Not long after, I had enough line aloft to impress a small-town utility company. But when I sunk the steel, Old Yellow Eyes took off like Big Daddy Don Garlits. Which I mention only because my newfound friend was about to use it as his own Bonneville Salt Flats. Down-current lay a couple hundred yards of waist-deep water. We locked horns in a shallow rip filled with menhaden, their silvery sides flashing in the moonlight.Īs I waded out, audible swirls rocked the night, announcing large carnivores at work. This behemoth measured over a yard in length and was as big around as a volleyball. The fish that delivered the knock-out punch was the biggest bluefish I ever hooked. It was a good-looking piece of gear, and came in a fancy cardboard box, along a fake suede storage pouch. one September night, while still new to the saltwater game.Īt the time, I had just bought a new saltwater fly reel. While flies and leaders are the usual victims, Old Yellow Eyes is capable of dishing out far greater devastation. And in this vigorous process, they bust up gobs of gear, to which any tackle store owner will smilingly attest. Yes, bluefish can run, jump, and yank your arm with the best of them. No discussion of bluefish is complete without mention of their raw power. So bluefish are not fearless, and like most of us, they’re especially leery of people in high places. Prior to this sneak attack, those rascals had seen my ugly puss standing up on the jetty wall. On a hunch, I made a cast, and then before the retrieve, I ducked down low in the rocks. I changed flies, and later changed retrieve speeds. It was easy to get them to charge the fly, but they invariably lost interest and flared off. From a high jetty wall, I saw choppers cruising the channel. I first found this out on Block Island, in a spot called New Harbor. Little wonder then that most fly fishers believe bluefish have absolutely no sense of caution. And within a few heaves the beach whistle landed a bluefish, which I imagine would have surprised the original owner. The only thing left to do was tie on a hook.Ĭasting this projectile proved problematic, still much to his credit Old Yellow Eyes immediately gave chase. I soon found I could pass my tippet through the domed end and out the rear. Unburdened by common sense, I picked it up for closer examination. The coastal cognoscenti call these things “beach whistles,” although this is in no way a recommendation you toot on one. While walking the water’s edge, I spied a pink plastic tube about the size of your ring finger, designed to insert feminine hygiene products. While all those experimental flies worked, there was one that revealed, at least for yours truly, the true extent of ’gator gluttony. Yes those potato chip flies charmed the pants off the blues, and had me prefacing each cast with “Bet you can’t eat just one!” Upon noticing a potato chip bag with a silver interior, for instance, I cut the bag into strips and lashed them to a hook. This resulted in some sci-fi creations and the use of unorthodox tying materials. The bite went on for several days, prompting us to see who could tie a fly so ugly that a blue wouldn’t eat it. During any incoming tide, we hooked up on every third or fourth cast. One summer, in a location which will remain nameless, the choppers were showing up like clockwork.
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