Post by cnot on Apr 8, 2007 22:53:08 GMT -5
It was a late August morning in Cape May Point N.J., the summer of '78 if memory serves me correct, when I woke before the sun did . No reason. Just one of those mornings. I could hear the "Bwoop" of the inlet marker several miles away at the ferry landing, and I judged the tide to be just starting to flood by the sound of the surf coming through the open window above my bed. So, I rose and, after dressing in the dark, took the buck tail jigs from the nightstand and headed for the door.
The beam from the lighthouse made its vigilant sweep overhead as I crossed the lawn with rod and jetty cleats in hand, the cool morning dew making grass clippings cling to my bare feet. I made no sound as I walked to the cornier of Lincoln and Lehigh Avenues with the thought of fishing the jetty at the Lehigh entrance to the beach, but a light caught the corner of my eye, and I turned left to hit the Lighthouse Avenue jetty. The light came from the kitchen area of the Convent.
The Convent housed about 250 nuns and, at that time, was a summer retreat for sisters of a Philadelphia based Nunnery. They came for a week and a half retreat, which included a couple days of "inner reflection. During this period of the retreat, the visiting sisters spent their time in silence. Only words they spoke were in prayer at Mass. My route took me along the windows of the dining room and past the kitchens.
As I passed the kitchen, Sister Mary Joesph, one of the nuns that ran the retreat and stayed there all season and one that I could call a friend, was at the steps about to go in from taking some trash out. I startled her a bit as I crossed into the light from the kitchen, but she smiled when she saw me. She pointed at the rod in my hand, made the sign of the Cross, and put hands together with bowed head in short prayer. I smiled back, and nodded in silent "thanks" before continuing on to the beach entrance.
The sand was cool as I made my way through the fence of the dune, the grass on the dune seemed to whisper in familiarity and wave as I passed by. Thoughts of the world behind me disappeared, my mind focused on what was ahead. I was formulating my first cast before I reached the foot of the jetty, how I was planning to work the jig in the current that was running fairly strong as I slipped the cleated shoes on.
The sky was just beginning to gray behind me over the City of Cape May when the line tightened and the drag started to sing when the hook of the twister tail tipped buck tail jig hit home. It was a Weakfish in the 7 to 8 pound class, and I was all smiles. I put him on the rocks, and worked the jig in the current for another half hour, adding four similar fish.
I didn't know why, and can only speculate now, why I decided to stop fishing the current where the Weakies were feeding and toss the jig to an area with little to no water movement, but that is what I did. Bouncing and dragging the jig along the bottom...
I felt the line get heavy, let the lure rest a moment, then struck. The rod bent and the fish took line. It headed for the current, now starting to race off the tip of the rocks as the tide was really starting to flood. "What the he..." I thought as I tried to put some line back on my reel as the fish just seemed to race with the tide. But, finally, line tarted coming my way, and I was able to work the fish close to the rocks. It was a Fluke, 10 pounds easy, and I had to walk him to the beach to land him.
I left him on the sand at the foot of the jetty while I went to retrieve the Weakies. I had to pull the laces from one of my cleats to fashion a stringer. I wasn't thinking of keeping any fish when I left the house, and I was asking myself why I had done it as I walked back to where the big Flounder was waiting. I found my answer there.
Sister Joe's face lit up when she opened the kitchen door and saw the make shift stringer with Weakfish I held out to her, and her eyes flew wide open when I lifted the other hand with the Fluke. I was pulled into the kitchen, ushered to a chair, given a cup of coffee, and the fish were taken to the sink by the staff.
The nuns in the dining room were eating their breakfast in silence, only the clatter of cutlery and the scrape of wooden chairs on wood floor came from the vast room that lay outside the kitchen door which was quietly shut as I drank my coffee. Sister Joe had made a motion that I should stay when I first showed a sign of protest and started for the door or else I would not have stayed. (And those of you that have ever been around the "Good Sisters", you know the look they give you when you are to remain in your seat and not argue!) But, I stayed as they finished up with the work they had to do in the kitchen while the dining room worked on the meal. Then the cook made quick work of filleting one of the Weakies, and I was soon eating scrambled eggs, lightly fried fish and biscuits with the staff. While we ate, I could see the question Sister Joe wanted to ask on her face, but she wasn't going to ask while there were novice Sisters in the room (She was not on retreat, and had no vow of silence on those days, but always held her tongue when around those that were on retreat.) I got up from the table and took her to the sink, and pointed to the big Flounder. The fish had camouflaged itself to match the patterns of the rocks and sand I had laid it on, and had a dark cross on it.
Kicker to the story... It was a Friday, and the Sisters had some important visitors from the city clergy coming in for dinner that night.
The beam from the lighthouse made its vigilant sweep overhead as I crossed the lawn with rod and jetty cleats in hand, the cool morning dew making grass clippings cling to my bare feet. I made no sound as I walked to the cornier of Lincoln and Lehigh Avenues with the thought of fishing the jetty at the Lehigh entrance to the beach, but a light caught the corner of my eye, and I turned left to hit the Lighthouse Avenue jetty. The light came from the kitchen area of the Convent.
The Convent housed about 250 nuns and, at that time, was a summer retreat for sisters of a Philadelphia based Nunnery. They came for a week and a half retreat, which included a couple days of "inner reflection. During this period of the retreat, the visiting sisters spent their time in silence. Only words they spoke were in prayer at Mass. My route took me along the windows of the dining room and past the kitchens.
As I passed the kitchen, Sister Mary Joesph, one of the nuns that ran the retreat and stayed there all season and one that I could call a friend, was at the steps about to go in from taking some trash out. I startled her a bit as I crossed into the light from the kitchen, but she smiled when she saw me. She pointed at the rod in my hand, made the sign of the Cross, and put hands together with bowed head in short prayer. I smiled back, and nodded in silent "thanks" before continuing on to the beach entrance.
The sand was cool as I made my way through the fence of the dune, the grass on the dune seemed to whisper in familiarity and wave as I passed by. Thoughts of the world behind me disappeared, my mind focused on what was ahead. I was formulating my first cast before I reached the foot of the jetty, how I was planning to work the jig in the current that was running fairly strong as I slipped the cleated shoes on.
The sky was just beginning to gray behind me over the City of Cape May when the line tightened and the drag started to sing when the hook of the twister tail tipped buck tail jig hit home. It was a Weakfish in the 7 to 8 pound class, and I was all smiles. I put him on the rocks, and worked the jig in the current for another half hour, adding four similar fish.
I didn't know why, and can only speculate now, why I decided to stop fishing the current where the Weakies were feeding and toss the jig to an area with little to no water movement, but that is what I did. Bouncing and dragging the jig along the bottom...
I felt the line get heavy, let the lure rest a moment, then struck. The rod bent and the fish took line. It headed for the current, now starting to race off the tip of the rocks as the tide was really starting to flood. "What the he..." I thought as I tried to put some line back on my reel as the fish just seemed to race with the tide. But, finally, line tarted coming my way, and I was able to work the fish close to the rocks. It was a Fluke, 10 pounds easy, and I had to walk him to the beach to land him.
I left him on the sand at the foot of the jetty while I went to retrieve the Weakies. I had to pull the laces from one of my cleats to fashion a stringer. I wasn't thinking of keeping any fish when I left the house, and I was asking myself why I had done it as I walked back to where the big Flounder was waiting. I found my answer there.
Sister Joe's face lit up when she opened the kitchen door and saw the make shift stringer with Weakfish I held out to her, and her eyes flew wide open when I lifted the other hand with the Fluke. I was pulled into the kitchen, ushered to a chair, given a cup of coffee, and the fish were taken to the sink by the staff.
The nuns in the dining room were eating their breakfast in silence, only the clatter of cutlery and the scrape of wooden chairs on wood floor came from the vast room that lay outside the kitchen door which was quietly shut as I drank my coffee. Sister Joe had made a motion that I should stay when I first showed a sign of protest and started for the door or else I would not have stayed. (And those of you that have ever been around the "Good Sisters", you know the look they give you when you are to remain in your seat and not argue!) But, I stayed as they finished up with the work they had to do in the kitchen while the dining room worked on the meal. Then the cook made quick work of filleting one of the Weakies, and I was soon eating scrambled eggs, lightly fried fish and biscuits with the staff. While we ate, I could see the question Sister Joe wanted to ask on her face, but she wasn't going to ask while there were novice Sisters in the room (She was not on retreat, and had no vow of silence on those days, but always held her tongue when around those that were on retreat.) I got up from the table and took her to the sink, and pointed to the big Flounder. The fish had camouflaged itself to match the patterns of the rocks and sand I had laid it on, and had a dark cross on it.
Kicker to the story... It was a Friday, and the Sisters had some important visitors from the city clergy coming in for dinner that night.