Every August a cool offshore fishing tournament takes place in Falmouth, Mass. The Skunkmeister has been going every year for two years now; here is this year’s report:

In order to prevent a repeat of last year’s stampede, the famous Skunkmeister showed up this year in a generic tourist get-up, incognito, as it were.

But this clever disguise did not work, and, as you can see, a crowd gathered instantly. Even the famous Dave “Pops” Masch, author of the hit cookbook, Cooking the Catch, was overheard saying to the Skunkmeister, “Yeah, I know you.”

Here is Dave (on the left) cooking up a storm (or wondering what to do next) with uber-piscator Andy Nabreski from On The Water magazine and a groupie (I understand that you can catch some pretty big groupies in the tropics. I gotta see that some day).

The air was so electric with excitement that one young lady on the last boat to come in actually swooned. In the photo below you can see people ignoring some fine yellowfin tuna and looking over toward the lady.

Eventually, she was taken away by rescue personnel but appeared to be fine, calling out “Save me some!” as she was loaded into the ambulance. The tuna appeared to be fine, too, but had no comment on the whole affair.

You know what the best part was (besides the free freshly-grilled fish)? The Skunkmeister didn’t even use a boat and still finished in the top ten! The man is a genius.

At next year’s tournament they had better plan a police escort or there will be pandemonium.

This morning I left the house early to enjoy a little peace and tranquility down at Megansett Harbor before work. Once I got into the parking lot, I rolled the car windows down; it was dead quiet. After a few minutes I heard some playful splashing but could see nothing. The splashing continued, and so I got out of the car and wandered over to the rocks, and, lo and behold, a school of small bluefish were hopping about on the surface. I determined to get out there after work and scare up a few to try in the smoker. Then, off to work.

As I toiled in the cubicle, my wife Tricia went off with the rest of the On The Water crew on a field trip in Vineyard Sound and Washburn Island. I thought, “How nice, she’ll have a nice little boat ride today,” and gave it no more thought. Until I got home.

“Look what I have!” Tricia said, as she showed me a cooler with a tail fin sticking out of it. Okay, I thought, someone had pity and gave her a fish.

“I caught it!”

“What?”

“Well, Bill Dean hooked it, but I reeled it in.” So, now my wife is having better luck than I. She showed it to me…

Apparently, there were a few other interesting moments on the trip, like when Martha hooked a big one…

On the other end of her line…

And the last straw, just before the long swim home from the island…

And now Tricia is learning to troll…

And about those snapper blues destined for the smoker? I guess I’d better bring my wife or it’ll be a small meal.

PS - Thanks, Chris Megan, for giving the crew a fine day on the water.

I hereby use my right as the all-powerful Skunkmeister to reset this stupid thing at the top of the page. It is inaccurate. I haven’t even been fishing for about a month.

Now, if you are going to be bad at something like fishing, you have to try, at least. You can’t just lie about being the worst, sort of like other fishermen lie about being the best. You can’t simply hide behind mountains of work and kidney stones and other excuses and then claim to be an expert at what you do. You have to get out there, wet a line, and then stink it up like a skunk in the road.

So the Skunk-O-Meter is now officially at zero, and tonight begins another chapter in the saga that is the Skunk Report.

Jason and the Skunkmeister before the fishing trip:

Jason during the trip, fish on:

The Skunkmeister during the trip, giving advice:

Jason after the trip, enjoying his catch:

The Skunkmeister after the trip, working on the boat:

It’s a darn good thing I was there, that’s all I’ll say.

A long shadow is cast across the sand.

There is a new old man in town, and he’s gunning for fish.

His face is set like flint towards the sea. He is well-equipped.

His rod is long, and he knows how to use it.

No more working.

No more sleeping.

No more social events.

No more bathing and changing the underwear.

No more long nights without a fish by his side.

No excuses.

Let’s fish.

Like most “fishermen” I am a glutton for punishment. Hoping to catch one of the first striped bass, I stopped on the way home from work last week to make a few casts at a couple of my favorite places. They are my favorites largely because they are easy to get to.

At Falmouth Harbor, the Land of No-Squid (at least as of last week), I stood facing south-southwest, into a pretty good blow. I ripped off a mighty cast, the kind of heave necessary in such a wind to get the darn lure anywhere beyond the rocks. The cast was indeed magnificent, and the soft plastic went way out there. Unfortunately, it was also the kind of cast that you get when the lure is unencumbered by the trailing line.

This is what comes from being cheap with the gear. Out of laziness, I had not removed a steel leader left over from last fall’s attempts at bluefish. Out of laziness, I had not rinsed the thing off with fresh water since, and so, presto, it snapped off on the first cast this spring. I could see that I had impressed the less doughty fishermen sitting warm in their vehicles, drinking coffee and watching me. Time to try somewhere else.

Next, I tried the jetty at Megansett Harbor, walking carefully atop thirty yards of slick rock. Brand new lure. No steel leader. With the wind mostly behind me this time, the first cast sailed off nicely into the harbor. Starting about the fourth crank of the reel, I began to see green stuff hanging on my line at about two foot intervals. Small globs, large globs, one after another, bobbing along. Now, if there is anything I can catch with the best, it is seaweed, and I know the characteristics of seaweed. Most of the time, this stuff just falls off. But this stuff clung there, dangling like a series of wet underwear hung out to dry on a clothesline, until it eventually all jammed up on the rod tip. Some globs even went through the rod tip and down a couple of more guides before they finally came off off. I gave up after about three casts and started staggering along the rocks back to the beach, where a curious old man was waiting, metal detector in hand

“Catch anything?” he asked.

“Nothing to brag about,” I said, then pointed at his metal detector. “You?”

“Naw,” he said. “Too early to find anything yet. Just out here to see if this thing still works.”

As of noon today, all boats but one seemed abandoned at the dock at Falmouth. The captain of the Drifter, Kingston, MA, was clearly frustrating, saying, “Well, [the squid] gotta be out there somewhere. They gotta spawn before the fish get here. The fish’ll chop ‘em to bits once they get here. They gotta be spawning out there somewhere. Maybe south of the islands.”

I asked if he was heading out, and he said, “Yeah, I’m gonna make one short drag today, and then I don’t know what.”

To me, getting skunked is like breathing. It’s what I do. To these guys it’s not funny at all, and, with unusual sincerity, I wished him luck as he chugged out of the harbor and headed east.

Early this morning I hopped into the car and headed off in the rain to pick up a cheap cup of coffee at the convenience store about a mile away. While I pulled in to park, right in front of me, a man with a sharp looking chapeau and a large dog stood there, staring at me. I got out of the car, came up to him, and said “Good morning,” hoping to find out what his problem was.

“Hey,” he said, “you got a couple of lures or something on your roof there.”

I turned around, and, sure enough, I did. I had put them up there late last night, assuming that by doing, I couldn’t help but remember to throw them in the car on my way out the next morning.

“I think you’re fishing in the wrong spot, but good luck,” he said, and walked off.

I may have caught a couple of ignorant trout last week, but that doesn’t make me a fisherman all of a sudden.