July 15, 19H-] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
89 
Haphazard Adventures of Four 
Landlubbers 
By CARL S. SHAFER 
II.—The Failure 
S CORES of times we had eaten the succulent 
bluefish, broiled to a turn and served with 
a sprig of parsley and a bit of lemon; we 
had smacked our lips and wondered, just won¬ 
dered what degree of enthusiasm a good sized 
one, well hooked, could arouse in fresh water 
anglers. 
At last the opportunity was at hand and we 
felt that we could not afford to miss it, for fate 
plays many vague and unreasonable tricks, and 
we might be landlocked for the next ten years 
and forced to catch our bluefish with a silver 
certificate, so we planned to go bluefishing bright 
and early Wednesday morning. 
Nature decreed that Peconic, Gardiner’s and 
Noyack bays should hold a lot of water, and 
so we were at loss to know just what particular 
section was the most promising feeding ground 
of the bluefish. It was plainly evident that we 
needed a guide and a sailboat. We were not 
particular about the boat and its equipment, but 
its skipper must have the true flavor of brine. 
Nothing short of the Cape Cod variety would 
do, so I posted off to town to look at specimens. 
Of course, being a landlubber, I judged solely 
by looks, and the only typical sea captain I en¬ 
countered turned out to be the commander of 
a whale oil wagon. The far famed Red River 
carts have no advantage over a whale oil wagon. 
Imagine if you can a few stout oak planks, cap¬ 
able of sustaining a weight of a ton or more, 
balanced on two wheels, and a pair of long 
thills fastened to a horse’s back by a broad 
padded saddle, so that the animal must bear a 
portion of the weight, and you gain a pretty 
fair idea of what these relics of early whaling 
days look like. Of course if the load is on the 
front end of the wagon it makes heavy work 
for the horse; if it is on the rear end, the animal 
walks light-footed. 
A trifle chagrined and disappointed to think 
that I should have been sadly mistaken in my 
judgment of types, I hastened to the village 
tavern across the street. Now, do not be mis¬ 
taken, for I had no intention of drowning my 
sorrows, but was merely continuing my quest 
for a safe and reliable sea captain a la Cape Cod. 
In our town there is always a coterie of old men 
who are personally acquainted with every in¬ 
habitant, his goods, chattels, wife, sweetheart, 
family brawls and babies, and I saw no reason 
why this town should differ from ours and a 
hundred others exactly like it. 
Sure enough, lounging within were three rep¬ 
resentative American countrymen of the very 
tvpe I was seeking. I waved my arm, and evi¬ 
dently thinking I was an open-hearted man de¬ 
siring to do the proprietor a favor, they hastily 
followed. 
“Boys,” I smilingly explained, ”1 want to char¬ 
ter a fishing craft commander, crew and anchor 
for a fishing cruise in local waters.” 
“How many in your party?” demanded the 
eldest, leveling the stem of a black, murderous 
looking HC at my Adam’s apple. 
“Only four,” I hastened to assure him. 
“You’re one of them up-staters that come in 
t'other day?” 
I nodded affirmatively, confident that the de¬ 
sired information would soon be forthcoming. 
“Thought so,” he continued, “me and Captain 
Zeke seen your trunks down to the depot. Know 
a lanyard from a whale’s tooth?” 
“Possibly,” I replied. 
“Wal, now, mister, what you want to do is 
to go and see Captain Cook—lives in a board¬ 
ing house around the corner. He’s got a cat- 
rigged dory that will take you to New Lun’un, 
and is as reliable as the moon and the tide.” 
Ten minutes later I had arranged with Captain 
Cook to take us bluefishing the following morn¬ 
ing. Smooth of face, seventy-three years young, 
his personal appearance was deficient in those 
characteristics that the illustrator has taught us 
to associate with rough, hardy sea-faring men 
of the Eastern coast, yet we were to come to 
know that he was a grand old man whose face 
will ever recall pleasant memories of our trip. 
Captain Cook let go the sail and we were off 
for Jessup’s Neck, sometimes called The Rip, 
with every prospect of a day of keen enjoyment. 
The bay was placid as a little inland lake and 
we settled back in our seats to revel in our 
eight-mile sail with solid comfort while the cap¬ 
tain endeavored to hold a small Havana between 
his three remaining front teeth and discourse 
knowledge concerning bluefish habits and blue¬ 
fishing. He held forth but little hope of our 
landing a solitary fish, but we were confident, 
supremely confident, that they would be frolick¬ 
ing around their feeding grounds, waiting for 
the appearance of. our lures. 
Entering Noyack Bay, the wind came up out 
of the east and the sea grew choppy, but we 
hardly noticed the increasing roughness, so we 
tied on the squids and put out our lines, too ex¬ 
cited over the prospect of good sport to pay 
attention to the weather. 
For the benefit of the uninitiated, let me ex¬ 
plain that a squid is a four-inch hook moulded 
into a diamond-shaped piece of tin three inches 
long by a half inch wide to which a swivel is 
secured in the same fashion as on spoon hooks. 
I showed one of these to a local bluefisherman 
several days laten and he contemptuously re¬ 
ferred to it as a “dingus,” at the same time 
proudly showing me a real squid. It was home 
made and villainous looking. Fancy and inge¬ 
nuity had played no part in its making. It was 
built for business and its construction was along 
original lines. The glittering part, so necessary 
to attract denizens of the deep, was made of a 
sheep’s shin bone scraped as near cylindrical as 
possible. A cod hook was fastened into one end 
by running it full of molten lead and a swivel 
was fastened to the other by the same method, 
and this contrivance was used on all occasions. 
There is but little doubt that it was the most 
approved and effective squid known because every 
one else seemed to use one of the same pattern. 
The captain assured us that if the blues had not 
all sought warmer water we would get some, and 
shoved the nose of our boat into the rough 
waters of The Rip where two tides meet and 
pound each other in their mad anxiety to rush 
into the channel. Twice down the length of this 
liquid? we sailed, with our lines out, confident 
that we would succeed. The boat rocked and 
swayed, water dashed over its sides, its bow was 
a miniature cloud of spume and I was swiftly 
becoming too interested in the display to care 
what struck at my spinning squid. Back safely 
again in quieter waters the captain put me ashore. 
“I’ve et shad, herring, trout, bluefish, salmon 
and most every other kind of fish from a smelt 
to a porpoise,” said a bewhiskered old man with 
a short-handled hoe on one hand and a bucket 
of quahaugs in the other, whom chance had 
thrown in my path during a long walk down 
the beach between a bank of seaweed and the 
incoming tide about dusk one night, “but the 
sweetest fish most I’ve ever et, accordin’ to my 
notion, is bottlefish fried brown in hot butter.” 
All unwittingly he was introducing me to an¬ 
other and unheard of fish, and by tactful ques¬ 
tioning I learned without displaying too grossly 
my ignorance of the bay’s inhabitants that bottle- 
fish were bottom feeders, dark brown in color 
with light brown mottlings on the back and 
cream colored bellies. 
“Go right out by Gull Rocks where the bottom 
is muddy and fish in two or three fathoms of 
water. You'll get ’em if they’re bitin’. Mebbe 
it hain’t so much fun to fish for them as it is 
snappers or bass, but they’re eatin’, and that goes 
a heap longer ways with folks gaited same as 
me. You don’t have to wear specks to get the 
bones out, nuther, ’cause they are built like smelts 
—head on one end and tail on t’other; you know 
what I mean.” 
I found Doc, Dick and my wife waiting very 
impatiently for me, for they were hungry and 
T was late. After our evening meal I lighted a 
dark brown mosquito eradicator that I had pur¬ 
chased for a smoke and said: “Let’s go bottle¬ 
fishing to-morrow.” 
“Bottlefish!” grunted Doc, “bottlefish! What 
do they resemble most—champagne, beer bottle 
or pocket flasks?” I told him of my chance 
acquaintance and described the fish to the best 
of my ability. Dick and my wife waxed enthu¬ 
siastic, so we decided to go for a while in the 
morning to try the fish, and the matter was 
dropped. 
In the morning the sky was dark and over¬ 
cast and nature’s storm signals spoke eloquently 
of a drenching, downpouring rain, nevertheless 
that did not deter us and we put out from shore 
in high spirits. There was but little wind and 
no ground swell, for which I was duly thankful, 
as this combination had a strong tendency to dis¬ 
turb my digestion and to upset my stomach. 
Anchoring our boats we fastened them together 
end for end and began fishing. Doc caught his 
preliminary skate and Dick a dogfish, which were 
very good indications of fair luck, as Doc's skate 
and Dick’s dogfish had grown to be a sort of 
overture to our day’s sport, and if they failed 
to capture them, we were discouraged. 
