Article by Capt. Franky Pettolina
The outgoing tide was just beginning. Still waters of the bay were awakening. I was standing on the southern pier at the White Marlin Marina, my cast net in a bucket and my favorite rod soaking a shiner under a cork near the old broken piling by the Blue Bayou restaurant. It was late August and soon my summer at the beach would be over and I would be returning to Saint Matthew’s Regional School in Verga, New Jersey, for the start of 6th grade. Summers were going by too quickly even back then.
My favorite fish to catch from the pier, snapper blues, just weren’t cooperating. My friend Robby was working as the mate on the “Last Call” that summer (I was still in training then, if you could call it that. I wasn’t any good with a chamois and I definitely was not what you would call “coachable” yet.) He had just finished cleaning the boat from the day of charter fishing and was walking down the pier to see what his “helper” was up to. Robby was, and still is, a few years older than me so our friendship was a little forced by circumstance, but no matter how you sliced it we both loved to fish. He took my rod from my hand and went through an overly dramatized skit of hooking a white marlin, complete with an exaggerated hook set and yelling of “Got Him On!!!” All this accomplished was snatching my float up in to the pier and my shiner falling off of the hook. I was not amused.
While I was trying to untangle my rig from the boards on the pier, Robby went over to the bucket and took my cast net out. As he was doing this our other friends, Blaine and Skipper, arrived, both wondering what kind of trouble we were getting into. Skipper was my age. Blaine a few years younger. I guess he was probably seven or so. The end of August at the start of the outgoing tide, four boys between the ages of seven and thirteen, a cast net and a bucket. How much trouble could we get into?
Skipper saw the birds first. Gulls and Sooty Terns starting to bunch up by the Kelly Drawbridge. He pointed them out to all of us. Over the next few minutes the birds seemed to multiply to Hitchcock-esque proportions. In addition to the gulls and terns, cormorants were joining in and the whole scene was moving in our direction. The closer the diving birds came to our pier the easier it was for our young eyes (even mine that had already started on the path to the powerful prescription contacts I wear now) to pick out the bait fish splashing under them. Robby figured out they were bunker and proceeded to prepare my cast net for when the school was close enough to attempt to throw on.
My cast net experience at that time was limited to catching spot from the pier and mullet and shiners at the sandbar on the north side of the Kelly Drawbridge. Filling a five-gallon bucket with bait had never crossed my mind. I had never caught more than I was able to use. That was all about to change.
On his first throw Robby started yelling, “Look at this! Look at this! They are swimming the net up!” And sure enough my little four-foot net wasn’t sinking like I was used to. It had hit the water and was actually rising. When Skipper and Robby hauled the net up on to the pier and called for me to bring the bucket I was dumbfounded. The net had never been so full. One toss almost filled the five-gallon bucket. We were all ecstatic!
Robby appointed himself leader and started giving us orders. Blaine and I were sent to get the cooler off of the “Last Call” and Skipper was to round up as many five-gallon pails as he could. We were going to make a fortune selling these bunker to the local tackle shops for shark chum. Ecstatic then became an understatement. The idea that we could make money selling fish we caught had never occurred to us before.
Over the next hour we took turns throwing the net and sorting our catch. The school of bunker seemed endless. By the time the sun was setting and Robby’s Dad showed up to get him we had amassed a mountain of menhaden. I think the final tally was a full 120 quart Igloo cooler, five trash bags and three five-gallon buckets. Robby had to leave. Blaine was late for supper. Skipper and I were pretty sure that our parents would be sending out a search party soon as well, so we decided to store our catch under the steps at the base of the pier. We all agreed to meet back in the morning to figure out how to market our shark chum to the tackle shops.
Sunday morning came and went. Robby and Skipper never came back. Blaine came by on his bike and wanted me to go to the boardwalk with him. I thought that was a good idea. We could deal with the fish after lunch.
I am not sure how closely you have been paying attention to the details of this Fish Story up until now, but I will point out that in all of our youthful enthusiasm for this newfound fishing fortune one item was never mentioned. Ice. Even though it was the end of August, it was still rather warm. Bunkers are kind of smelly and slimy when they are kept under proper conditions. Well, after eighteen or so hours of improper care, smelly and slimy are not adequate adjectives. Foul and funky. Rank and rotten. Yup. Those are much more suitable.
By the time that Blaine and I returned from the boardwalk the rest of the marina had taken to investigating the source of the stench that was ruining their Sunday. Blaine’s Dad and my Dad were able to piece together at least some of the culprits by looking at our clothes from the night before and the lack of buckets and a cooler in the cockpit of the “Last Call”. For the next couple of hours, Blaine and I were tasked with dumping our no longer prized catch off of the pier, cleaning the mess we left on the pier and cleaning the mess we made in our buckets and cooler. The ironic thing was that the tide was moving out when we dumped our catch back into the bay and the birds didn’t seem to mind the lack of ice. But Blaine and I learned an early life lesson.
We had never seen fishing like we had the night before. There were so many bunker and we were able to catch them so easily. We were so excited that we COULD catch that many of them that we never really stopped to think if we SHOULD catch that many of them. Older me will give younger me and the rest of the crew a little bit of a pass because we really thought we had a use for that much menhaden. Our intentions were good. Then again, what is it they say about the road to hell? What is it paved with?
I am not one to get on a conservation soapbox very often. Sure I advocate the good stewardship of a resource and the responsible harvest of any fish, but I do not blast the guy that boats a billfish that was not caught during a tournament. I don’t mind when a big fish of any species is weighed in or when someone brings their first white marlin back to the dock for a picture and a trip to the smoker. Over the course of my career Lord knows I have killed my share of sea creatures. Right now though I am going to take a small trip up to the top of the soapbox.
A group of guys boating a limit of yellowfin tuna and a couple of bigeyes will probably never wipe out an entire population. Bailing a limit of mahi will probably never wipe out an entire population. Harvesting a swordfish or two every trip out will probably never wipe out an entire population. Limits of sea bass and tilefish will probably never wipe out a population. Four kids throwing a cast net at a school of bunker will probably never wipe out an entire population.
I call BULL. We as recreational fishermen need to take a long look in the mirror. There are more of us than there ever have been in history. When the weather is good the fishing grounds are crowded. I don’t care if it is the first Saturday of July or the last Thursday of November, it is crowded. Our techniques and technology are far superior to anything in fishing history. We have satellites telling us where to go and electronic aids that will darn near tell us how many scales are on a fish in six hundred feet of water. With a few exceptions (mako sharks and bluefin tuna come to mind) the limits set forth by NMFS/NOAA are too relaxed in my opinion. We are killing too many yellowfin tuna, bigeye tuna, mahi, bottom critters and swords. We need to be more responsible. We are all guilty of it at one time or another. We have all sent our friends running down the dock to get another bucket to put the bunker in, so to speak.
OK. I will exit the soapbox now. My words above are not directed at any one boat or captain. Note that I said “We”. I have been guilty of it plenty of times myself. But if you stopped for even a second and thought, “is that tubby goof talking about me?” Maybe you need to think about what goes into your kill box. Years from now you will feel better for it. Believe me.
Enjoy the winter months my friends. Hopefully you go somewhere cool and catch some neat stuff. I would love to hear about it! Be safe and be nice to one another. See ya in the spring!
Capt Franky Pettolina is Co-Captain of the charter boat, “Last Call” which is docked at the Ocean City Fishing Center, owner of Pettolina Marine Surveying, Inc. and multi-term President of the Ocean City Marlin Club. If you would like to book a charter on the “Last Call”, please call 443-783-3699 or 410-251-0575.
