The Start of Blackfishing.

Most of my early childhood memories involve fishing.

It was one of those beautiful fall days in southern New England. The kind where the sun and the cold mix in just the right ratio, and you can smell the leaves turning in the stillness. Before the gray and the mud of later autumn set in.

Wood hauling season was upon us. I was helping my parents fill the basement wood pile when the phone rang. As a young kid (maybe five or six?), I didn’t understand that the phone call was my dad’s fishing buddy inviting us out for a day on his boat. I could tell something was afoot after my father got off the phone because the pace of wood stacking picked up, and we didn’t go back up the hill to the wood pile for another load after we finished.

Instead, my father and I put on some warmer clothes, and we made our way over to the other side of town, where his friend had a small house facing a pristine little cove. He had a small dock where his 26’ fishing boat was tied up. As a kid, I loved this boat because it was named “Special K” (his last name started with a K), and had a transom decal exactly like the cereal box. When my dad bought his own boat a year later, my sister and I insisted that he name it Raisin Bran. To our dismay, no cereal brand ever appeared on the boat’s transom. But the name stuck. Thirty years later, you can still occasionally hear Raisin Bran asking for a radio check on channel 7-2.

I don’t remember the details of getting on the boat, getting rigged up, or heading out to the rocks we would fish. At that age, I probably didn’t even understand that there were hills and mountains under the water, and that’s where we had to go to find the fish. I just marveled at the power of the twin 200 horsepower Johnson outboards as they pushed us through that mid-October chop.

At that time of year, Fisher’s Island Sound is wonderful. All of the showy, navigationally-impaired 40 foot cruisers have gone home for the winter. The sailboats are all pretty much in for the year. Only the lobstermen, ferries, and a few fishermen are out on the water. On nice days, the wind is only about 10 knots–enough to put some chop on the water, enough to blow freezing cold saltwater on your face as you pound through it, but not enough to make you go home. It’s the kind of weather that makes you feel alive, like anything could happen out there. You’re not just riding over the water; you’re riding through it, part of it.

That day, we were fishing for blackfish, or tautog, as it’s also called. Tautog is part of the wrasse family. They stay close to rocky bottom and reefs. Like a lot of fish, they eat a wide variety of foods. The are experts at cracking the hard candy of the sea floor in their big, toothy jaws. Green crabs, hermit crabs, mussels, clams, sandworms–all of this is acceptable fare to a blackfish.

I watched as my dad and his friend readied the boat, rigged up the oversized grappling hook known as a rock anchor, and tossed it overboard with just the right amount of line to position us over a shoal.

If you’ve ever fished with kids, you know that there are times when actually catching a fish is secondary to the excitement of baiting the hook. Worms are great fun for most kids under ten, and some adults. Minnows are even cooler because hey, who needs a rod to catch fish when you can take them out of the live well with your bare hands? Even better than minnows, in my opinion, are green crabs. First you have to catch one without being pinched. Then you have to keep it in one place as you bisect it with a knife. Then you have to get its halves on the hook and in the water while it’s still relatively alive.

Once your two-hook rig is baited, you swing it over the side and drop it 40 feet to the bottom. Then you waited for a fish. While my dad and his friend took care of these functional details, I alternated between provoking the green crabs in the bait bucket and peering over the side into the blue green water.

My dad handed me a rod, with careful instruction not to drop it (“Two hands!”), and we were really fishing.

After a while, I felt some bumps. The rod tip start to bounce. A blackfish had hooked itself on one of my crab halves!

I struggled with the rod and reel, my small hands working to turn the handle in wide, awkward circles. This was the big time! Maybe next year I’d get invited out for tuna fishing!

The fish kept the rod bumping all the way up. I slowly got that 40 feet of line back on the reel. The arduous battle neared its end. We could see the fish! My dad reached over, grabbed the line, and dragged my prize over the gunwale and into the boat.

I don’t remember how big this fish was. At that age, fishing isn’t spoiled by such comparisons. There is just the simple, complete joy of fooling and capturing a wild animal with nothing but a stick and some string. I don’t even remember if we were able to keep that particular fish. I do remember marveling at its big goofy mouth and strong-looking teeth. The grownups unhooked it and re-baited my rig. I decided this day should never end.

We caught a bunch of fish that day in October on Fisher’s Island Sound. We were well into the double digits. As a father who brings his own kids fishing, I understand now how lucky we were to get into them like that. Days like that are not guaranteed.

It was a great start. The perfect start.