As it so happens, Cory put the video on the web on Sunday. You'll notice kayaks moving without anyone paddling. Those are fish puuling them. Commonly refered to as a "Sleigh Ride".
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmEA9RFNy8w
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Tupperware Navy
We've got the Kayak Fishing Symposium here in VB this weekend. My club, the Tidewater Kayak Angler's Assoc (TKAA) is sponsoring it. I'm presenting a seminar on Cold Weather Gear today. So needless to say I've got kayaking on the brain--my wife would tell you this is not uncommon.
I thought I'd try to post some pictures:
I mentioned a beehive in the last entry. This is what one looks like. The disturbance in the water are menhaden, a bait fish about the size of your hand. They're forced to the surface by striped bass ( aka striper or rockfish) who feed in schools from underneath. The birds take advantage of chunks of menhaden that float to the surface and any fish small enough to carry. This beehive extended about two miles and maybe 200 feet in the air--thousands upon thousands of birds.
This is me that same day. The fish I'm holding was about 34 1/2 inches. It had a sore from a bacterial infection on his tail and I wasn't wearing gloves, so it's in my lap instead of up in the air. This is the biggest fish I've ever landed.
This is Cory, the guy who got me into kayakfishing. He was my roommate for a while right out of college, and I stumbled back across him while reading some fishing webboards about two years ago. I bought a kayak six weeks later. This was taken off of Kiptopeke on the Eastern Shore of VA about a month ago. His fish is 43 inches, I believe.
This is Aaron, also a member of TKAA. I don't know him well at all, but that is just a hog of a fish. The structures behind him are the Concrete Ships at Kiptopeke. They were cargo vessels in World War One (I think), and after they outlived their usefulness they used them as breakwaters for a new pier and boat ramp they were building. As they deteriorate, the hulls break into huge chunks, creating passageways and protection that fish just love.
All these fish were released; mine because of the infection (I'm not eating a sick fish), the others because the season was closed. Cory took all the pictures except the one he's in, I guess.
I thought I'd try to post some pictures:
I mentioned a beehive in the last entry. This is what one looks like. The disturbance in the water are menhaden, a bait fish about the size of your hand. They're forced to the surface by striped bass ( aka striper or rockfish) who feed in schools from underneath. The birds take advantage of chunks of menhaden that float to the surface and any fish small enough to carry. This beehive extended about two miles and maybe 200 feet in the air--thousands upon thousands of birds.
This is me that same day. The fish I'm holding was about 34 1/2 inches. It had a sore from a bacterial infection on his tail and I wasn't wearing gloves, so it's in my lap instead of up in the air. This is the biggest fish I've ever landed.
This is Cory, the guy who got me into kayakfishing. He was my roommate for a while right out of college, and I stumbled back across him while reading some fishing webboards about two years ago. I bought a kayak six weeks later. This was taken off of Kiptopeke on the Eastern Shore of VA about a month ago. His fish is 43 inches, I believe.
This is Aaron, also a member of TKAA. I don't know him well at all, but that is just a hog of a fish. The structures behind him are the Concrete Ships at Kiptopeke. They were cargo vessels in World War One (I think), and after they outlived their usefulness they used them as breakwaters for a new pier and boat ramp they were building. As they deteriorate, the hulls break into huge chunks, creating passageways and protection that fish just love.
All these fish were released; mine because of the infection (I'm not eating a sick fish), the others because the season was closed. Cory took all the pictures except the one he's in, I guess.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Tales of an Overconfident Fisherman, Part I (redux)
Christmas Eve in Virginia Beach…a beautiful, sunny day. Far away, someone was dreaming of a White Christmas, but we were hoping for big striper. A bunch of us had gotten into a beehive of gannets, seagulls and pelicans the week before and pulled out dozens of 25 to 37” fish. The birds fish for dinner above big schools of menhaden while stripers chase them from below. We wanted to be right in the middle. We got to First Landing State Park around 8 am and patrolled the beach, looking for birds. Seeing none, Ray and I shoot the breeze, telling each other that the action would come with the tide. We take our time carting our kayaks and fishing gear to the beach, get suited up, and launch about 9.
I take the lead and paddle my 16-foot Tarpon 160 kayak through the surf. Ray’s right behind me with his all-but-brand-new 160i. The current and the wind make things a little dicey close to shore, so I head out maybe a quarter mile. Now Ray's maybe 25 yards behind. I hear him yell to me that something’s not right, but didn’t catch what, exactly. I turn so I’m parallel to the beach to ask what he said. Ray looks out to me, leans forward and goes headfirst into the water.
Oh, hell. Now what?
I stab at the water with my paddle and move that kayak at flank speed to reach him, and see him attempting to get back the Tarpon but no such luck. Every time he tries to remount the kayak keeps going vertical. I think to myself maybe that's because Ray's a big boy. I paddle to within ten yards and try to turn that long 160 to get in closer but I'm going too fast and end up circling him. Not once, but twice. Rudders are wonderful things—I make a mental note to have one installed. Finally, I maneuver my kayak next to Ray’s. Ray is still hanging on to the far side and yells that we’ve got to save his stuff from floating out to sea. I see Ray's paddle and leash 20 yards off, and his fish finder another 5 beyond that. I try stabilizing the 160i so Ray can climb up, but he's been trying to do that for probably for a full two minutes—a lifetime in 50* water. He’s too tired now to pull himself back on board. I see he's on the verge of being very concerned for his current situation (also known as “wigging out”) and reassure him that this isn't a big deal, piece of cake, no worries, just slow your breathing down, don't waste energy, just a quick swim. Things it's easy to say when you're the guy looking down, not the guy in the water. So now what? I tell Ray we're going to hook his kayak to mine and if he'll hang on to his, I'll paddle the whole shebang to the beach. I think back to some rescue swim class somewhere, "If they latch on to you and take you down, too, you're both as good as dead". Maybe a little distance is a good thing. I don't want Ray to panic and flip me out of my boat, because then it'll get real hard for both of us. Now I'm thinking back to the safety seminar at the dive pool the month before: use the paddle to make a pontoon boat and see if he can get in that way. The wind is picking up and kayaks are becoming difficult to maneuver, but after a little finagling we get them lined up. Ray (who's now in the water close to 5 minutes) doesn't have it in him. His waders are starting to fill with water and he’s getting cold. A bell goes off. To hell with the gear-- get to shore!! I tell Ray we’re leaving the boat, I'll come back for it later, to hold on to my stern and I'll tow him in. I start paddling. In my mind I'm paddling like the kid in The Incredibles who can run on top the water.
I'd like to interject here that, for those that have never met him, Ray isn’t petite. He’s a 300-pound Filipino. And he's got waders filling with water. So I'm paddling my ass off for a solid minute and thinking, “Whoa, I'm not moving at all…”, so I tell Ray. Actually, I tell Ray, “Hey man, piece of cake, couple of hundred yards now, we’ll be dry in a minute”. After another minute or two the current loosens its grip on him and the drift sock he's calling waders and we start to make a little headway. I keep talking to him and call out some distances. Ray responds by coughing up a lung full of seawater, I guess, and trying to tip me over from the stern. Eventually, we get in close enough that he can touch bottom. He lets go of the kayak and I take off like a speedboat, beach the kayak, and run back to help him out. I grab him by the upper arm and pull him out of the water like a disobedient child. And it was all I could do not to laugh, because coming out of that water with his waders filled with water, Ray looked like the Michelin Man.
And then I remember having clothes in the truck, stuff from work, so I tell him to work on getting that wet crap off. I'll run up to the parking lot and get dry clothes. I'll get his boat afterwards. And I take off, still in my dry top and neoprene waders, full throttle, up the flight of stairs, run down the boardwalk, down the stairs and see a concrete wash house. Why the hell is there a wash house?? There's no wash house here. Where's the visitor's center? Where's my truck? I hadn't noticed we'd drifted and I'd run down the wrong access. Where the hell am I? Rather than run back to the beach and try figure it out, I can hear the cars zipping by on Shore Drive so I run down the road towards there, still in my waders, drytop, and I think PFD, still full throttle. I probably ran close to half a mile in that get-up. I got that big bastard out of the water, I’ll be damned if he’s going to die of hypothermia now! I get my bearings, run past the Visitor’s Center to my truck, jump in and drive over a few lawns, curbs, and railroad ties to get back where I needed to be. I grab all the clothes I can carry and run back over the (wrong) access and back out to Ray, who promptly throws on my sweatshirt (backwards), a watch cap and my coat. His 160i has washed ashore by now. We head down the beach to see how much of a yard sale there would be, expecting to see his gear and lures strewn across the beach, but there isn't one. All that’s left is his paddle, his fish finder, and one lure. His new rods and rest was sent to Davey Jones' Locker.
And right then the birds started working off the pound nets, pulling fresh menhaden out of the water.
I take the lead and paddle my 16-foot Tarpon 160 kayak through the surf. Ray’s right behind me with his all-but-brand-new 160i. The current and the wind make things a little dicey close to shore, so I head out maybe a quarter mile. Now Ray's maybe 25 yards behind. I hear him yell to me that something’s not right, but didn’t catch what, exactly. I turn so I’m parallel to the beach to ask what he said. Ray looks out to me, leans forward and goes headfirst into the water.
Oh, hell. Now what?
I stab at the water with my paddle and move that kayak at flank speed to reach him, and see him attempting to get back the Tarpon but no such luck. Every time he tries to remount the kayak keeps going vertical. I think to myself maybe that's because Ray's a big boy. I paddle to within ten yards and try to turn that long 160 to get in closer but I'm going too fast and end up circling him. Not once, but twice. Rudders are wonderful things—I make a mental note to have one installed. Finally, I maneuver my kayak next to Ray’s. Ray is still hanging on to the far side and yells that we’ve got to save his stuff from floating out to sea. I see Ray's paddle and leash 20 yards off, and his fish finder another 5 beyond that. I try stabilizing the 160i so Ray can climb up, but he's been trying to do that for probably for a full two minutes—a lifetime in 50* water. He’s too tired now to pull himself back on board. I see he's on the verge of being very concerned for his current situation (also known as “wigging out”) and reassure him that this isn't a big deal, piece of cake, no worries, just slow your breathing down, don't waste energy, just a quick swim. Things it's easy to say when you're the guy looking down, not the guy in the water. So now what? I tell Ray we're going to hook his kayak to mine and if he'll hang on to his, I'll paddle the whole shebang to the beach. I think back to some rescue swim class somewhere, "If they latch on to you and take you down, too, you're both as good as dead". Maybe a little distance is a good thing. I don't want Ray to panic and flip me out of my boat, because then it'll get real hard for both of us. Now I'm thinking back to the safety seminar at the dive pool the month before: use the paddle to make a pontoon boat and see if he can get in that way. The wind is picking up and kayaks are becoming difficult to maneuver, but after a little finagling we get them lined up. Ray (who's now in the water close to 5 minutes) doesn't have it in him. His waders are starting to fill with water and he’s getting cold. A bell goes off. To hell with the gear-- get to shore!! I tell Ray we’re leaving the boat, I'll come back for it later, to hold on to my stern and I'll tow him in. I start paddling. In my mind I'm paddling like the kid in The Incredibles who can run on top the water.
I'd like to interject here that, for those that have never met him, Ray isn’t petite. He’s a 300-pound Filipino. And he's got waders filling with water. So I'm paddling my ass off for a solid minute and thinking, “Whoa, I'm not moving at all…”, so I tell Ray. Actually, I tell Ray, “Hey man, piece of cake, couple of hundred yards now, we’ll be dry in a minute”. After another minute or two the current loosens its grip on him and the drift sock he's calling waders and we start to make a little headway. I keep talking to him and call out some distances. Ray responds by coughing up a lung full of seawater, I guess, and trying to tip me over from the stern. Eventually, we get in close enough that he can touch bottom. He lets go of the kayak and I take off like a speedboat, beach the kayak, and run back to help him out. I grab him by the upper arm and pull him out of the water like a disobedient child. And it was all I could do not to laugh, because coming out of that water with his waders filled with water, Ray looked like the Michelin Man.
And then I remember having clothes in the truck, stuff from work, so I tell him to work on getting that wet crap off. I'll run up to the parking lot and get dry clothes. I'll get his boat afterwards. And I take off, still in my dry top and neoprene waders, full throttle, up the flight of stairs, run down the boardwalk, down the stairs and see a concrete wash house. Why the hell is there a wash house?? There's no wash house here. Where's the visitor's center? Where's my truck? I hadn't noticed we'd drifted and I'd run down the wrong access. Where the hell am I? Rather than run back to the beach and try figure it out, I can hear the cars zipping by on Shore Drive so I run down the road towards there, still in my waders, drytop, and I think PFD, still full throttle. I probably ran close to half a mile in that get-up. I got that big bastard out of the water, I’ll be damned if he’s going to die of hypothermia now! I get my bearings, run past the Visitor’s Center to my truck, jump in and drive over a few lawns, curbs, and railroad ties to get back where I needed to be. I grab all the clothes I can carry and run back over the (wrong) access and back out to Ray, who promptly throws on my sweatshirt (backwards), a watch cap and my coat. His 160i has washed ashore by now. We head down the beach to see how much of a yard sale there would be, expecting to see his gear and lures strewn across the beach, but there isn't one. All that’s left is his paddle, his fish finder, and one lure. His new rods and rest was sent to Davey Jones' Locker.
And right then the birds started working off the pound nets, pulling fresh menhaden out of the water.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
"Let's begin again...begin the begin"
So I get a call from my mom, who works in a doctor's office in Reading. She had a new patient come in, a girl I went to HS with. She mentioned a 20th Reunion scheduled for this fall and how the info was up on Classmates.com. Not that I particularly keep up with anyone, but I kind of want to see who's fatter and has less hair than me. I decide to go to Classmates, and there they have a roster of all the folks who're registered. I see a few names I recognize, and wonder what they're up to, and in a fit of nostalgia, I google Doug Didyoung's name. Note to self--next time, pick someone who's not a "Jr." Doug generated quite a few hits, and as I meander through them, trying to find a logical way to get in touch with him, I come across the blog of this guy in NC. Who the hell in NC would know Doug? As I read, I see this guy trains for marathons and triathalons. Who the hell in NC that's in shape would know Doug? I'm scrolling down, reading snippets, see a pic of a cute kid, read about how patient his wife is, when I find it: an entry about palying basketball with Doug, about Tom Texter and WXAC (Albright College's radio station where a bunch of us had shows when we were in HS). I look at this guys photo again...great balls of fire! It's Joe Nuss's blog! Joe, who I hadn't talked to eleventy-six years, who went on the ill-fated beer run with Keith Mooney and I on Prom Night, who as a deluded teenager insisted all the girls in the Berkshire Mall were looking at him (when in fact, they were looking at me, as any sane person could have told you). Naturally I left a message on the blog, and today I spent an hour catching up with Joe when I should have been doing important things like tape images of trees on vellum.
Why, I'm sure you're wondering, should I give a dingo's kidney? It's like this...there's a whole other group of folks on a place called the Sandbar who've been urging me to find an outlet for my writing (or rambling, depending on your point of view) and in reading Joe's blog I kind of decided taht this would be OK, that I could polish up the Tales of the Overconfident Kayaker, as Amy calls them, and vent a bit. At Others. We hate Others.
So generally, I'll make up the rules as I go. I have a family, occaisonally a life and a 60 hour a week job, so no promises on how much or how often, but much like a mint laxative, I'll try to make it sweet and be a bit regular.
Why, I'm sure you're wondering, should I give a dingo's kidney? It's like this...there's a whole other group of folks on a place called the Sandbar who've been urging me to find an outlet for my writing (or rambling, depending on your point of view) and in reading Joe's blog I kind of decided taht this would be OK, that I could polish up the Tales of the Overconfident Kayaker, as Amy calls them, and vent a bit. At Others. We hate Others.
So generally, I'll make up the rules as I go. I have a family, occaisonally a life and a 60 hour a week job, so no promises on how much or how often, but much like a mint laxative, I'll try to make it sweet and be a bit regular.
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