Article by Capt. Lance Smith
I'm going to do something a little different this week and simply tell a few stories. These are of course, fish stories, and many times you can learn more from a story than a lecture. I have been blessed with the opportunity to fish in Ocean City in one form or another since the day I can remember. If your memory is as good as mine, and you are a dedicated Coastal Fisherman reader, you may recall the old "Ben Sykes" stories that used to appear in every issue. Although it has been quite some time, Mr. Dale Timmons certainly captured my heart and imagination with each issue's short story based on this "fictional" character. It was always the first thing I read when I picked up a new copy. While the following stories are factual (well, as much as any fisherman can tell facts!), I'm pretty sure you will be entertained and will hopefully learn a few things along the way.
I grew up with my parents taking me fishing for sunfish and bass in the freshwaters of Harford County as a child. Every chance we had, we fished, and had some decent fish fries along the way. You couldn't keep me out of the woods or water, so imagine how enamored I became with the saltwater aspect of fishing when my parents purchased a "beach house" when I was about 12 years old or so. For the first few years this new weekend getaway was available, we didn’t have a boat. I can still remember the day, one of the best in my life, when my father and my sister and I went to look at what would become our first vessel, a blue hulled, 19-foot bowrider. For years we flounder fished and water skied and tubed, etc. My father always had larger ambitions though and I was right there to push him along. We dreamed of the days we could run offshore for the tuna and marlin that we watched come into the marinas. So it began.
When I was a lad of 10 years old or so, I met the fellow who is still, to this day, my best friend. His father owned a 33-foot Chris Craft Scorpion center console rigged for offshore fishing. You see folks running these types of high-powered hulls to the canyons everyday now, but back then, we were definitely in the minority. On flat days, life would be grand. On rougher days, I wished for nothing but land. Even as a child, I hurt and ached after a windy day offshore in that thing. We caught quite a few pelagics on the boat and learned even more in those first few years.
Eventually, Captain Ray "Cadillac" Makarovich sold the Scorpion and purchased a twin Volvo powered, 29-foot Topaz. To my friend and I, it might as well have been a 65-foot Rybovich! We began to catch even more fish and even as my friend's interest in fishing waned and his interest in surfing grew, I never let up. Then, one day, a very defining moment in my life came along. As we waited for the Rt. 50 Drawbridge to open (as usual and still to this day, we missed it by two minutes), Captain Ray asked which one of us boys wanted to take over. Well, my friend David, his son, wanted nothing to do with the two throttle controls and the totally separate two gear controls (yes, there were FOUR levers on boats back then!). I remember his father, to this day, saying, "What happens if I have a heart attack out there? How are you boys gonna get home?" I jumped in the captain's chair and as I banged through gears, and throttles, trying to hold her steady as the tide sucked me towards the jaws of the draw, I had never felt so confident in my life.
As I began to take over piloting duties, and David's interest in fishing (he started to get seasick at a certain age) slacked, I became his father's new protege in some way. Then it happened. At about the age of fourteen, his father called and informed me that he couldn't make it down, but wanted me to take a few high profile clients fishing. To have someone lay their vessel in your hands like that is dumbfounding. I never looked back. Diesel fuel was so cheap that I would run multiple trips a week, with whoever was willing to go so, that I could try to put the Captain on fish during weekends. My mother began to run offshore with us at every opportunity and became an impressive, big game angler in her own right. Unfortunately, Captain Ray's health began to fade and my father decided it was time for he and I to step up. Dad purchased a very similar Topaz and Captain Ray began to join us. I can still recall hooking him a large mahi, helping him to the chair to wind it in, and him saying, "Lance, this is the last fish I will ever catch." And it was.
Mom, Dad and myself have won or placed in just about every major tournament in town at some point and my parents are my life. In the old captain's honor, allow me to share a story or two of our early fishing adventures. Eclectic as they may be, they help to define the person I am today. Thank you Mr. Ray.
The Day We Hooked the Grander
With the fighting chair in the shop for repairs, my skinny friend drops a ballyhoo back into the 2-foot wide gaping maul of a blue marlin. A light piece of copper wire from the pre-rigged Bahia Marina ballyhoo was the leader. Through blistered hands and hours of being towed backwards, we fought that fish from the Poor Man's Canyon down to the Triple Zeros, and far out to sea. I still have dreams of this fish and David's brother, who was on the rod, will be forever haunted by the moment the wire touched the side of the boat and broke like a piece of sewing thread.
The Foul Hooked Yellowfin
Then there was the day that David foul-hooked the giant sickle-finned yellowfin. David, being maybe 15 years old, fought this fish for at least 2 hours. Towards the end, his father began to tease him as if he was a little girl. "David, you want some help with that? You gonna cry boy? Look, he's gettin’ real mad Lance!" With a burst of insanity, not unlike that heard in the worst of biker bars, the son had enough and let the father have it! As the Captain and I turned purple with laughter, and fought to simply gain a grasp of air, reveling in David's new found madness, the leader popped up. The cedar plug hook was tethered to the fish's back through a quarter-inch piece of skin. One touch of the leader and she was gone, two foot iridescent sickle fins and all. The laughing stopped.
MOB
One of my all-time favorites occurred when a school of skipjack tuna appeared in the canyon and my friend and I rifled through the cabin for spinning rods and small spoons to throw at them from the bow. David was quicker than I, and in a flash was hooked up to a small tuna while standing on the bow. I peeped through the cabin hatch to watch him walking the fish back to the cockpit as I tied on a small hopkins spoon. When I arose from the cabin however, my friend was no where in sight. Then I looked into the trolling spread behind us and heard the terror in his voice as he floated along, rod still held high above his head. "The lines," he screamed. "The lines!" A family full of pranksters, his brother realized what was going on and began to shout back, "What lions, Dave? There's no lions out here!" As the brother (Robby) and I laughed hysterically, we began to reel in the trolling rods and get back to my friend (who was still treading water in the about the 1,000' range with a small angry tuna on the line). As we approached, Captain Ray awakened from his slumber in the cabin and decided it was time to relieve himself over the transom. I will never forget the look on my friend's face as Robby hoisted him over the side via a giant wedgie, while his father, not realizing what was going on, peed on him!
If you aren't learning anything at this point, I hope you are at least having a good laugh. When Captain Ray passed on, I was fortunate enough to be a bearer at his funeral and I will never forget that honor. I have one of his rods, an old Penn 80 with an 80 class Daiwa rod on it. That rod caught our second place 85 lb. pound white in the White Marlin Open, a second place mako in the White Marlin Open and a second place, 165 lb. bluefin tuna in the Ocean City Tuna Tournament. There isn't a day spent offshore where that rod, and his spirit along with it, aren't trolling in the wake.
Now, my other best friend and I, my father, continue these shenanigans. The “Longfin” is docked behind Captain Ray's house, where David, Robby and I still reminisce about those times. As David and Robby's children grow, and my father and I age, I can't help but wonder who the next generation of offshore goofballs between these families will be? There are certainly a few of my nieces and nephews in line that I feel will one day take over the helm, and maybe someday a child of my own. Whomever it is that you choose to share these days with, remember that they will never forget them. It isn't always about the meat on the dock or the flags on the riggers, in fact, it should never be about that. Instead, fishing is about the time and the laughs shared, the life lessons (some of which shouldn't be taught!) and the camaraderie between friends. So next time a leader breaks or the skunk is in the air, remember the stories. If you had fun, that is all that matters. If you continously come home frustrated, then go take up golf. There is a lot more to fishing than what ends up in the cooler.
Lance Smith is an outdoor writer and Captain of his family’s boat, “Longfin”.
