“What did I tell you about wrapping the line around your hand? Look at that bloody mess. Your mother is never going to let you go fishing with me again.” My hand was cut and bleeding, but the most painful part were the words that predicted the end of my fishing career.
I was fishing from the aft section of the big inboard power boat, using a drop line with two hooks each baited with a half of green crab. I was getting skinned more than I was catching so I was trying to conceal my ineptitude in the distant corner of the cockpit. Because I had helped trap the crabs and loaded their gear, the old timers considered my lack of production the advancement of my education. On that morning the average tog was between 14 and 18 inches with a few that went 6 pounds—an ideal size for filleting or bringing to market. Because of their relative abundance, and lacking the attractive lines and charisma of the striper, the tog wasn’t worth much on the wholesale market. Three cents a pound on a Sunday afternoon was the norm, and a nickel on Wednesday or Thursday when we Catholics were required to fast from eating meat on Fridays.
When it came to what species was more of a challenge to outwit and land the tog was number one. A wily tog could remove two green crabs from your hooks without so much as a tug unless they were in suicidal mode; in which case anyone could catch one. That was not the case on the day I wrapped the tarred line around my hand. Previous to that blunder I had hooked a fish with enough muscle to take me back into the chaos of the mussel bed we were anchored over. That fish ripped the rough, tarred line through my left hand leaving a painful welt. I reached down, took a new purchase and with two hands I was able to haul that fish up about 20 feet before it made another determined dive for the safety of its lair. That was when I panicked and took a few turns around the palm of my left hand. The error of my judgement was immediately apparent. Luckily the caretaker was keeping an eye on me, and when he noticed both my feet off the deck, and my midsection precariously bent over the wash rail, he came to my rescue. He reached down below my crushed palm and gave a mighty yank. The fish resisted then broke free. He pulled the rig up into the cockpit, looked at my hand and then proceeded to chastise me.
His anger didn’t last long as a grin began to form across his scared and whiskered face. “Wish that fish had taken my bait; these old men would have had to pay me handsomely.” Inspection of the retrieved rig revealed one of the Kirby hooks had been broken off beyond the barb causing the experienced waterman to ruminate. “Takes a hell of a fish to put a hurt on these rugged hooks.”
That was my first personal experience with an outsized tautog, but thankfully, not my last. The same goggle-eyed, bucktoothed, leather-lipped specimen that once commanded five cents a pound has finally been recognized for its value as a sportfish and in the kitchen where gastronomes have come to appreciate their many qualities. While we have come a long way from tarred hand lines, and hand-snelled Kirby hooks, the hunt for jumbo tautog has become even more intense. While the 16-inch minimum size in our adjoining states provides a specimen that can be rendered into a meal-sized brace of fillets or a baked-stuffed meal, it is the quest for double-digit tog that is uppermost in the minds of those fishermen I’ve been rubbing elbows with over the past 50 years.
What does a full-time charter skipper do on his day off? If your name is BJ Silvia you probably put together a group of like-minded individuals and head out to check a bunch of locations you have been dying to explore but didn’t want to risk coming up empty with a paying charter on board. That late October morning broke cold and cranky with a blustery northwest wind stirring things up as we headed for our first drop. We fished three locations that gave up tog from 10-inch puppies to a few 18-inch keepers that were released except for one that was bleeding profusely from its gills.
With the wind piping and the tide about an hour from slack we made a steam for a location that is little more than a blip on the screen of most electronics; a place where the recreational fleet transits by and over with little regard for what might be below. Rather than checking the drift and preparing bow and stern anchors the skipper made a few passes over the knob before deploying his Minn Kota Ulterra; using the Spot Lock feature that set us up over the peak of the structure. When the call for lines over was given everyone was ready for the first drop. I was tucked in out of the wind up against the starboard bulkhead when two deck-mates announced, “Fish on!” A mock cheer went up as two handsome marble tog in the 5-pound class came over the rail, were admired and quickly returned. A slight lift detected weight, and my quick hook-set stuck a fish of considerable proportions.
That bulldog tog was lifted halfway up three times before the last run took it back down into the morass of rocks and shells where it scrubbed me off. A call for the net sent me into the cabin for the mesh, which I eventually slipped under a legitimate 13-pounder BJ had extracted from the confusion of rocks and hangs. His fish was still in the net when Captain Mike Littlefield requested assistance. BJ slipped the net under Mike’s thick, long white-chinner that pulled the Boga down past 12 pounds.
Larry Rainey, using his signature stout tackle lost two huge fish, both of which earned their freedom by making it back to the craggy bottom and destroying his leaders. The third time was the charm. The skipper built him a new rig that Rainey sent down with a big green crab impaled on his 4/0 hook. It wasn’t long before he was on again, and this time our rods were racked as we became spectators of the battle royal. After losing two previous goliath tog, the big Marine officer and Fordham University lineman was not about to let this jumbo escape. Yet with his drag set on max, and a thumb against the spool, the big wrasse made powerful runs that pulled line at will. On three occasions during that brawl he almost had the fish near the surface but not close enough for BJ to get the net under it. Larry suggested that this was a bigger fish than the two that had escaped, and from our vantage point, staring into the clear cold water his adversary looked like a legitimate 20-pounder. With fish and angler at a virtual standoff Larry applied additional pressure and the skipper slipped the net under the giant and lifted it into the boat. All fishing activity ceased as we viewed this once in a lifetime trophy flopping on the cockpit sole.
I’ve had two 15-pounders on my deck, both from a deep-water wreck off Sow and Pigs Reef many years before compliments of Three Hook Mike and my mate Andy, but this fish was much larger. I’ve also been aboard those rare trips when there was three double-digit tog landed. What was so special about this day was that three of our four double-digit tog were photographed and released. The fourth was Larry’s trophy. He wanted to release it, but it was so close to the Rhode Island state record tog of 21 pounds, 4 ounces, that we pulled up stakes, filled the huge bait well and headed for the harbor with the promise of a digital scale waiting for us when we arrived.
Larry and Paul Dubois spent a cold, wet hour on their knees using the wash down pump and keeping the fish swimming around the tank. Despite their best efforts the fish remained alive but didn’t have the energy to swim away. Rainey, a Fisherman Magazine subscriber, was more interested in releasing his fish than entering it in the Dream Boat Challenge if we could achieve a healthy release.
Captain BJ and Rainey’s ideology has been catching on and bodes well for the future of what is becoming a healthy and very exciting recreational fishery.
