Days in the Open

by Lathan A. Crandall

You can take your choice between visiting the old burial ground on “Tower Hill” or going out for a sail. Take the sail? I thought so. Of course, there are brown old head-stones with quaint epitaphs up there on the hill, but who that is in possession of his senses would pass up the chance to go sailing in a Cape Cod catboat on such a day as this?

Here we are on board the “Quickstep,” one of the smartest boats on the coast, with a captain who knows the sea as a native New Yorker knows Broadway. While we are dropping down the bay before the light wind, you may like to hear of the gale when this same boat and captain were blown out to sea. The storm came up suddenly and the wind blew directly off shore. The captain was fishing just off the Muskeget shoals and tried hard to beat in, but in vain. When the gale had blown itself out, wrecks were strewn all along the coast, and the Edgartown people had given up the captain for lost; but on the fourth day he came sailing into harbour. Single-handed and alone he had fought the storm and had won the fight.

Isn’t this a great day? and isn’t this the ideal way of getting over the water? Better let the captain take the tiller, for we’re coming to the bar and the channel is crooked. Now we’re over and you can see Nantucket off there to the south. Where you see the rough water is Muskeget shoals, and the captain says that at certain tides the strongest vessel would be wrenched to pieces by the fierce currents and counter-currents. Did you ever see sky more blue or feel air more full of tonic? Don’t worry! We shall curtsy a little, but the water is not rough enough to make trouble for the most sensitive landsman. Going around Chappaquiddick, Captain? Good! That is just about a twenty-mile sail.

Have I ever been out here when it was rough? Haven’t I told you about the trip after mackerel when we had on board a load of theology? No? Well, we shall have plenty of time for the story before we sight the light-house.

It was a nasty sort of a morning, but as friends had come over from Cottage City the night before for the express purpose of having a day with the mackerel we concluded to try it notwithstanding the weather. Dr. G. had brought along his boy of twelve, and as we sailed down the quiet water of the bay that boy was simply bubbling over with happiness. The lad besought his father to make an arrangement with the captain whereby he should spend at least a month on this boat the following summer. The captain seemed willing, and as we crossed the bar the boy was exulting in the assurance of long days of perfect bliss only one year ahead. The wind was blowing fresh from the north-west and as soon as we were out from under the shelter of the land the boat began to curvet and jump and roll and quick-step just as any respectable boat is bound to do under such circumstances.

In less time than it takes to write this down the joy of life had departed for that lad and he was carefully laid away. The lone layman of the party was a close second, and, losing all interest in mackerel, he stretched himself out on deck. The Professor followed suit, and Dr. G., after a heroic struggle, proceeded to part company not only with one breakfast, but, seemingly, with a dozen or more. The captain, who was an interested spectator of the process, murmured to the writer, “Holy mackerel! What an eater that man must be.” All day we rolled and pitched, with three of the party groaning to be put on shore. We caught only a few mackerel, but we had a great deal of exercise.

How do we catch mackerel? As you are asking how we do it, and not how it is done by the heartless, unimaginative, commercialized Philistines who chase the schools in steam vessels, I’ll tell you. The night before, the captain gets the fodder ready. I mean the fodder for the mackerel, not for the fishermen. It is about as nauseous a mess as one can imagine. Salted menhaden and the refuse from scallops are ground up together, forming a mass of about the consistency of thick molasses. There is the grinder now, just inside the cabin! Looks like a big coffee-mill.

We usually start early in the morning, sometimes before daylight, in order to take advantage of a favourable tide. When we are out to sea a sharp lookout is kept for that peculiar ripple on the surface of the water which denotes the presence of a school of mackerel. When we have sailed to the spot we “come-to” and drift with the tide, while dipperful after dipperful of the “chum”—as the sticky and malodorous mess is called—is thrown out upon the water. The mackerel will throng about the boat to feed upon this dainty, and then the fishing begins. Empty barrels on deck, a line—some fifteen feet long—in each hand, with hooks that are set into pieces of lead forming a “squid,” and the sport begins. It is usual to bait with a piece of mackerel belly, pure white; but very often the greedy fish will bite at the shining lead. You do not stop to unhook the fish, but simply slap them over into the barrel behind you, and then out with the hook again. Sport? Yes, of a sort. Gets a little monotonous after a while. The captain fishes for the Boston market, so we have no twinges of conscience about catching as many as possible.

Do we catch anything besides mackerel? If you’ll put out that line and the captain will sail along the edge of one of these “rips” you are very likely to have a practical answer to your question. Nothing that time; but the captain is coming about and we’ll see what happens on the other tack. This is the poetry of sea-fishing. Here we are bowling along with a full sheet and—hang on to him! No, you have not hooked on to a railroad train but a blue-fish. Look out! Don’t slacken on your line or you’ll lose him. Hurts your fingers? Of course it does. You should have put cots on them. Give him a swing! Keep him clear of the boat! There!

There’s your answer. He’s the bravest, pluckiest, gamiest fish on the coast. We sometimes spend a half day or so fishing for bottom-fish like scup, black-fish, or even flounders, for they bite freely and bring a fair price in the market; but if you’re fishing for sport, there is just one fish in these waters which fills the bill completely, and that is the blue-fish. Sometimes you fish for hours without getting a strike, and then all at once you run into a school of them. When this happens you have your work cut out for you. I remember a day at Block Island when the Doctor and I had sailed almost entirely around the island with our lines trailing unmolested behind the boat. Just as we were approaching the starting place the captain said, “Look at the bluebills jumping, over towards shore!” The bluebill is a small fish some four or five inches long, and favourite food for the blue-fish. We tacked and sailed across the school, back and forth, again and again, and when the fray was over we had sixty blue-fish lying in the bottom of the boat that averaged over five pounds in weight.