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Knowing when to get out of the water

Posted 9/27/16

I've always had a fascination with fish. It's not that I like eating them, because I don't. Rather, my interest is in the variety of species, habitats, and their role in the ecosystem. Some of them do amazing things, as I learned when I had an aquarium

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This Side Up

Knowing when to get out of the water

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I’ve always had a fascination with fish. It’s not that I like eating them, because I don’t. Rather, my interest is in the variety of species, habitats, and their role in the ecosystem. Some of them do amazing things, as I learned when I had an aquarium as a kid. I was intrigued by gourami and their long feelers [what twist in the evolutionary process produced them?], guppies that deliver live born instead of laying eggs, Siamese fighting fish that build bubble nests on the surface, which the male fiercely protects, and then the Archer Fish that is native to streams in Asia.

“Archie,” as he was named, had his own tank. He was about three inches long and shaped like an arrowhead. He wore yellow and black stripes, and as his name implies he has a unique means of bringing down his prey. He spat them down with a carefully directed stream of water.

I fitted a screen over the top of the tank and then would go on a search for insects. Flies were great, but Archie liked small spiders and beetles, too. He knew the routine. As soon as I opened the screen, he’d come to the surface, his round black eyes searching to see what treat I was going to deliver. Usually he’d bring down his dinner in a single shot, but occasionally his target proved elusive and he’d be firing like a squirt gun gone berserk. I can only imagine what his native habitat must have looked like during a hatch. Instead of swirls and jumping as trout do, the water’s surfaces must be a series of mini geysers, which gets me to my experience of last Thursday night.

The bay is full of bunker, young menhaden about the size of Archie. There are giant schools of them, moving like streams in the shallows just off shore. They are feeding off phytoplankton and zooplankton and, as you might imagine, all of this activity attracts birds and fish that feed off the menhaden. Terns and gulls are on the watch for fish driven to the surface while bluefish attack from beneath. The result can be a frantic scene with birds crying and diving and blues splashing, their black backs breaking from the surface as they gorge themselves.

One summer, it’s probably 10 years ago, big blues in the range of 10 pounds were in such a frenzy that they drove the bunker onto the beach and were flopping in the shallows themselves. It was a scene out of “Jaws” on a smaller scale. It was not the time to be wading or swimming.

Yet on Thursday, I found myself in such a situation.

Jumping into the bay is not a pastime, but with the last of the season’s sailing races this past weekend, I decided to give it my best effort, which meant cleaning the bottom of the boat. I’ve found a rising tide to be good when I can power the boat toward the beach until it “kisses” the sand and I can jump off, stand up, and clean the bottom with a sponge.

Crewmate John Cavanagh and I powered the boat toward shore until it came to a stop, donned masks, and jumped overboard. I was intent on cleaning when I heard the reverberations of an outboard under water and surfaced to see three fishermen, rods at the ready, standing in an open boat just yards away. They appeared mystified by what we were doing.

“Just cleaning the bottom,” I yelled. They waved and powered off and I went back to work.

And then the thought occurred to me. They must have been following the blues.

I scanned the surface and there were like an advancing army, birds diving from above like fighter planes and thrashing blues. They were headed our way. The rhythmic beat of the “Jaws” soundtrack played in my mind. There were score of snapping jaws out there.

That was enough for me.

“Let’s get out of the water,” I yelled to John.

We stood on the deck in awe, as we were enveloped into the chaos with the slapping of fish and the yells of diving terns.

John and I have been friends for a long time, but Thursday was the closest we’ve come to being “chums.”

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