EARLY MORNING BLUEFISHING 



BY E. M. LEEK 



FEW summers ago I 

 was sailing with a party 

 of friends on Long 

 Island Sound, a few 

 miles east of New Haven 

 near Faulkner's Island. 

 This island is an impor- 

 tant light station, and 

 shows a flashlight, and there is a fog-horn 

 for thick weather. Near and around this 

 island are countless rocks and shoals. Now, 

 while these obstructions are a serious men- 

 ace to navigation, they form an ideal fishing 

 ground, and many a blackfish, bass and 

 bluefish has been taken here. 



The blackfish and bass are always there 

 in summer, while the bluefish come and 

 go. One day the reef would not have a fin 

 on it, and on the next it might be alive with 

 the ravenous beauties, and so it happens 

 that boatmen sailing these waters in July 

 and August are always on the lookout for a 

 bluefish school. The gulls almost always 

 show where the fish are, and a bunch wheel- 

 ing over and diving into the midst of the 

 whipping fish sends a thrill through any 

 one with a drop of fishing blood in his veins. 

 The bluefish are caught on long trolling 

 lines, rigged with a bone jig, towed from the 

 stern of a boat cruising back and forth, just 

 in front of the school. During the summer 

 in question I had for a boat what we called 

 a sharpie — a long, narrow, flat-bottomed 

 craft, with a big centreboard, and two tall • 

 slender masts with leg-of-mutton sails, 

 the foresail fitted with a big club to increase 

 the sail area. This kind of a sailboat is now 

 nearly obsolete, but was once considered 

 the proper thing, and a good sharpie man, 

 with a breeze to help him, could do almost 

 anything with his craft. 



Well, on this afternoon in question, we 

 had been off around Faulkner's Island, and 

 rounding the island with a good southwest 

 " wind had slacked our sheets off for the run 

 home. Reaching a point perhaps a mile 

 north of the light, I happened to cast my 

 eye to windward, and 'way over on the 



North Reef I caught the glint of a gull's 

 wing, and looking closer saw quite a flock 

 of them circling over the shoal. I did not 

 need to be told what that meant, for it was as 

 plain as print to me. The bluefish had 

 come. 



I thought I would keep this bit of news 

 to myself long enough to have one try at 

 them, at least. Too many boats sink the 

 fish. We were staying at the time in a cot- 

 tage by the shore, and landing my party I 

 moored my boat, and went up to the house. 

 I had my bluefish gear all ready, and asked 

 my wife if she would like to go off early and 

 have a try at them. She was glad enough 

 to go, so after tea we turned in early, setting 

 the alarm for 3 A. M. The noisy bell of the 

 clock woke me from sound slumber, and 

 getting out of bed, I went to the windows to 

 have a look at the weather. Not a very 

 encouraging prospect. It was as thick as 

 mud, and no daylight in sight. We dressed, 

 just the same, had a cup of coffee with a 

 mouthful to eat, and started for the boat. 

 Now, gentle reader, if there is anything that 

 will take the enthusiasm out of a fishing 

 party any quicker than fog and darkness, I 

 don't want to see it — not if I am in the party. 

 The fog was like a blanket, and as the day 

 began to break, while the light was stronger, 

 you really could see no further than in the 

 dark. I had, however, a good compass, and 

 this was by no means my first trip in thick 

 weather, so it was up to me to make a try 

 anyway. We felt our way down to the skiff, 

 and pulled off to the sharpie, set both sails 

 and cast off with a light, easterly wind, as 

 fair as it could be for our course to North 

 Reef. By compass we ran due south for ten 

 minutes and picked up Riding Rock, then 

 slacking off the sheets we ran southwest 

 about the same length of time, and found 

 Cracked Top, then due south to White Top, 

 whence I knew it was all open water to the 

 reef. 



My wife all this time was sitting on the 

 middle thwart, with a coil of rigging under 

 her as the driest spot she could find, trying 



