![]() That year, I won a Schaefer trophy for the largest bluefish taken in our club’s contest – with a 4-pound chopper. That day marked the beginning of one of the greatest recoveries of any species I have ever fished for, though it has been either feast or famine. I then used my belt knife to rip the tissue under the apex of its gills to bleed it out before putting it on ice. I threw my hand towel over it and lifted it up by the tail to avoid the swinging plug and sharp teeth. I had decades of experience with every native and migratory species that routinely visited our waters, but I had never seen anything jump, flip, and spew more blood than that little bluefish did. The single-hook bucktail had a firm purchase in the corner of its mouth, and after several more leaps and runs at the boat, the blue came alongside, and I lifted it into the cockpit. At the set, the fish leaped from the water and violently shook its head. I cast into a reef spilling white water and responded to a vicious strike. There were several school stripers up to 8-pounds in the box that had been fooled by Atom Striper Swipers. Ten years later, on a sultry July morning in 1963, I was carefully negotiating the Sakonnet boulder fields with my friend, Paul Capone, aboard. That was the night I saw my first live bluefish, though I didn’t get to see one flipping on deck during that trip. I was no match for those acrobatic fish and knew exactly what would happen to me after the way they castigated Harold. “Give the kid one of those darn lines and see if he can change our luck,” ordered the caretaker, but I deferred to the adults. Two more men hooked fish with similar results before we got one to the boat, but upon lifting it, the hook tore out of its mouth and it fell back into the water. An incredulous Harold took a merciless razzing. Harold hauled, but not fast enough as the fish swam toward the boat, created slack in the line, jumped, and spit the hook. He reared back on the line and I saw my first bluefish go airborne. No sooner had both lines been dropped 75 yards astern when Harold let out a whoop. Many people attribute the disappearance of bluefish to a cyclical population pattern. ![]() After this scenario repeated itself, the old man ordered the lines left in the water and we started trolling. By the time we got there, the fish had sounded and showed up in almost exactly the place we had just vacated. The old man told Tommy to get a pair of handlines ready as he pushed the old barge as fast as she could go in the direction of the action. ![]() “Fish breaking along the Portsmouth shore, right in front of the nun’s summer retreat.” Sure enough, I turned and saw terns and gulls circling and diving into a melee created by the feeding fish. Your lobsterman friend got you to bite on a rumor, hook, line and sinker.” Just as the caretaker was about to issue a fiery retort, Tommy gave a shout. After 20 minutes of riding around without a sighting, George, ever jealous of the old man’s popularity, couldn’t resist giving him a jab. We were afraid that with news of bluefish in the area, there might be too many boats around, but there was not a single hull in sight. With one New Jersey-manufactured tin dressed with a single bucktail hook and two illegitimate lead copies, the caretaker, several friends, and I sailed from the boathouse out of the river and under the span of the Mount Hope Bridge into lower Narragansett Bay. [Submit your fish photos using the Instagram hashtag #OnTheWaterMagazine, or email them to was to learn firsthand that most of those tall tales were true – a 5-pound blue fought harder and was more difficult to land than a 10-pound striper. They had a reputation for jumping, cutting lines, and being too speedy for the conventional tackle and handlines of the day. Blues were described as vicious predators that killed for sheer pleasure, and once full, they regurgitated their stomach contents and commenced killing all over again. One old-timer, who actually lost the tip of his right index finger in a milling machine claimed it was a big bluefish that jumped up from the deck and bit it off. Bluefish! Although I had heard stories about razor-toothed chopping machines, I had never seen a live one, never mind attempted to catch one. The boathouse caretaker was up for an adventure that caused my heart to skip a beat.
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