It has come to our attention that the feds are about to reach into our waders and pull out some cash for the privilege of fishing in coastal waters. This is more than irritating, this is yet another usurpation of natural rights of man. This is sticking one’s nose where it doesn’t belong. Well, no one will be sticking his nose into the Skunkmeister’s vintage waders. The Skunkmeister will never pay money to not catch fish. He does it for nothing.

First, they wanted to register all guns. The Skunkmeister said no. Next they will be wanting to register all those dangerous long things with reels and monofilament. The Skunkmeister says no, and will stand guard over the old homestead. Here is the best way to handle it, like we do it in the country.

If you are one of those durn fools that gave up your guns or even registered them with the so-called authorities, well, you’re gonna have to do this:

Here is the technique, with a bit of verbal direction for the revenooer when he comes to take your stuff:

Got the picture? Get those double treble hooks into that pile of guano when he shows up to harass you, then reel him in a bit. He may put up a fight, but probably not much. The last one I got didn’t. Then sit in the back of the old truck, keeping a tight line on the miscreant, while the missus drives the truck around for a while. Maybe to that mall 30 miles away. Then let that revenooer go and drive yourself back home to have a mason jar full of moonshine and a few laughs. That’ll be the last you see of him.

The Skunkmeister doesn’t get mad about losing his favorite plug, he gets even.

No one makes a fool out of the Skunkmeister. Outside help is unnecessary.

As the Skunkmeister says, “You can’t lose em if you don’t hook em.” You can’t simply stay home if you want to be the worst, so we grabbed an ice cream cone up the street and went on down to the favorite fishing spot known locally as an undisclosed location.

We were using a new lightweight rod with some light line, just to make it sporting, and had our favorite rattling surface plug tied on, along with no steel leader, because we forgot to bring one. We tossed a couple of casts out into what was obviously an area devoid of fish, just to limber up, and then slid over a tad into an area boiling with ravenous bluefish. The action was hot, and one beauty went for the plug. It was just like fighting a feisty mother-in-law at the other end of a hangman’s noose, if we remember correctly, but we hung on for a while and then generously let the big fella slip the hook a few yards out. Here is a fine close-up photo of this magnificent fish.

Another cast, another bluefish, this one bigger than the last. The too-small rod with the too-light line was bent like a cheap pretzel, but we fought for what seemed like a minute or two until this whopper was right alongside. Getting a little concerned about damaging the Skunkmeister’s well-earned reputation so early in the season, we decided to let this monster loose before landing him. To reward him, we even let him take our favorite plug along with a few feet of line so he could have a souvenir of his close call with the famed Skunkmeister. We can hear him right now, bragging to his buddies down in the bay about how tough he is.

Five casts, two big blues lost, the favorite plug gone. Not bad for 15 minutes work. Do you want to be bad, too? Then stay tuned to the Skunk Report! Slack lines!

How many times do I have to say it? This is all about fishing withOUT catching. Case in point: I put it all on the line, imparting to my buddy Fred here nearly every ounce of knowledge I have gained through endless trials and tribulations about how to

• not find any fish, even when everyone around you is hauling ‘em in hand over fist
• lose every fish you hook if you’re unfortunate enough to hook one
• catch fish that are microscopic and therefore too embarrassingly small to mention in public
• lose lots of expensive stuff fishing
• break an ankle on the slippery rocks in the pitch dark
• fall in the water and get swept away helplessly, which is darn exciting, by the way

As a last resort, you can lose your fish out the back of the truck on the ride home.

I guess Fred can’t help himself. He has succumbed to the siren song, left the fold, gone over to the dark side. It goes to show you, you gotta be one tough dude to resist all this fishing stuff and be as bad as the Skunkmeister.

Hey, Fred, got any of that fish left over?

Where the water is wet and the fish are blue….

Came home from work last night and said to myself, “I sure feel like fresh bluefish for supper.” Grabbed my stuff, went about 90 seconds to Megansett Harbor, hiked out on the breakwater a ways, clipped on one of those plastic poppers with rattly thingies inside, and, presto, a couple of casts later, brought in a nice 8 pound bluefish. Mission accomplished. At times like this, all that remains is to take a picture for posterity.

Back in the Skunk Report lab, I set up my vintage camera on the tripod, only to find that the batteries were dead, and there were no good batteries in the house. So I put the old thinking cap on and duct-taped a camera phone on the tripod and spent the next 20 minutes working on a way to click the shutter, and then run around into the picture while holding the bluefish. I am pretty fast afoot, but I never quite made it into the picture. It must have been the vintage waders that slowed me down.

My fish was beginning to stiffen up by now, so I said, “Screw it,” and brought the catch into the Skunk Report Gourmet Seafood Preparation area and snapped the shot there.

Wait, you say, that is just some photo you filched from the Internet. I am offended. Here is proof that the Skunkmeister was there:

The manly hands of the Skunkmeister make the fish look smaller than it really was, plus there was the reverse perspective. You know, when you are holding a fish up in front of you for a photo, you can hold the fish out towards the camera and make your 2 pounder look like a 20 pounder. Well, this picture makes the eight pound bluefish look like one of those cute little trout that you catch in those cute little streams up north. In a pinch, you can lay your cute little fish on a dessert plate and make it look big, but the Skunkmeister is not about stretching the truth to look good. Looking good comes naturally here.

Wait, you say, I though this web site is all about losing fish, not catching them.

What can I say. It was an accident. It won’t happen again.

Nothing beats a little romp on deck after a tough shift out on the Grand Banks:

It is recorded that Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet, “To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there’s the rub.” Intelligent scholars now know that Shakespeare was preparing fresh fish for dinner, and he really wrote, “Ay, where’s the rub?”

There was a monster traffic jam in Boston last Saturday…

Yes, it’s true, the Skunkmeister was in town for the Striper Fest. The crowd was cranked as the man approached.

It was bedlam!

It was a party, all right, as thousands packed the Harpoon Brewery for an afternoon of guy talk, prizes, food, and drink. There were games, like keg bowling and familiar fun like this:

The vendors sold some tackle, books, and apparel like this lucky lady bought:

It looks suspiciously like a smile on my face, but don’t think for a minute that I’m going soft on you. I was just enjoying that chunk of bratwurst stuck in my teeth.

A big thumbs up to the On The Water crew for handling crowd control during the Skunkmeister’s visit. The crowd was somewhat well-behaved.

Oh, yeah, the heaviest striper for the tournament weighed in at 59.75 pounds. This fellow was pretty excited, but to me it’s all just bait.

I came across this bucolic scene of a man fishing off the breakwater with his wife at lunch time today:

I thought this was great, so I got out of the car and strolled down to the water’s edge. Their conversation was touching, a true testament to the institution of marriage:

Inspiring!

The Skunkmeister scored big last night at the Big Ditch. Here’s how it went down.

It was a dark and stormy night (really). Disdaining my map and compass, and carrying no provisions for the journey, I slogged through rain and muck, and arrived at the edge of the known world, the Cape Cod Canal. Here there be monsters.

Baitfish were hopping all along the edge, and birds lined the stony banks, hoping for fresh fish. I clipped on a brand new Hopkins and cast away. Nothing. A second cast and, pow! The Hopkins snapped off and sailed magnificently northward alone into the mist. What a cast!

I rerigged and tried an amber Hogy. A few casts later and, bam! A major league hit! But no hookup. I reeled in a shredded softbait. This was getting exciting.

I hooked on a 4 ounce leadhead with a Sluggo, lovingly prepared and donated by my friend Bill Dean. I cast that baby out and jigged it a few minutes, but nothing. I cast again, letting it slip to the bottom, and, oomph, it was sucked in by a what can only have been a monster striper! I set the hook, and the fun began.

The monster moved slowly and fitfully eastward with the strong current. I kept the pressure on and swung the monster closer to shore. Within five minutes it had hunkered down in the rocks. I slipped, stumbled, and staggered over the slick rocks in the dark, keeping that pressure on, moving toward the great monster and hoping to get around to the front of it. But this trophy was both smart and tough, and it stayed solidly entrenched. After another ten minutes of fighting, I tightened the drag just a smidgen and gave a mighty but steady pull on the rod and, snap! It was gone.

I will never know exactly what that monster fish was. I think it was a big-time, canny striper. Uber-piscator Andy Nabreski says it was probably a rogue lobster trap.

In any case, the evening was a great success. I did not drown. I did not break an ankle on the dark rocks. I hooked something large and spooky and fought it valiantly like Captain Ahab for almost fifteen minutes. I even came home with some gear to use next time. As you can see, here I am at the brink, with this here big yellow popper thingy that I plan to use next time.

Not bad for an evening’s work at the Big Ditch!