Rich,,, stories should be posted in this thread, or elsewhere?
Senior Member
Rich,,, stories should be posted in this thread, or elsewhere?
Stripercoast Surfcasters Club
Dedicated to Conservation
Administrator
You guys can post them up here, Jake. We'll make it a continous running thread for stories, videos, observations, whatever... just no spelling Nazis.It doesn't have to be a story from the present time either. It can be anything that happened to a member or someone they know at any time of their life.
Senior Member
Any chance you could increase the character limit on a single post so we don't have to break them up so much?
Stripercoast Surfcasters Club
Dedicated to Conservation
Senior Member
Why is everybody always picking on me?Originally Posted by DarkSkies
No spelling Nazis here,I promise I will smite them down.
Administrator
Thanks for recommendation, doubled the size.
Senior Member
Monday night September 21st, 2009, began like so many others before it. After the kids were tucked in and sleeping peacefully, I said goodnight to my wife and tossed my skishing gear in the truck. It was going to be a good night, I could feel it. The place I was going in Rhode Island had yielded the nice 46” fish pictured below just two nights before, and was loaded with sand eels and lobster.The Cow of 2009By Jacob Freeman
I pulled into the lot around 10:40pm, killed the engine, and started gearing up. After donning my wetsuit, I lay down in the bed of my truck and watched the brilliant stars in the moonless sky as I waited for the arrival of a guy I had arranged to meet there that night at 11. The tide had just turned, with a light onshore wind, and we would be fishing the outgoing that night. “ChefChris” pulled up right on time and by 11:15 we were heading away from the trucks toward the beach. He would be rockhopping a section of shoreline that has usually been good to me on an outgoing tide, while I was determined to skish around a point to the left of him.
As we approached the location, I pointed out some rocks where he might start out, and described the submerged structure than lay beyond. As he started off in that direction, I called after him, “If I don’t come back in by dawn, call the Coast Guard!”
I donned my fins, then reached into the bag on my belt, pulled out a nice large dead eel and hooked it onto a 1.1oz tin eel squid (wobble head).
Making sure my rod leash was securely fastened to my belt, I walked backwards into the surf. I could see Chris’s light in the distance as he picked his way through the slippery rocks toward his spot, and felt a little sorry for him as I swam through a large matt of floating eel grass. The onshore wind, though light, was pushing a lot of weed against the shore, which would make plugging difficult. I continued finning out toward the point of a large rock outcropping, picking the grass from all my gear where it collected as I swam.
Finally I got to the edge of the weeds and into cleaner water, just as I got to the outside of the point I was planning to target. 15 yards further out and the water lit up brightly with phosphorescence with even the slightest movement. “This can’t be good”, I thought, as there seemed to be only a 15 yard strip of dark water between the edge of the weeds and the ‘fire’. I floated there for a while, trying to decide if I should just head in, get Chris and move to a different location. Screw it,,, I should at least make a few casts first before heading in. I slowly moved back toward the weed edge to get out of the ‘fire’ and then fired my eel parallel to it toward the rocky point.
I let the eel sink until it touched down on the sandy bottom in front of the rocks, then very slowly worked it back to me, the tin squid sliding along the sand. Nothing. One more cast, a bit to the right, retrieved the same way also produced nothing. By now the tidal current was starting to move me back into the weeds, so I slowly and quietly finned my way back into the fishable zone. After repeating this a dozen or so times, fanning my cast a little to the right each time, I decided to give that area a rest for a while, spun a quick 180 and casted in the opposite direction along the weed edge. The bottom is a little rockier in that direction, so I kept the eel squid off the bottom and let the action of the wobble head work against the current as I gently lifted it up and down through the water column. 5 casts and no takers there either.
I just had to give the rock point one more try before I moved on, and swam against the slow moving current back toward it, getting a bit closer than I was before. This allowed me to cast beyond the point and work the eel past it. I also varied the retrieve on this cast keeping the eel off the bottom and letting the wobble head give the dead eel a bit more action. Then I got hung up solid. Crap. I didn’t think that cast wasn’t close enough to the rocks to get hung up in them. Wobble heads are hard to hang up anyway. I gave the rod a quick tug to free it from whatever it had caught on, and that’s when the fun started.
The ‘Rock’ apparently decided that she was not fond of being tugged on and shook her head as if to say, “No, I don’t like this” I had my drag fairly light (about 4lbs) as I usually do when skishing, and I couldn’t budge her at all without the drag slipping. She still hadn’t moved at all from the spot where she first tasted my eel. I knew that my light drag setting was going to be a problem on this one, so I turned the knob 1 full turn, which brings my drag setting to about 6 or 7 lbs. That’s as much drag as I’ve dared to use while swimming, even though I know that my 30lb test Fireline can handle much more.
I sat back for some leverage and pulled again. This time the fish really didn’t care for it at all and decided she wanted to head for some deeper water. As the smooth drag of the ZeeBaaS whined and the line peeled off the spool, I could feel every stroke of her tail. At this point I was fairly certain by the feel that it was a bass. But I’ve never caught a large shark before either, so that thought definitely did cross my mind. The power behind each long slow sweep of that tail felt incredible. Still the line poured off the reel. This could be a problem soon, I thought, as I saw the rocky point get further from me. Then she stopped and just sat there. Each lift of the rod pulled me closer to her and I gained back maybe half the line she had taken before she decided to move again, this time parallel to the shoreline with the current toward where Chris was fishing from the rocks..
It was probably a dumb move on my part which could have resulted in a parted line, but I really wanted to see how fast she would pull me and was afraid of getting spooled, so I gently palmed the spool until it stopped and I was being dragged through the water much faster than I can swim. Now THIS is skishing!! After a while of this she stopped again and I was able to half pull, half fin my way closer, reeling to keep the slack out of the line as I approached.
I got to within 50 yards of her before she must have decided to come check me out. This surprised me very much as the last thing I expected was for the fish to turn and swim right at me (still not sure it wasn’t a shark) and I reeled as fast as I possibly could to keep the slack out of the line and the fish passed about 20 feet to my right, spinning me around and pulling drag back in the other direction toward where we started. After 30 seconds or so fish turned and started circling me. I pulled my large dive knife from its sheath on my right calf and gripped the blade in my teeth, ready to cut the line if the fish did not turn out to be a bass, then reeled when I could to lessen the distance between us.
As the fish’s large spiked dorsal fin broke the surface of the water, I hooted with joy, sheathed my knife, and then resumed the fight with renewed vigor. She was tiring, and so was I. My arms ached but I was determined to win this fight. I felt the Alberto knot between the Fireline and the 10 foot 40lb test Ande flouro leader pass through the tip guide, then strip back out again as she kicked her tail. This happened quite a few times and I began to be concerned about the knot failing, but it held firm. When she seemed to have all but given up, I turned on my light, spun myself in a quick 180 and launched myself toward the fish with a scissor kick, grabbing the leader and wrapping it around my gloved hand. I pulled and as her gaping mouth slid toward me, I reached with my other hand and caught hold of her jaw. She didn’t like this at all and started thrashing and trying to roll. I dropped the leader (rod still leashed to my belt) and reached for the bottom edge of her gill plate with that hand. The tin squid must have dropped from her upper lip at some point during this struggle, because by the time she settled down again she was no longer hooked.
I floated there in front of her, catching my breath, and trying to decide what to do. I’d never handled a fish of this size before, much less while swimming, and despite my 6’3” 210lb frame, I felt very small. Not just physically small, that too, but I also felt small in the way a peasant might have felt if brought before King Richard the Lionhearted. What majesty! I did not deserve to win this fight. No way. My heart was about to beat right out of my chest, and my emotions were forcing my eyes to pool with tears as I hung onto her head. A photo of me standing beside this fish as she hung from a hook at the tackle shop flashed through my mind. Screw it,,, I don’t deserve that either, but least I can get a measurement before she regains her strength and starts to fight me again.
I turned her on her side and let my legs float up underneath her so that she was lying on top of me and pulled her up until the fork of her tail was straddling the top of my boot. Letting go of her jaw, I reached down, grabbed my rod and positioned it on top of her with the butt of the rod also on the top of my boot. There was exactly 1 palm width between her nose and the first guide on my rod. She didn’t have a beer gut, but she was no skinny fish either. She had obviously been eating well, and I was kicking myself for not having something on me with which to measure her girth. Oh well, at least I got a good length measurement (though at the time I did not know how many inches it was exactly). She flopped, interrupting my thoughts, and I righted myself to get out from under her.
I took her by the lower jaw, letting go of the gill plate, and guided her in a circle around me as she slowly kicked her tail. After a few minutes, she had regained enough strength and twisted her head sharply wrenching it from my grasp and slipped away into the darkness. Fair well ol’ girl. Come see me again sometime……
I just floated there for a while, thinking about what I’d just done. Yeah,,, I did the right thing. Who cares if anyone believes it,,, that’s not what is important to me. Getting to watch her swim off into the dark was more satisfying than any personal glory or fame that would have been gained by killing and weighing her. May she live on and prosper.
After cutting out scuffed up sections of my leader and retying, I hooked another large dead eel onto the tin squid, made a half hearted cast and started finning with the current back toward where Chris was, trolling the eel as I went. I was done. How could I top that in one night? After a while I caught site of Chris’s headlamp and could see that he was working his way to another rock further down the coast. Obviously he wasn’t done yet, so I decided to stay out a while longer. I ended up picking up two more fish in the mid 20lb range as I drifted in the current past where Chris was, and then finned my way back to where I got in. Time to get home and at least grab a shower before work. I walked the shoreline to where Chris was and when he saw me he worked his way back off his rock. He said he’d picked up 4 fish on plugs. I told him I got 3 and one was big, but wasn’t sure how big as I didn’t have a measuring tape to measure the mark on my rod. He said he had one in his truck, and we headed that way.
Once back at the trucks, he got out his tape and we made the measurement. 58” on the dot. I was quiet for a few minutes then we chatted about other things for a while as we put our gear away. I saw I’d missed a call from Chad and called him back. He’d had a great night, too about a mile down from where we were. On the ride home, I relived the events of the night over and over in my head and felt strangely depressed. I had just successfully released what will likely be the largest striped bass I will ever get to see, and I was depressed about it. I had to keep convincing myself that I’d done the right thing and wishing that I had a waterproof camera with a flash so that I could have somehow gotten a photo of her. Oh well… maybe next time…..
Stripercoast Surfcasters Club
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Jake,
Great read. A camera would have been perfect. But that is an incredible acomplishment, and releasing that fish is inspiring, especially how you explained it.
What an experience, acomplishment, sportsmanship and a memory for life to share with others. Did you do the right thing? My answer to that would be no one could have done that better than you did. its inspiring.
White Water Monty 2.00 (WWM)
Future Long Islander (ASAP)
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Jake, What a gread read. I felt as if I was there. What drew me in was the descriptive details. I never caught one that big, it must have been awesome!
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Jake, all I could say is WOW! That must of been awsome. As Monty said " its inspiring". Great job, Great read.
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Wow that says it all right there, a close encounter with a huge cow! Great story Jake.
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You did the right thing. She'll reward you and all of us with thousands of progeny.
Well done Jake.
Senior Member
The Googan
This is for all the elite guys with noses in the air out there who were born with a VS in their hands and don't want to admit that we all had to start somewhere...
From Melnyk's blog, good reading.
8/30/09
The Googan
The ends of the earth are known to be particularly susceptible to attracting the fools, drunks, and eccentrics of the world. If you doubt the validity of this statement, just take a quick look at the Florida Keys, the Outer Banks, or the state of Alaska. You are sure to find more then your fair share of strange folk situated in those places. Montauk being the furthest point east in the great state of New York may also be considered to fall within these parameters. Take my word for it we also have our share of oddballs who visit our shores as well as those who inhabit them.
We "locals" will tell of the strange goings on that occur with regularity in our little town. There are quite a few establishments whose reputation may be considered notorious. Take for example, the tale of the love-addled Buck that jumped through the window of Salivar's Bar and Grill a few years ago. Even our wildlife is afflicted. Within the surfcasting community there can be no more conspicuous place than Johnny's Tackle Shop. Don't get me wrong, Johnny's shop is renown for having the latest and the best fishin' apparatus on all of Long Island. You could say that if he hasn't got it, you don't want it, or need it! (John will have no problem telling you this himself!) In addition to all the miscellaneous racks and exhibits of fishing equipment and supplies, the most coveted of spaces in his shop are those above the displays, on the walls, bordering his ceiling. Any caster, worth his salt would tell of how he prizes that location up there. This is where the photo montage of honored fishermen is arrayed.
At the shop, anyone whose catch is weighed-in and photographed by John is eligible for a posting up there on that wall. The only prerequisite is that John has with his patrons is, of course, that the fish must weigh over forty pounds. I know many a caster, myself included, who has devoted great portions of his life in an attempt to be lauded in this way. These photos range from the most recent to the near antique black and whites with dog eared corners and sun faded smiles. They are the withered memories of the most remarkable catches. Row after row of smiling faces and enormous striped bass are revealed in such a way; there is no doubt about the prestige and honor one feels when viewing his likeness up there. And out of all the photos on those walls there is one whose story is particularly noteworthy. Enter "The Goog".
The story begins one fine fall afternoon quite a few years ago with a rowdy throng of surf fishermen who visit us fairly regularly in Montauk. They seem to think it is great fun to circle their wagons on the beach and have a surfcastin' convention each fall relishing in the vast quantity of migrating linesiders. The stretch of shoreline known as Murder's Row is the location for their jamboree. This spot is half a mile from the Montauk Lighthouse, close to the False Bar. This group would make a busman's holiday of fishin', boozin' and fartin'-around out there in their camper Chevy's and Winabagoes. Some in their lot swear that these guys are not just your run of the mill every day surfcasters. These fellows are the real deal, the sharpies, with an abundance of tournament "weight points" and the egos to go along with them.
The previous night they had quite a time. Each to a man it seemed had, "banged the bloody bass till dawn!".
But for all the action and the hard work of hauling one striper after another to the beach, not a decently sized lunker was taken by the group.
"Things just ain't the way they used to be," would be a constant refrain.
"Them damned gillnetters and draggers have swallowed up the best of the schools and this is all that's left!" was an oft' heard phrase.
As pure chance would have it, into this orgy of booze and ********, strode the most unforeseen of men."Hey Rocco! Get a load of this guy, will ya?"
From down the back trail walked a chap of about forty. He was kind of short in stature and dressed in a cap, jacket and boots. With a huge toothy grin, he had the audacity to wander into "Surf-land" bearing, (of all things!) a seven-foot boat rod with what must have been an ancient conventional 2.0 bait fisher reel fastened to the seat. That was it. No other equipment could be discerned. No waders, tackle bag, or any of the required accouterments were visible.
These deficiencies were not left unnoticed by our illustrious group. The crew turns a curious eye toward this stranger.
"Can you believe this guy?" they mumbled under their collective breath.
"What a Googan!" was a sharp retort.
For those of you who don't know, the moniker of Googan, (Goog for short) is a particular epigram which may be attributed to our local Montaukett dialect. You can be confident that this euphemism is not one of your more distinguished forms of compliment. The designation "Goog" is often associated with the lack of coordination and experience that it takes to be an accomplished surfcaster, a true "sharpie". I have been told, under certain circumstances, that this handle must be considered a term of endearment. I have even been associated with this classification occasionally. My pals insist that I should be deeply honored by the title - but I'm not quite sure. Let's put it this way. In my opinion, by even the most liberal of interpretations, a "Goog" may be considered a "sorry sort of sod".
Back on the False Bar, this brash usurper saunters up to the nearest camper and promptly opens the conversation;
"Hi fellahs, how ya doin'?" the gentleman asks.
A series of grunts and snickers usher forth from the group. The pros give the guy the once over. Looking around, and visibly moved, this fellow begins to sense a developing air of malevolence. A thin film of sweat has broken out on his brow, despite the cool autumn air.
"Any fish around here, guys?" was all he could bring himself to say.
More snickers.
"Ya gonna fish with that piece of junk, pal?," was a remark heard in the background.
"Do you think I'll have any luck?" he asks.
Someone murmurs, "Can you believe this guy?"
Our friend turns with a nervous smile.
"Excuse me? Well . . . I've got a half hour to kill and I just thought I would come down here and give it a try."
With this statement a speechless stupor descends upon our hardy group. How dare this upstart invade the sanctity of this place? Fish? This guy's gotta be kidding! The sun is high overhead and there is not one promising ripple on the water! (Many a Budweiser was tipped in disbelief.) Out of this gathering commotion a few kind words are yet to be heard. Pushing through the throng, one good Samaritan appears.
"Let's take a look at what ya got there, buddy" Joe-so-and-so has come to the rescue. He turns with a smile and a wink for his cohorts.
Looking over the antique gear, Joe shakes his head and says,"Well, if ya put a hunk of bunker on the end of your line, ya could give it a shot." Another giggle issues from the tribe.
"Gee, ah . . . a bunker, huh? Aw . . . I thought maybe a worm or something. Do you have any? Ah . . . bunker, that is," our wayward hiker asks with a straight face.
With that, Joe scratches his head and walks to the front of his truck to his cooler rack. He opens the lid, reaches in and grabs a ragged old piece of bait that's been stuck to the bottom all weekend.
"Thanks pal, thanks a lot!" Accepting the rancid bait, off he goes to the surf.
A chorus of hoots and guffaws follows.
"Did you see that! All the Goog has is a rusty old hook on that rig!" Rocco laughs.
"And that line looks as old as that piece-o-junk reel he's got on there!" one of his buddies remarks.
"Jees, Joe, do ya gotta encourage 'em?"
Just about then, the Googan launches that stinking bunker sky-high with a mighty heave. It rockets aloft. Seventy feet it went, straight up into the chilled October air. The rig lands all of twenty feet from the edge of the dead, slack high water with a tremendous splash. A mediocre cast at best.
"Oh darn, a tangle!" the guy says in exasperation. He bends over his ancient equipment, pulling loops and knots from his backlashed spool.
This caused a hearty chuckle from the crew. In acknowledgment to this misdeed, the popping of beer lids can be heard. Our infamous group settles into a long afternoon of indolence. Truck doors are slammed . . . radios are tuned in . . . lazy eyes drift off into dreamland.
But wait! Low and behold, after several minutes of lassitude the rip of a snarling drag stirs our idle group. Zzzipp! (Rocco just about falls out of his truck as he scans the waterline for the offending fishing rod.) But this can't be! This guy, the "Googan", is loping down the beach with his rod severely bent! Someone heard him yell "Yahoo!" as he ran by.
A great exodus follows. Cab door hinges are sorely tested as frantic fishermen make way for the wash! Half cocked and drowsy, this motley crew had become aware of fish on the beach! Rods and waders get snatched from rest and sent off to battle. Twenty bodies blunder into the surf, flailing as they run, full tilt boogie, into those quiet waters. What a sight it was to see. The tumult. The jockeying for position. The pure exhilaration of it! But for all their skill and bravado, for all their technique and style, it was an exercise in futility. The "sharpies" got severely skunked. Not another sign of life was to be seen. Not another fish wascaught that day.
Minutes later, out of the distance comes our fellow (would you believe?) struggling as he drags a huge cow of a bass back toward the campers. Great furrows of sand are plowed either side of the mighty beast. The "Goog" stops short in front of Joe to catch his breath.
"Boy, what a lot of work!" He wipes his brow.
The gathering audience gives off a collective sigh. Someone hands the "Goog" a beer.
Suddenly, everyone wants to talk with this new hero.
"How did he fight?"
"What did ya get 'em on?"
Taking a long pull on his brew, our champion asks, "Gee fellahs, is this fish edible?"
A gasp runs through the crowd. It turns out that this is the first time this "man among men" has ever done any fishing from the beach. Why, he had never even seen a striped bass before!
"Gosh, this fish is heavy!" he says. (The fish bottoms out Rocco's Shatillion hand scale.)
"Hey, can one of you guys can gimme a ride to the parking lot? My wife is waiting. Boy, I hope she isn't worried."
Now Johnny is not known for his story telling. Any visitors to his shop will attest to this fact. I would think though, if you were to ask him, he might tell you about our friend. John may even smile a bit. "The Goog" - so to speak - is known to enter the store quite regularly now - with his close friends in tow. He gazes at the photo of his fish up there on "The Wall". He doesn't say a word - he just grins.
www.surfcasting.com/2009/08/ends-of-earth-are...
Senior Member
I thought to be angler of the month you had to put up your own story?
Administrator
You're correct Hookedonbass, but that Googan story by Melnyk is priceless.
As has been said by others, none of us was born with all the knowledge and skills to consistently catch fish. It's a learning process. I try to learn something new about fishing every day. So thanks BB for posting it up.
You guys and girls can post any fishing or fishing-related stories you want here, and your own will be the ones that qualify for the plug. That sound fair enough?
OK so post em up, let's hear em!
We do have a winner for October, I'll let Pebbles chime in and spell out the details. Congrats to all who posted up their stories. Keep em comin!
Administrator
I get the wonderful job of announcing a winner for this thread every month. I'm sure you guys have lots of stories to share. They don't have to be long, just have them be truthful.
Bassbuddah, I know you put up a story but it was not your own. I appreciate your post I'd like to hear an experience that you personally had.
Jake, your story was incredible. I don't know much about skishing but you put me right there in the water with you. I was holding my breath on every word. I could feel my own heart beating waiting for the result. You're a great writer and deserve to be named Angler of the Month for October.
Please pm me your address and I will send out your plug. Congratulations!
Senior Member
Congrats Jake that was a great story. Kudos to you for being able to release that monster.
Administrator
November stories, let's hear em!!!
I'm posting this for JohnnySaxatillis. I think it was funny, creative, and will make for good reading in the dead of winter....
Well I caught somethin
Does a duck count?
I was too bored and it was too nice not to go fishing in the canal yesterday. I had nothing to do becuase I'm recently laid off, and fishing pretty much dominates my thoughts until subconciously I start driving off cape. So I find myself in a parking lot right off the canal and gear up. Even though my chances ar slim on november 18th im excited just like i always am those couple minutes before wetting a line. I walk down the steps and enjoy the brisk walk a couple hundred yards to a suitable location. but I have neighbors. about 1,000 white and black ducks, chowin on little chubs.
Well Im fishing for about an hour, no other signs of life. but the ducks are startin to get used to me and swim a little closer. Well ducks are smart so when one of them takes off to fly 20 ft down the canal ALL of the ducks near em take off too. I just made a perfect cast with a 2 oz butterbeanjig, and theres a considerable amount of 40lb braid in the air. A flock of ducks take off. I take 3 ducks down. 2 of them just get close lined and go down like a twa flight. the other one gets nice and tangled in my line for a second and then torpedo's in the whipping rip that is the canal for at least a minute.
The thing fianlly surfaces and is motionless. Im like, "jesus christ I killed a duck." as I'm reeling it in however, the duck gets its second wind and starts trying to paddle away as im dragging it through the current. I finally get a hold of the thing and struggle for 5 mintues trying to free the braid while getting soaked from splashes and nipped at by the beak. But it was a successful rescue, the little F'er. so no stripers, but i did catch something
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Congrats Jake, That was a great read. I wish I was a good swimmer. If I was I would try skishing, knowing me.
Senior Member
Saving a gull by emergency surgery
Saltydoc posted this on another site. I thought some folks here might like to read it. I think it's a great story. It also illustrates why it's important to take home all the braid that comes off your spool. Great job Saltydoc!
A Season Ending Amputation
Flymann and I joined up for a season ending voyage on the Parker 18, hoping for one last shot at a fish or two with the fly rods. At sunrise, I launched the dinghy and made my way out to the lone boat in the now deserted mooring field. The shorter days and inclement weather patterns had conspired to keep me off the boat for at least a week.
As I made fast the dinghy, I peered into the boat and was shocked by the mayhem. The decks were covered with foul smelling guano and debris. It appeared as if a few seabirds went several rounds and trashed the place.
I boarded gingerly to avoid slipping, assessed the damage, and immediately reached for a long handled scrub brush. Bending down to access the brush- I spied the culprit still on board! A seagull was sitting on its haunches by the scuppers eyeing me warily. I stared back, mostly in surprise, in that the bird made no effort to fly off.
I made a step toward the stowaway when it started to flap furiously around the boat, banging into the gunwales and creating more of a mess. It couldn’t get airborne, however. I surmised it was ill or perhaps had a damaged wing. It truly looked exhausted.
I motored to shore and introduced the crippled passenger to Flymann. With the boat secured, I slowly approached the bird and gently placed a towel over it. It was either from sheer fatigue, or due to some strange sense of trust- but the bird was docile. I checked out the wings which seemed fine. Upon flipping the bird, the problem was evident.
This poor fellow had its feet tied together with some type of braided line! The line was so strongly wrapped and knotted, that we couldn’t unwrap it. With a sharp knife and a wire cutter we freed up the right leg, which upon inspection, looked fine. The bird remained still as we now assessed the left leg.
The left leg was essentially strangled, the line had cut through the flesh. The leg was infected and putrid below the wrapped line. An immediate decision was required.
After obtaining the proper consents and conferring with the assistant surgeon- the operative site was verified. The limb was prepped with an alcohol pad from the first aid kit and draped with a towel. Utilizing an 8 inch West Marine Filet knife- the limb was incised sharply through the adjacent joint. No bleeding was encountered. The bird didn't flinch.
The patient tolerated the procedure well and was transferred to a grassy area on a towel, in stable condition. Figuring that the bird had not eaten in a while- I provided my avian friend my breakfast power bar which he gobbled up quickly.
As we walked back to the boat discussing how we would perform a postop check in a few hours- we couldn’t believe our eyes- as the bird took to the air to join his fellow aviators!
We laughed as we scrubbed up the boat and headed for the fishing grounds.There, we saw a few small fish jigged up- but found none on the fly.
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