough, Mr. Brooklyn had a fish on too! His rod was bent in half and his drag was singing.

“You’ve got your drag too tight! Your gonna loose ‘um!”

“Whah?”

I scurried down the face of the jetty to land my fish, twenty yards from my perch. It was a low thirty… Not big enough… I tossed her back and scrambled back to my rock. My pal was still fighting his fish. He was trying to horse it in….

“Hey! Take it easy! You’ve got a nice fish!”

“Whah?”

Putting his back into the rod, I watched his face turn red from the strain. He dragged that fish straight into the wash and it disappeared between the rocks. Now he began pulling on it, trying to drag it out of the snag. I then saw the tail and my eyes bugged. OH…MY…GOD!

“Take it easy, will yah! Your gonna cut the line! Here, grab my rod and I’ll go down and get the fish before you bust it off. Just relax and ease up on your drag a bit.”

I jumped down to the water. The fish was now deep in a hole and I couldn’t see it. A wave broke over my head as I grabbed his line. Easy!... It was twenty pound test, with no leader… I reached into the whitewater and put my hand into a big hole. It is the fishey’s maw… It was as if I had put my hand into a stewpot! I grabbed her mouth and heaved, just as his line broke.

“Holy SHIT!!” It’s a slob!

As I dragged the fish to the top of the rocks, Dennis, one of my Tournament rivals, just happened to be walking up the Jetty. He saw the slammer in my arms. He bugged.

“Holy Shit… You got a winner, Melnyk!” Obviously, he thought I caught it!

We put the fish on my scale. Dennis was sweating as I weighed the cow. The fish was Forty eight pounds. He looked so dejected that I finally told him it wasn’t really my fish. He smiled. My goog friend was right there at my heels to take this striper outa my grasp. I was sure he thought I was gonna steal it! That old buck was still swinging from an inch long hole in the fishes face.

“Wow, you know my uncle told me to go fishing today! He gave me a blessing and said he would pray for me! He is the Bishop at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, yah know… Thanks a lot pal, thanks a lot!”

Then he ran off with my forty pound fish… I stood there, rubbing my hands and stared at the retreating visage with black Gollum eyes, (My prescious…. My prescious!!!) I did not get my forty pounder that morning. I did not win the tourney. All for the luck of ten stinkin’feet and a ratty bucktail! Hell, I didn’t even get that stinkin’ bucktail back!

The rocks were crowded by six thirty. Not another slob was caught that morning. Lots of twenties though… Another day, maybe tomorrow…

This story is a true one, as theatrical as it sounds. Just ask Dennis for confirmation. But wait, Bro! The yarn ain’t over yet…..

Sooo, Now it was tomorrow. Yes dear reader, the very next day. I got there early again. Would you believe it? My new best friend was there waiting for me!

“The sun is coming up! Time to use a bucktail!” he shouted down to me. He still wore “the yellow jammeys” and my piece-o’-shit buck was tied to his line. No leader.

We both casted at the same instant. Our lines crossed in the air. The two bucks landed twenty feet apart. I tighten up… on a fish. So did he. My fish was a high twenty. Once again, I had to go down to get his fish. We weighed it. It was thirty seven pounds…

“Wow! Another slammer!” [he was learning the vernacular.] “Damn, I owe you big-time buddy! What’s your address, I’m gonna send you a case of beer! What ja like?”

“Heineken…….”

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You know what? I’m still waiting for that case of beer………………………………
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Hey All! Q&E is getting too long for easy reading, so I have started another blog. I will try to not let it get too long.
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"Q "and "A"

Hey folks! I have been asked to present a question and answer forum to this site as a way of answering your need for picking my brain, so here it is! Just note that the site is now moderated, to keep the googans away....
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