A collection of twisted hooks and stories from the days when big striped bass prowled Block Island.
It’s just past 7 a.m., and the driver of the bus I’m on lays on the horn to pass a slow-moving horse-drawn carriage in the pothole-ridden right lane.
The seas were running tall as darkness begrudgingly gave way to the first hint of morning hidden behind a wall of gray clouds.
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The unmistakable shing of high-carbon steel — that’s what a fish knife should sound like, not the dull, war-club clank of stainless, the music alloyed and tempered clean out of the metal at Faustian temperatures. Ask any cutter with salt in his socks. My workhorse blade is a boning knife — a 7-inch, hickory-handled, flat, soft-steel Dexter-Russell, the industry standard in fish towns worth knowing. If you said Dexter 1377 — or 1375 or 1376 or 1378 — to five deckhands and more than three were mystified, you’d want to try the next town over. My latest 77 arrived a
The eastern horizon beyond Block Canyon was just turning light blue, signaling the end of night. The adrenaline rush of the last fish had subsided, and I realized how tired I was. Sitting at the chunk board where we cut bait for tuna, I had drifted off when the sound of line burning off the Shimano 50 pierced my rest. Mark leapt up. “You want a big fish?” he asked with urgency in his voice. “This is you.” “OK,” I answered, fully awake now. I strapped on the fighting belt and seated the rod. Line was flying off the reel.
Why the bluefish, an animated chopping machine with a public relations problem, just might be the perfect game fish
The dolphin were running small off southeastern Florida last summer. You learned that if you were fishing sargassum weed lines for Mr. Big.
After five minutes crisscrossing an area of broken bottom south of Newport, Rhode Island, Capt. Russ Benn adjusts the throttles and rounds up for our first drift.
The first time I ever paid to go fishing was when I took a trip to Iceland in 1980. I had never fished for Atlantic salmon and was looking for some romance, as well as for a new experience in a new land.
The grande dame of fly-fishing, Joan Salvato Wulff combines grace, beauty and an uncanny understanding of the mechanics of the cast.
In the cathedral of trout, a Hendrickson hatch is a magical thing and sight-casting for large fish the epitome of excitement
I wish I had seen the Nancy Ellen when she was built in 1927. Restored as a pleasure boat, she doesn’t look at all like she did back then.
Merritt’s Boat & Engine Works this year celebrated the family’s 100th year of boatbuilding.
For a half-century a Rybovich has been as distinctive a sight on the Florida waterfront as any Ferrari or Rolls-Royce is on the highway.