Canal Crusing

Canal Crusing

Beep, beep, and beep beep! The alarm clock informed me it was time to get out of bed. I had been awake for at least a half-hour in anticipation of today’s fishing trip. Fishing is the most fun you can have with your clothes on. The alarm indicated that it was five am. I had an hour to get to my brother, John’s house to meet John, Paul, my brother and Steve, my cousin for the ultimate day of fishing.
I grabbed a quick shower, a quicker cup of tea and ran out the door with a cooler full of sandwiches and goodies for the day on the water. I tossed the cooler in the trunk of my 67 chevelle, Malibu, and was on my way. The Malibu was an oldie but a goodie. It had a rebuilt six banger for an engine, Michelin radial tires, am, fm cassette stereo, a clean interior and a fair body. She needed a little cosmetic surgery, but she was a strong runner. The drive to John’s house was short and sweet. It only took about five minutes. Of course, I was early as always. My brother John calls me a Bing. This means I can jump out of bed early and I’m raring to go.
Being early, I had to rouse John. After a few knocks on the back door, John answered, still in his robe and slippers, obviously he’d just rolled out of the sack.
“Good morning, you are early as usual. I’ve got to hit the shower, start some coffee,” John mumbled as he headed for the bathroom.
I found the fixings and started a pot of coffee. By the time the coffee had brewed, John was showered, shaved and dressed. He might be a slow riser but he’s a quick mover once he’s up.
Six am came and went with no signs of Paul and Steve.
John said, “They are probably both home in bed sleeping off last night’s case of beer.”
“I hope they saved some for today. Paul is supplying today’s beer,” I whined.
Six fifteen rolled around and Paul’s old Ford pinto, affectionately known as the jizzmobile, rolled into John’s driveway. The occupants rolled out and snatched a cooler full of beer from the trunk handling it with the care a new mother would treat her infant.
“Let’s get the stuff loaded in Don’s car and get going.” demanded John.
Shortly, the crew, the beer and the food cruised along in my chevelle and on the road to Onset. The Extravagance, a twenty-six foot Bayliner waited at Jones Marina in Onset for a day of bluefishing. The ride down was quiet and uneventful. Paul and Steve crashed out in the back seat nursing their respective hangovers.
The chevelle is a strong runner but, rarely achieves speeds in excess of the posted limits. To say I am a cautious driver is an understatement. John compares my driving to that of an old lady. This makes me an excellent choice for designated driver. My inconspicuous junk box and my prudent driving skills usually go unnoticed by the authorities.
We arrived in Onset at around 7:30 that summer morning.
John barked,” Let’s get loaded and get under way we’ve already got a late start.”
Paul boarded the Extravagance clutching the cooler of beer. He placed the cooler down on the deck, opened it, grabbed a cold one and exclaimed, “Breakfast is served.”
Steve boarded next. He joined Paul in the beer for breakfast treat. John and I boarded, but declined the breakfast menu
The gear and beer were stowed away and the crew and craft were on their way. The planned fishing spot was out in Cape Cod Bay, but Onset is located at the opposite end of the canal.
John took the helm as usual. He rarely relinquished this task to others. When he did, a block of instruction was required before the trusted, well-qualified stand in could take the controls. John was an experienced and safe boater. He did things the right way on the water and those who boated with him could be confident that he knew his boat and how to handle it in any given situation.
We reached Cape Cod Bay, John set up poles for Steve, Paul and me, and gave each a quick lesson on handling the gear and pulling in a bluefish. We trolled with lures for bait. Our quarry was the infamous salt water piranha, bluefish. They travel in schools and have been know to frenzy feed, chasing their prey into shallow waters leaving a trail of blood
John monitored the fish finder and followed a course that paralleled the coastline. After a short time, John spotted action on the fish finder.
“Get ready,” he hollered.
Simultaneously, Steve and Paul’s lines jerked.
“Pull and set the hooks,” John instructed. They both did as they were told.
“Now start reeling in; don’t give them any line to run with,” came John’s next instruction.
Just then my line jerked and I jerked it and reeled in as per the previous instructions. All three of us reeled and fought the fish.
Meanwhile; John stopped the boat and let it idle. He came down onto the deck to assist with the catches. The lines were out at least a hundred feet. Reeling them in was a tiring chore, especially with a seven or eight-pound bluefish fighting for life attached to the other end.
Steve got tired and frustrated. He preferred chugging down his beer to this aggravation. His line tangled up in his reel, the fish was gone and he had a huge mess to unravel.
Paul had better luck; he got his fish to the side of the boat.
“Keep him over the side until I get the net,” barked John.
In Paul’s excitement and impatience he didn’t hear John’s words. He jerked the pole back and pulled the fish out of the water onto the deck. The fish slammed onto the deck and dislodged from the hook.
Meanwhile, Steve spotted the fish coming over the rail heading right for his face. He backed off, tripped over the cooler and fell onto the deck beside the fish. It flopped vigorously and snapped its jaws, displaying its three sets of teeth.
John grabbed a gaff and a glove, subdued the blue and tossed it into the fish well.
I was still reeling my catch in. I managed to keep it on the line during all the commotion. This retrieval went a little smoother. John snared it with the net before I brought it over the side. It found its way into the fish well without incident.
Steve tired of unraveling the mess on his reel. He decided to quit fishing and concentrate on beer drinking. Paul and I continued fishing and got a couple more hits apiece. Then the fish disappeared. We went over an hour without as much as a single blip on the fish finder.
Beer flowed, music played and the conversation got lively. Steve and Paul related stories of great carpentry achievements in the union together. Their achievements of course, everyone else was hacks and amateurs.
John mentioned, “Sharks have been sighted in these waters lately. The warm Gulf Stream waters have brought them in.”
Steve had attended Mass Maritime Academy and knew the area waters; the Maritime Academy is located on the Cape Cod Canal. He said, “We fished for shark off of the training ship when I was at the academy.”
We decided to try and locate some sharks. Sharks are known to sense blood in the water. So we sacrificed a couple of the blues from our catch. John cut them up ensuring that the blood went in the water along with the cutup fish. This is known as chumming. It was all kind of a joke. Just something to do since the bluefishing was dead.
John circled the Extravagance around the area where the chum had been thrown in the water.
After a short while, Steve said, “There’s something coming across the top of the water.” He pointed but kept looking through the binoculars.
We looked where he was pointing but couldn’t see anything. John swung the boat around and headed for the spot. As the boat got closer we saw what Steve had seen, a large dorsal fin skimming across the top of the water.
“Judging by the size of the fin, it’s a good-sized shark, much larger than the local sandsharks or dogfish normally found in these waters,” John said.
It moved fairly slowly and John followed it for a few minutes, until it went under. I had a camera and took a couple of shots of it, but they didn’t come out. The sun was too bright on the water to see anything clearly.
It was getting late, the fishing had dwindled to nothing and the beer was soon to follow. It was time to head back in. The Extravagance made her way slowly and smoothly back through the canal. The rules of the water in the canal are red right return and the speed a slow ten miles per hour. These rules apply to all craft small or large. The canal being about ten miles long, it can take over an hour to get through it.
John had the helm. I had the camera out and snapped a couple of pictures of the Bourne and Sagamore bridges as we approached them. I thought of my grandfather working on the construction of those bridges many years before.
Steve wanted to do some more fishing as the Extravagance inched it way back through the canal. This is prohibited and John let Steve know so. Of course Steve was well aware of the fact, having attended the Maritime Academy. This didn’t bother him. Steve was always one to stretch the rules a little or a lot.
“Just be on the lookout for the Coast Guard patrol boat. They occasionally cruise the canal,” exclaimed Steve.
Steve and Paul put lines out and left their rods in the pole holders mounted on the rear gunwales. John spotted a large barge coming the opposite way out of the canal, traveling directly down the middle of the canal being pushed by a tugboat. He assumed it would move over when he approached, and continued along the right side of the canal. As the two boats got closer the barge didn’t budge from its course. John had to make a move or the Extravagance would end up on the rocks on the side of the canal.
“Get those lines in quickly,” screamed John.
Steve and Paul scrambled, grabbed the poles and reeled faster than they had moved all day. In a desperate maneuver, John revved up the motor and swung the Extravagance in front of the oncoming barge, skimmed around the right side of it and came back behind it. Luckily, no other boats were following close behind the barge.
We screamed obscenities at the pilot of the tug as it passed beside us. The pilot ignored us. He kept moving along down the center of the canal oblivious to the world around him.
We docked in Onset without further incidents, cleaned the fish and the boat and piled into my chevelle for the trek home.
No family outing was complete without a little pot, this day was no exception. After getting in the car, Steve said, “Let’s roll a bone.”
“We don’t have any papers and John’s pipe is back on the boat,” replied Paul.
“Let’s stop at the 7-11 and get some. We can pick up some cigarettes and some munchies while we are there,” said Steve.
I stopped at the 7-11 as instructed. Paul went into the store, returned shortly with the bag of goodies and the required rolling papers.
After waiting a while for a break in the heavy traffic, I pulled the chevelle into the flow of traffic. Just as the chevelle got into the traffic a State Police Cruiser passed us going in the opposite direction. The trooper got an eyeful as Paul, Steve and John all had open beers, and a joint was making the rounds.
Not long after leaving the 7-11, John spotted the State Police Cruiser following the chevelle. He shouted out the warning, “Ditch the joint and the beers.”
Steve tossed the joint out the window. The cruiser flashed his blue lights and I pulled over. The cruiser pulled over a good distance behind us in the vicinity of where the joint had been tossed. The Statie (State Police Officer) searched for the evidence for about ten minutes. Luckily his efforts were futile.
Meanwhile the cover-up unraveled in the chevelle. John, Paul and Steve lit cigarettes filling the car with smoke to mask the smell of pot. It was decided to confess to the beer consumption, since the evidence was obvious and not easily disposed of. I was sober, had stopped drinking a few hours before, the well-behaved designated driver. I rarely joined in when the joints were making their rounds. This time I had abstained.
Finally, the Statie came up to the chevelle. He said, “License and registration.”
I complied.
He asked, “Did you guys throw something out of the car?”
Steve volunteered, “I tossed a cigarette.”
The Statie said, “Everybody get out of the vehicle.” He searched the interior of the car and found no pot.
Frustrated, the Statie decided to let this one ride, “You can go guys, save the beers until you get home.”
“Yes sir, thank you sir,” I said.
Back on the highway, the Statie followed us for about a mile then sped on by. We laughed and joked during the ride home. Feeling a little relieved, lucky and confident, we vowed to do it again real soon.