Schoolie

Our most recent trip, undertaken with daughter Ellie, was in two parts. The first part was several days in Baltimore, Annapolis, and Washington—even a short dash up to York, PA—seeing family and friends. Lovely visit, lots of seafood, no story to tell here. But on the Wednesday morning, we got up stupid early—2 am, in fact—to catch a flight to Boston.

Shortly after takeoff from Reagan National, I lowered the shade on my portside window and fell asleep. When I awoke, not much later as it turns out, I raised the shade to see a suspension bridge spanning a broad river, with a hexagonal island of masonry walls just downstream, and instantly recognised the Key Bridge and Fort Carroll. Baltimore, the Patapsco. Home. I stayed awake long enough to see the Susquehanna Flats at the head of the Chesapeake before sleep took me again.

When next I woke, the scene was less personally familiar but nevertheless unmistakable: the confluence of the East River and the mighty Hudson at the lower end of Manhattan. A glance back at the Statue of Liberty, a few minutes watching the long rectangle of Central Park, and I was out again.

The captain's voice on the intercom finally roused me for good as we made our descent toward Logan Airport. Losing altitude over Boston Harbor, I noticed a tight cluster of gulls and terns working the water, with a single boat in attendance, and smiled because I knew exactly what was going on: beneath the surface, hungry striped bass were pushing baitfish to the top, the birds were taking advantage of the blitz, and the fisherman had taken notice of the birds. This, I thought to myself, is precisely why we're here.

* * *

Every spring, striped bass—or, in deference to my Maryland upbringing, let's call them rockfish—spawn in the tributaries of the Chesapeake Bay, and then many of them leave the Bay and head north. (Spawning takes place elsewhere as well, notably Delaware Bay and the Hudson River, but the Chesapeake is by far the most important rockfish nursery, with over 80% of the population originating in the Bay.) This exodus is one of the greatest migration spectacles the planet has to offer, or would be but for the fact that it takes place underwater, out of sight. Invisible, though, does not mean unnoticed. For many sportsmen, the striped bass migration is one of the most important events of the year. For the fish, too, come to think of it.

The rockfish reach Massachusetts by the middle of May, but whereas we made the journey north on an airliner (and I was able to sleep through much of it), they swim every inch of the way, all the way down the Bay and around Cape Charles, then back up the Atlantic coast. On Cape Cod, their return has been celebrated for eleven years now with the Cheeky Schoolie Tournament. 

Named for its originating sponsor, Cheeky Fishing, Schoolie is billed as the world's largest fly-fishing tournament. It's a one day, wade-only, catch-and-release tourney raising money for striped bass conservation, and raising awareness of proper catch-and-release techniques. I don't even believe in competitive fishing, but this particular event strikes me not as a fishing contest, but rather as a communal celebration—not entirely dissimilar, in fact, to a falconers' field meet. And with its emphasis on conservation, as well as its low barrier to entry, I thought it sounded like nothing so much as an invitation to come fishing.

As a kid, I fished the Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries as well as coastal areas inshore of the barrier islands with my grandfather. Rockfish were nearly as elusive as unicorns at the time, though, for this was the late 1970s and early 1980s, when their numbers had crashed and there was talk of listing Morone saxatilis as an endangered species. I remember catching bluefish and flounder, as well as incidentals like sea robins and small sharks, but rockfish eluded me. By the time action was taken and the species rebounded in the 1990s, I was gone, marriage and career having taken me away from my home waters. So the Schoolie Tournament represents, in a way, an opportunity to reclaim my heritage as a fisherman, and to pass it on to my daughter. Sadly, we missed the heyday of the rockfish, as their numbers are again in decline for a variety of reasons that includes overfishing of both the rockfish themselves and of forage species such as menhaden. But advocates for the species, myself included, are pushing government agencies to manage rockfish for abundance. Given responsive management and a decent environment, clearly the fish have it within themselves to bounce back again.

* * *

I mentioned the Schoolie Tournament to Jessica last year in the context of "I'd like to try this sometime," and she, bless her heart, immediately started planning the whole thing. Ellie readily agreed to be my fishing partner, and so it was that I spent much of February, March, April, and May at my vise, tying Brooks blondes and Clouser minnows and sand eels and squid imitations.

This was, of course, a family vacation and not strictly a fishing expedition, so our first day on the Cape, and part of the second, were spent orienting ourselves and sightseeing. And, if I'm honest, I was in no rush to get on the water because by this point I had psyched myself out. Catching rockfish on the fly was a nice pipe dream back in Nebraska, but now that we were actually here, with saltwater all around, I found myself intimidated. This just isn't going to work. Nevertheless, late Thursday afternoon found us on a jetty along a tidal creek near Sea Gull Beach. Ellie opted not to fish just yet, but I tied on an olive-and-white Lefty's deceiver and got to work with an almost grim sense of dedication.

...and on my second cast, caught a fish. (In the moment, and for quite a while after, I assumed it was a subtly-marked rockfish, but in retrospect I think hickory shad more likely.) 

I had to scramble down the jetty into the water to land and release the fish, but Jessa managed to get a couple of photos. No photo, though, could have captured the mix of emotions I experienced playing, landing, and releasing that fish. Elation, certainly,  with an odd mix of surprise and satisfaction that this had happened exactly as planned...but also, and perhaps primarily, relief. I savoured the moment and whispered to the fish like the animist that I am. Hello, gorgeous. So good to see you! Thanks for playing, and have a great summer.

I'd like to say that was the first of many, but all too soon the sun set on a one-fish day. And while there was more time Friday for scouting and fishing, neither Ellie nor I connected. That night, the three of us formulated a game plan and hit the sack as early as we could, knowing it would not be early enough. 

 * * *

Saturday morning found us, along with quite a few other Schoolie participants, on the lower Bass River near West Dennis Beach. We found good water movement on the falling tide, we were casting well, but we weren't catching fish. Nor, so far as we could see, was anyone else. (Jessa, with more freedom to move about, did see one bass caught, but only the one.) Eventually we went back to Sea Gull, where I had caught my fish on Thursday, but that success was not repeated. The only other fishermen we saw there reported that they had caught a couple of small (sub-20") schoolies early in the morning, but nothing since. (The Schoolie Tournament, in order to encourage the swift release of smaller stripers, scores only fish of 20 inches or more.) At slack tide, we took a break for a big Irish breakfast—fuel to keep going—and then headed for Falmouth, where we tried a couple of new spots. We didn't find fish there, either.

I was mildly surprised, but grateful, that both Ellie and I remained in good spirits even in the face of frustration. The scenery and fantastic weather no doubt helped. We fished part of the day in fog, which felt right, and then when the fog lifted to reveal bluebird skies, that felt right too. We were fishing in the company of ospreys, and of various shorebirds, and of each other. A few times over the course of the day, one of us would turn to the other and say, "Look where we are."

It's not like us to give up at the first sign of inevitable crushing defeat. No, we wait for the signs of inevitable crushing defeat to start piling up, and I'm proud to say we fished right up to the 4 pm deadline, scoring a big fat zero in the tournament but unbeaten in our appreciation of the game.

* * *

I had known all along that our biggest challenge was going to be finding fish. New to saltwater fishing, new to Cape Cod, lacking the sort of knowledge that would put us in the right place at the right time to find schools of rockfish, our fate was determined by our inexperience. 

As it turns out, the 11th Annual Cheeky Schoolie Tournament set a new record, with the winning team's four largest bass scoring a total of 116 inches (including a 33 1/2" cow), and 29 teams had four-fish totals over the century mark—clearly, the stripers were out there for those who knew where to look. But the real winners are the rockfish themselves, as the tournament raised over $27000 for conservation, to be divided among Stripers Forever, Keep Fish Wet, and the American Saltwater Guides Association. 

Despite our scoreless performance, we had a great time participating in the Schoolie Tournament, and enjoyed our first visit to Cape Cod. Will we return? Absolutely! Experience was all we lacked, and we won't gain that staying home. Besides, we didn't lose any flies, and I've still got all this bucktail...

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GALLERY: