Bad...Really Bad...

Not just bad, but terrible! No horrible...hideous. Scarey, that's the word. Send Tony Soprano over...no...no...make that Pauley. People were crying on the boat like it was a funeral. An old woman was doing the rosary beads. No respect I tell you. Those fluke have no respect. They were throwing bait at us...rotten bait...I think it was last weeks bunker chunks that had been lying in the sun.

Bad, I tell you...we'd drift over every decent sand bar and cuts in the rip on the outside of Shinnecock. I checked the dress that I had on...was I wearing the wrong color? White for May...or is it blue?

The day dragged on, slow as molasses. I started staring at the mate...it was his fault...I knew it. The customers got restless...rumors were going around that the plank was about to go out. The sun was beating down hard. The sky was too blue, the wind too perfect. Boats drifted and drifted again and again and again over the prime spots. There was crying heard across Shinnecock. Where were the fish?

We went inshore off the Inlet. Time was running out. I shined the barrel of my gun, counting my bullets, one for each of them. No...maybe I'll just take myself out.

A bite! Oh my God, an actual bite!

Sweat beaded over my brow. Should I strike, no wait an extra second. My hands were trembling...I pulled back...breath short and quivering. The rod shook and she came right up. The ruler came out. The crowds eyes were bearing down on me. Why him and not me? He thinks he's so special, I know it!

It measured 16.5 inches. The mate looked at me, slowly he turned making a break to the rail to throw her back in. He tossed it back in. I was shot down...depressed...I ran to my bag looking for my anti-depressants. How cruel were the Gods on us.Forty-five minutes left. John had to lock the pilot house door. Drift after drift, a fish here a short fish there. Maybe six keepers.

Head bent down, shoulders slumped over. One old man made a primal scream that could be heard all across Long Island. He dragged himself to his car. One by one they left. It was a horrendous act upon the ten fishermen with their pathetic little bags carrying a fillet or two. A suicide watch was definately on. I grabbed my bags and two rods...the sun on my back casting a long shadow of "no story". Just this really bad afternoon of no fish. How could I look myself in the mirror. The tragedy...the emptyness...I hacked it...smoked the trout...yanked the straw...struck out with bases loaded...bit the bullet.

There's no report guys...I'm going to the woodshed for a flogging! God, why have you forsaken me in my time of fishing? Say two hundred Hail Mary's.

Fish ARE coming in large bodies and have not settled in yet...welcome to fishing in the Spring. Yeh...I know that it's 85 degrees out...you're wearing shorts and that really ugly t-shirt...but it's either hot or cold right now. Big fish are coming into Shinnecock and Montauk to 11 pounds and better. So go fish...but remember, bad trips are a part of our sport. That's why it's called "fishing" not "catching". In the famous words of Rodney Dangerfield, "I get no respect".

About this article:

John and I were talking about a real bad day of fishing.
John as a joke told me to write about a real bad day of fishing from hell!
contrary to what I was going to write.
I wrote this as a joke..I love John!..he has been kickin butt on the fluke up to 8 lbs!
This story is a fictitious it's about a really bad day of fishing that we have all experienced at one time or another in our lives.

If you have a problem with this article talk to john