“. Ya na gonna catch anything out dere today,” drawled the lanky ball-capped waterman loading his flat-bottomed net-filled skiff onto a trailer in the knee deep shallow takeout of Pamlico Sound near Rodanthe, North Carolina. “Got only a few mullet in my long net set.”
After inquiring “What was going on out there?” while preparing my kayak for a morning of chasing spotted seatrout, the commercial fisherman informed me that the fresh water from too much rain had pretty much kept the “speckles” from seeking the inshore shallows. He continued, though, that they have been catching a few here and there in the hard to reach bays and creek inlets. Concerned that maybe these fish were disappearing like so many other species along the coast this past decade, I asked him how the fish populations were doing.
“We still get some big uns in da deep holes out in the Sound, but we’ll never catch ‘em all since dey live so shallow,” rubbing his whiskers in a moment of distain, “but the government fish guys have cut back our commercial allotment anyway.” After wishing him good luck he told me to “watch out for bull sharks” with a kind of hidden sneer under his bushy lip hair as I started to paddle toward deeper water. Later, in light of the aforementioned info, I felt very fortunate that a few “speckles” took my fly in a far off channel on the incoming tide.
So when Sharon and I were eating dinner and sipping margarita’s at a local Bar & Grill that same evening, a wild looking character with long hair, straggly beard and one-toothed sly smile grabbed a seat at our table and introduced himself. His name was Willy, and though slight of frame, he was definitely wiry and hard around the edges. Within a few minutes we learned that Willy lived in Rodanthe for his entire fifty-three years, his ex-wife was a witch, he spent three years in jail, and the cops had just rousted him at three o’clock the previous morning. Oh yea, and we also learned that Willy was the “best damn commercial fisherman” on the Outer Banks. To hear him tell it, he was not well liked by other local fisherman because he worked his ass off and caught more "freakin’ fish” than anyone out there. Grabbing another beer he continued his story saying he sets eighteen hundred hooks per trip making five hundred to a thousand dollars every turn around. He almost signed on to National Geographic’s TV series “Wicked Tuna” but his lawyers advised against it, though he caught more five hundred pound-plus tuna then those guys ever dreamed about. And on and on Willy rambled. When he excused himself to get a smoke, I thought he was gone for the night.
But after a bit, Willy came back and apologized for taking so long. He got into an argument, he said, and four guys wanted to beat him up in the parking lot, but he gave them the slip. When he ordered us a few more drinks I took the opportunity to ask him what he thought about the state of the fish populations in the Sound. Willy blurted, “I still get ‘em, but the fish and game dicks are always on my case for catching too many. Caught a nine-pound speckled last week. You just have to know where to look.” Again another evasive answer didn’t inspire confidence. About that time Willy wanted to take the Karaoke stage and sing us a song. After struggling through two verses of an unrecognizable Lynyrd Skynyrd tune, he staggered back to the table. At that point it seemed like a good opportunity for Sharon and I to take our leave before getting too deep into Willy’s world. We shook hands and he wished us safe travels. He then said it was time to kick ass out in the parking lot anyway, so off went Willy.
And as we were heading back to our rental cottage, I thought about the state of our coastal fisheries and, for some reason, felt a bit guilty ordering fish and chips for dinner.
After inquiring “What was going on out there?” while preparing my kayak for a morning of chasing spotted seatrout, the commercial fisherman informed me that the fresh water from too much rain had pretty much kept the “speckles” from seeking the inshore shallows. He continued, though, that they have been catching a few here and there in the hard to reach bays and creek inlets. Concerned that maybe these fish were disappearing like so many other species along the coast this past decade, I asked him how the fish populations were doing.
“We still get some big uns in da deep holes out in the Sound, but we’ll never catch ‘em all since dey live so shallow,” rubbing his whiskers in a moment of distain, “but the government fish guys have cut back our commercial allotment anyway.” After wishing him good luck he told me to “watch out for bull sharks” with a kind of hidden sneer under his bushy lip hair as I started to paddle toward deeper water. Later, in light of the aforementioned info, I felt very fortunate that a few “speckles” took my fly in a far off channel on the incoming tide.
So when Sharon and I were eating dinner and sipping margarita’s at a local Bar & Grill that same evening, a wild looking character with long hair, straggly beard and one-toothed sly smile grabbed a seat at our table and introduced himself. His name was Willy, and though slight of frame, he was definitely wiry and hard around the edges. Within a few minutes we learned that Willy lived in Rodanthe for his entire fifty-three years, his ex-wife was a witch, he spent three years in jail, and the cops had just rousted him at three o’clock the previous morning. Oh yea, and we also learned that Willy was the “best damn commercial fisherman” on the Outer Banks. To hear him tell it, he was not well liked by other local fisherman because he worked his ass off and caught more "freakin’ fish” than anyone out there. Grabbing another beer he continued his story saying he sets eighteen hundred hooks per trip making five hundred to a thousand dollars every turn around. He almost signed on to National Geographic’s TV series “Wicked Tuna” but his lawyers advised against it, though he caught more five hundred pound-plus tuna then those guys ever dreamed about. And on and on Willy rambled. When he excused himself to get a smoke, I thought he was gone for the night.
But after a bit, Willy came back and apologized for taking so long. He got into an argument, he said, and four guys wanted to beat him up in the parking lot, but he gave them the slip. When he ordered us a few more drinks I took the opportunity to ask him what he thought about the state of the fish populations in the Sound. Willy blurted, “I still get ‘em, but the fish and game dicks are always on my case for catching too many. Caught a nine-pound speckled last week. You just have to know where to look.” Again another evasive answer didn’t inspire confidence. About that time Willy wanted to take the Karaoke stage and sing us a song. After struggling through two verses of an unrecognizable Lynyrd Skynyrd tune, he staggered back to the table. At that point it seemed like a good opportunity for Sharon and I to take our leave before getting too deep into Willy’s world. We shook hands and he wished us safe travels. He then said it was time to kick ass out in the parking lot anyway, so off went Willy.
And as we were heading back to our rental cottage, I thought about the state of our coastal fisheries and, for some reason, felt a bit guilty ordering fish and chips for dinner.
