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A steady east wind rustled my sweater as I waded into the choppy, muddy waters of a western Long Island Sound bay. It was early June, and I was late. The squeteague had been in for weeks already and I was behind the curve. Weakfish, squeteague, tide runners... the only regular visitor to these waters of the Cynoscion genus, enter estuaries to spawn in the spring in numbers much diminished from their historical highs. A good eating fish, anglers still routinely harvest weakfish. It should not be legal to do so, these fish are in worse shape than striped bass. I seek them for other reasons. The few times I've been so privileged to be in the presence of a weakfish, I was stunned by their beauty. And, like many of the most beautiful things, they don't come easy. I love a challenge.
So there I stood on a chilly evening in the wind, having horseshoe crabs try to mate with my wading boots, waiting for something magical.

Unlike most times I've made this pilgrimage, that magical moment came to be. In the waning light at the tip of a curling bar, I came tight at the end of a long cast. The fish was fighting uniquely, and even though it jumped and showed his trademark characteristics my mind wanted to believe I'd hooked something else. But no, it was a weakfish after all. A quite small one, but only my second ever, and two years after my first. I couldn't be more pleased. That I'd caught this one by deciphering where a pile of them might hold in this bay on a very non-traditional tide was no small factor.





I thrive on variety, and to an extent New England's depleted saltwater fisheries deprive me of the chance. Winter flounder, cod, pollack, tomcod, and other species that were once so abundant here no longer add to the variety, and weakfish or even bluefish aren't as reliable as they once were. Each weakfish I catch stands as a lavender, chrome, yellow and blue glimmer of hope. They aren't gone yet, and if we stop killing them, and the habitats they require, maybe they'll still be around after I'm gone. I doubt it, but I do hope so. Though I doubt it and I think weakfish, like many other species I love, will be locally extirpated if not wholly extinct in my lifetime, I won't go down without a fight. Take me kicking, screaming, and biting if you have to... I'll fight all the way.

Don't kill weakfish anymore. It isn't right.


Until next time,

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Thanks for joining the adventure, and tight lines. 

A few days ago I hoped to cross paths with a weakfish again. Coincidentally, this was a night under the same moon that Dan and I skunked on last year in our first attempt. This time Dan wasn't with me, the moon was not so bloody, and I wasn't getting skunked.

There is a species of fish that, in this time of over harvesting and by-catch, only visits the Connecticut shoreline for a few weeks in the spring. If it weren't for a number of dedicated followers, it could come and go without being noticed. They pass through with little show, not slashing and tearing through bait like bluefish and albies or popping and blitzing like stripers. Their preferred feeding areas are limited. They are incredibly boat shy, leaving only paddlers with a chance to spot them on their electronics. Catching one by accident while fishing for stripers or bluefish is rare. But, for a short period of time, if you know where to look and how to fish, you stand a chance of encountering probably the most ghostly of the New England inshore species. Squeteague. Weakfish. Tide runners.

Last year, Dan and I missed them. Under the startling blood red full moon I've ever seen, we found no evidence that weakfish were in the area, and a little evidence that the had been recently but had gone. This year, we got to the stretch of sand we had chosen and found it not so lonely, which was a good sign. The number of spots with weakfish is limited. Even though there is a very finite number of anglers in the know, if you are on the water in the right spot at the right time. You are going to be in a line up.

We saw one sea robin caught. Then, just a short time in, after a little moving and wondering what we should be doing, Dan came tight. Soon, I tailed one of the most beautiful fish I had ever seen. It started drumming loudly as I walked it over to Dan.



A couple hours later, after learning an awful lot in a very short time window, I felt an ever so slight pressure. I sped up my retrieve and came tight to my first weakfish. Species #75. For me, this is a very special fish. It is a species I very much hope to encounter again in the coming days.