BLACKFISHING ON LONG ISLAND SOUND. 



E. M. LEETE. 



The tautog, or blackfish, of the New 

 England coast while not strictly a game 

 fish, is yet quite a fighter. A day spent in 

 its successful pursuit, is one to be remem- 

 bered. The tautog fisher must be some- 

 thing of a boatman, or have with him some 

 one accustomed to the management of a 

 boat. Water is treacherous; and many 

 times a man's life may depend on his get- 

 ting ashore in the teeth of a strong North- 

 erly wind. He may have a thunder squall 

 to contend with, or have to slack down to 

 2 reefs, and run in before a Southeaster. 

 In any case he must know the ropes, to feel 

 safe. But when the boat is safely anchored 

 to the leeward of a good rock; with a 

 smooth sea, plenty of bait, and the fish hun- 

 gry, one should be happy. 



In June, 1895, my friend Harry, and I, 

 went blackfishing to 2 small rocky islands 

 about 5 miles off shore, East of New 

 Haven, Conn. With our lunch baskets, 

 packecl the night before, we started at 3 

 a.m. through the deserted streets for the 

 wharf. The streets were deserted but not 

 the trees. One must listen to a New Eng- 

 land bird concert, at daybreak, to appre- 

 ciate it. The audience was rather small in 

 this case, but there were plenty of per- 

 formers; and the concert was in full blast 

 when we reached the water. Our little 18 

 foot sloop, swung peacefully at her moor- 

 ings. The water was like ebony in the 

 shadow, and like burnished silver in the 

 first rays of light. We put our lunch bas- 

 kets aboard, and made sure that the fiddler 

 crabs, clams, and our rods and lines were 

 as we left them the night before. Harry 

 casts off the lines, and we take the oars for 

 a 5 mile pull. 



Dropping down the creek, we followed 

 the channel banks to wnerc they widened 

 into the sound. There was some fog out- 

 side, and we made a guess for Riding Rock, 

 and from there to the fish pounds. These 

 we followed out to the deep water; then 

 shaped our course by compass, and the fog 

 horn at the light house, out to sea. It was 

 like working for a living, to stand up and 

 push a 10 foot oar. The fog grew thinner, 

 and we felt a breath from the Southwest. 

 This increased, and with mainsail and jib 

 set, and with the help of the strong flood 

 tide, we made a fair wind of it. It was 

 light at first, but grew stronger as the fog 

 lifted. Our little boat heeled over, and 

 the water rippled along her sides as she 

 pushed through it. Our breakfast at 2:45 

 was light and hurried and we now im- 

 proved the opportunity to take a bite. The 

 fog had about gone, and the island, with 

 its white light house showed plainly ahead 



of us. About a mile to the West were the 

 2 small islands where we proposed to fish. 

 We stopped just East of the smaller of the 

 islands, and tied up our sails. Drifting 

 down with the tide, we threw over an an- 

 chor and as we swung to it, cast another 

 astern. By this time we were within good 

 casting distance of a grand fishing rock, 

 and we made our lines fast and stopped 

 her. 



Harry baited with clams, while I put a 

 clam on one hook and a fiddler on the 

 other. We cast our lines in the eddy near 

 the rock where the water was about 4 feet 

 deep. 



My companion caught the first fish. 



His rod bent like a bow as the line cut 

 through the water. The strength of the 

 fish was no match for that of a good linen 

 line, with an expert fisherman at the other 

 end. The fish was soon brought to the 

 surface near the boat, and was lifted over 

 the side. Harry took the floor, for a while, 

 and did what seemed to me, much unne- 

 cessary talking. His remarks on my way 

 of fishing, were not complimentary. I 

 gently reminded him, of the time when I 

 beat him badly. Incidentally I spoke of 

 the large fish, I caught years ago. My re- 

 marks did not, however, seem to impress 

 him. He baited up and tried again in the 

 same spot. Then I caught a fish, and while 

 I was putting it in the car, Harry hooked 

 another. We went on in this way for some 

 time. Now one would lead, and then the 

 other, until we had 56 fish in the car. The 

 sun was now well up in the sky, and a fresh 

 breeze was blowing from the Southwest. 

 The fish had nearly stopped biting, and we 

 sat idly watching the water, when there 

 was a savage tug at my line. I gave Harry 

 a gentle hint that perhaps he had better at- 

 tend to business if he was going to fish 

 with me. By this time my fish was thor- 

 oughly awake, and my rod bent nearer and 

 nearer the water, as I vainly tried to check 

 him. The spring of the rod was too much 

 for him, however, and he neared the sur- 

 face. I could see his broad black back and 

 fan-like tail, as he circled through the dark 

 water. My hook was well set in his tough 

 jaw and after a few more runs, his strug- 

 gles grew weaker. I brought him, at last, 

 to the boat, and Harry lifted him in. No 

 frying fish this; but one to stuff and bake 

 — one to put on the top of the basket, and 

 talk about. It weighed 7^ pounds. This 

 was more encouraging; and we fished with 

 renewed interest for awhile. It was blow- 

 ing a good sailing breeze, and boats began 

 to come off from the shore. One boat, the 

 crack of the fleet, was just poking her saucy 



