Renewal

After the long winter we had, it has been refreshing to check off the boxes of another spring season. The first striped bass of the year is always a notable fish. For me, this came in mid-April along a sandy beach, at high tide, before getting chased off the water by lightning. The fish ate a yellow wooden darter made by my friend Jim. He was next to me when I caught the striper, which was pretty damn cool.

Spring is also a favorite time to look for Native American artifacts. When I spent a day off arrowhead hunting in April, it was a bit early as the farm fields I visited had not been plowed yet. Fortunately, I was still able to find a small-stemmed projectile point made of quartz. It was evident that this point had been heavily reworked over time; a good reminder of how prudent these ancient tool-makers were. 

Another day this spring was spent in my kayak, on the same body of water that I was ice fishing just weeks before. A stiff wind made things challenging, but I found some lee behind land and worked my tail off for a 22-inch brown trout. I hooked another one that felt larger, but it came unbuttoned during the fight. It was the first time with my new electronics in the kayak—a gamechanger from what I was using previously, yet I still need to spend more time dialing it in just right. 

Best Laid Plans

"Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth." -Mike Tyson

It was the height of the fall run. A Friday in late October tailor-made for paid time off. The primary thing on my mind was false albacore. The goal of this trip was to catch my first of the season and, more importantly, my first ever from a kayak. By now, anglers had been getting their fill of little tunny locally for two months. I was not among them.

After losing the only albie I had hooked all season weeks earlier, I was eager to settle the score. Getting one in a kayak would wash away that feeling and more, but I had to put myself in a spot with high probability and that meant heading an hour east. Also in tow were blackfish gear and a bucketful of crabs. My thinking was to check-off the main target then pivot to tuatog. 

It sounded good on paper. 

I had fished the area before from shore, but not much by boat and never in my Hobie. Between advice from a friend and studying the Navionics app, I pieced together what seemed like a solid game plan. The sunrise was gorgeous and conditions were tranquil, at least to start. After pedaling out to where the cove opened up to Long Island Sound, I spotted the first telltale feed, a little tunny porpoising like a half-moon through the surface of the water. They were around and eating. What could go wrong? 

Well, anyone who has spent time targeting albies knows that some days it seems easy and other days they make you want to pull your hair out. It was definitely the latter on this outing. They were in sparse pods and popping up only intermittently. There were times they'd be on top and within range long enough for one cast, but no sustained feeds where you get multiple shots. It was challenging to dial in a pattern and they were eating microscopic bait that I couldn't identify. To round out my excuses, the flat calm conditions were ideal for spotting these fish, not catching them.

In the hours spent chasing, dozens of boaters motored by en route to their favorite rock piles. I eventually conceded and joined them, hoping to salvage the trip with a blackish limit. The conditions were evolving though: the tide flipped; the wind picked up; a chop developed. Anchoring in a safe manner proved difficult and pedaling against the current to stay planted above structure wasn't easy either. The scenario was perfect for spot-lock technology that I didn't have. Despite jigging up a handful of tog, none were close to keeper size and the expedition was starting to look like a bust. 

I had a hard stop in order to get back home in time for school dismissal. During the long pedal toward the launch, I scanned the area of the day's first albie sighting. Deteriorated conditions established a renewed confidence if I could only get within range one more time. As if the Fish Gods were throwing me a bone in the 11th hour, a small platoon of albies slashed on top about 20 yards off my bow. A few cranks of the reel handle after a well-placed cast and the line came tight. YAHTZEE!

A bundle of frustration and second guessing evaporated in that hookset. Battling a not-so-little tunny from a kayak was everything I expected and then some. Being low to the water and that close to the action was an awesome feeling. The fish made a few memorable runs and had me reaching the rod tip beyond the bow because it was changing directions so much. Throughout the fight, it was pure adrenaline. When it hit the net, it was immense relief. A really cool moment for me that almost didn't happen, but I'm sure glad it did. 

Just like I planned it. 

Thankful to get the hook-up and fight on film. 

Year of the Yak

The year of our lord 2021 was a game-changer thanks to a kayak that willed its way to me. Investing in a proper platform for outings on Long Island Sound and beyond had been on my mind for years. Things accelerated last March in the classifieds section of a Connecticut fishing forum. For sale was a second-hand Hobie Mirage Revolution 13 in good condition with a mess of accessories going for a very fair price.

Contacting the seller set off a chain of events and a roller coaster of emotions. As luck would have it another angler inquired just before I did. The seller honored this order while assuring me the other guy wasn’t a serious buyer. Daydreams of pedaling through epic blitzes were dashed when a text, apologetic in tone, explained that the buyer was serious after all and—poof—the Hobie was gone. It was business and life went on.

Two weeks later I found myself on that forum again with a blinking icon on the screen. Low and behold it was a message from the fella who beat me out for the kayak. He had realized that his back wasn't cut out for hauling around the heavy Hobie and wanted a center console instead. An interesting development, but by then the news was almost a week old and the kayak had been listed for sale again. Here’s the kicker, a new buyer was supposed to pick it up at the guy’s house yet never showed. By this point the Fish Gods had made their intentions clear—this kayak was meant to be mine. I sent a deposit to hold it and a few days later drove it home in the slow lane on 95 like there was a newborn in my truck.

One of the best parts about this new chapter is all the learning that comes along with it. While I made some memorable one-off trips in the past—Costa Rican roosterfish remains one of the coolest experiences of my life—I never put in enough time to get truly dialed-in on a kayak. The technology has come a long way since and this would be my first time using a yak with pedals and a rudder. A rookie season of trial and error lay ahead of me and I was stoked to reinvigorate my passion for angling by introducing new tools and techniques.

The first expeditions were family beach days where I brought the Hobie along to get my bearings. After ferrying my daughters around and making drifts for fluke (and catching mostly sea robins), I confirmed what I already knew—the MirageDrive is outstanding. The pedal-system really gets the kayak moving at a good clip and fingertip steering with the rudder control is a breeze. I also accepted that it’s going to take some getting used to how wind, tide, current, and pedaling influence my drifts.  

By the time the fall run kicked into high gear locally, things were clicking a little more on the yak. On a sunrise mission in September, I made a short peddle to a submerged boulder field that boaters often blow right by. It is ideal surfcasting habitat, yet the land around it is private and a pain to reach legally. The kayak solves that issue and for the first hour of daylight, each drift passed the point resulted in a hook up. Stripers and blues were fighting over my spook, sometimes slapping it a few feet in the air. That morning was further validation that the Hobie will be key for accessing spots that seem to be dwindling by the year.

Arguably my most gratifying kayak experience in 2021 didn’t involve a rod and reel. My friend Greg kindly invited me on an excursion to a salt pond for an afternoon of clamming and looking for Native American artifacts. We crossed the pond to a stretch of shore that has produced a number of ancient stone tools for Greg over the past few years. It was awesome exploring a beautiful and bountiful place that indigenous peoples had hunted and gathered for millennia. There must have been a horseshoe up my arse because my first time there I found a gorgeous quartz projectile point, nearly intact except for a missing ear on the base.

Later we anchored in knee-deep water over a patch of silt and sand that is home to quahogs—a species of shellfish that has drawn humans to salt ponds like this since the ice sheets retreated. Using steel rakes with wire baskets, we worked the bottom and occasionally heard or felt one of the hard-shelled bivalves knock against the teeth of our rakes. A dozen or so perfect specimens made their way home with me and were cooked on the grill that night. The kayak turns out to be an ideal mode of travel to reach clam beds and arrowhead spots and my hope is that these types of trips will only increase in frequency.

The last tour of 2021 came in November and had me in a wetsuit because of colder water temperatures. Hellbent on catching my first keeper-sized tautog from a kayak, I focused on jigging with Asian crabs over rocky structure in about 10-15 feet of water. After realizing I need more practice in the anchoring department, I moved on to peddling against the current in an attempt to stay on top of the desired spot. Situations like this are why spot-lock technology is so highly coveted. It was not optimal, but I managed to land a pile of shorts before finally putting an old bulldog on my lap.

With birds wheeling in the distance, I gave up on any shot of a limit and released the blackfish. For the next hour I peddled after a body of fish that would surface briefly, go down and then pop up again a football field away. The water clarity was crystal clear and I witnessed multiple stripers following each retrieve of the lure. Not giant fish, but it was a gas and my legs were burning from all the chasing. A memorable way to close out the inaugural season. 

At nearly 14-feet and 90-pounds fully rigged, the Hobie is a beast that takes some effort to get loaded and launched. Outings require a little planning ahead and a decent window of time to make the exertion worthwhile. Though I didn’t get out as much as I wanted this year, it’s a long-term investment and built to last. I plan to add a few creature comforts in the offseason, specifically setting up a fish finder. The kayak came with a couple older model Humminbirds that will do the trick until I upgrade down the road. Something to tinker with until we get ice strong enough to fish on. All in all, I’m pretty jazzed up on this kayak thing and look forward to the journeys ahead.