CHARLEY SOARES: Making the best of less-than-ideal conditions

There was no other place quite like that in the entire world, a purely personal opinion, yet one I’d been acutely aware of since my very first visit to this deified location. I did not arrive at that conclusion because someone suggested it to me, or it was something that I read. It was because it was there that I’d experienced the indescribable sense of peace where this last finger of land in Rhode Island, juts into and disappears into the sea.

I’ve been blessed to have shared many a pre-dawn hour in some very special places under remarkable circumstances, yet none could compare with this time, in the sanctuary of Sakonnet Harbor before the final clutch of darkness reluctantly gives way to the first slivers of light; a modest glow soon to be shrouded in the cloak of the impending storm.

Each time I found myself in these situations, it felt as though I was stepping back in time to a moment when men set out to sea, not for sport or to challenge stripers with lures or baits, but to hunt for food to feed their families and barter for life’s necessities. Despite the inner urgency to push the boat of the beach and be away before someone else arrived to fracture the peace, I held onto the moment. Attached to the sand and sniffing, I was sifting the scent of fresh ocean waters diffused with the rank odor of decaying lobster bait amid the cries of opportunistic gulls moving off the islands in search of their predawn breakfast.

Sakonnet can be a lonely place if you require company but the isolation is only noticeable if I ignore the gulls and shore birds along with the sounds of ocean swells washing up and breaking over boulders polished over ages of wear and, most importunately, the promise of connecting with that special fish I have been hunting all of my adult life. The forecast was for light winds and two-foot seas until the front arrived at some arbitrary time around mid-morning. This venture was not so much about tempting fate as it was a calculated risk.

Although the weather reports were calling for a northeasterly blow with heavy rains and big swells, my boat was quick and agile enough to get me out of harms way if the storm arrived ahead of schedule. My plan was to be on the water a few hours before the weather broke. However, I’m also well aware that timing a storm was akin to betting on a fixed horse race. While I might guess correctly on occasion, I’d be lucky to predict that window of opportunity more than 20 percent of the time. Many a morning I’ve arrived at this deserted harbor to find the flag ripping in the stiff breeze and the clanging of the Schuyler ledge bell buoy mocking me as wind and high seas assaulted that big red navigation marker.

That morning it seemed like all the pieces were falling together for at least a few hours of pre-storm fishing. Over decades of fishing I have found that impending storms cause fish, as well as animals to feed more aggressively in anticipation that the storm will disturb their normal feeding habits. If you watch squirrels and birds at your feeders the afternoon before a predicted storm you will notice much more activity with the birds and animals feeding frantically well into darkness. That morning was notable not for my immediate success but for the rapid change in the weather. After not so much as a sniff at my first stop I noticed the tell-tale sign of a chill breeze beginning to cool my left cheek as a chop was beginning to build. I hooked a barely legal striper on my first cast at the second location and by the time I had it near enough to gaff I was taking spray over the port rail as the wind really began to crank as the approaching squall pushed through with a vengeance.

Even with the prospect that there might be a few more fish holding there, I turned tail and headed closer to the shore to take advantage of the lee it provided. By the time I broke through the lighthouse into the Sakonnet River, the sky had turned black with the wind tearing at my slicker and salt spray breaking against my weather rail I tucked into Lloyds Beach until I reached the lee of the breakwater.

Beaching the boat was an adventure (the Sakonnet ramp had never had a dock or landing of any sort) getting a boat on and off a trailer here was a test of man against nature. I had to set the forward anchor in the sand to prevent the boat from coming broadside and hanging up on the dropping tide. All the more sensible fishermen had heeded the marine weather report and remained at home so what was usually a difficult solo launch and retrieve became a much more dangerous operation. With the trailer backed down and winch cable ready, I had to push the boat off the beach then direct and restrain it until the wind pushed is near enough to the trailer to pull it up on the rear roller rack.

The combination of a brief pause in the gusts and a lucky shove allowed me to lock the bow in before tying the towing line to the winch-stand cleat. Once secured, I climbed the walk board to attach the winch cable where I exhaled a sigh of relief. It was damp and chilly but the stress and anxiety of that episode left me in a drenching sweat. The electric winch hauled the boat up on the trailer and once secured my next priority was to drive to the Commons Lunch where I was looking forward to one of my favorite breakfasts - Johnny cakes, eggs and bacon.

The wind was gusting as I turned into the Post Office driveway to get to my boat parking spot located behind the Commons Lunch and Simmons General store. I removed the fish from the ice in the cooler and filleted it on the cutting board atop the big Igloo cooler. There would be two fillets, one for Pat Borden and Sherry and none for Candy who had long ago made her preference known. When it came to fish the only type, she would consider eating was fish sticks. With a hearty breakfast, two cups of steaming coffee, and enjoyable conversations with friends I was back on the road, driving through the historic Commons when the rains came.

The trip down Route 77 was dicey with windshield wipers on high and barely keeping up with the driving rain. There were two ways to look back on my decision to go fishing that morning. I could dwell on missing the window of opportunity and the difficulty at the ramp or be thankful for getting out on the water, catching a striper I shared with friends and enjoying a great breakfast. As the caretaker would say, “sure beats a sharp stick in the eye.”