Innholdsfortegnelse for Fall 2024 i Anglers Journal

JUST BEFORE SUNRISE, THE CAPTAINS are drawn to their boats. Men crowd the coffee stands on the dark streets of Loreto, Mexico, on the Sea of Cortez — 20 pesos a cup, scoops of sugar and creamer that doesn’t require refrigeration. They mill about their pangas scrubbing guano off seat cushions, wiping bait wells and respooling reels wrecked by yesterday’s clients. Sea odors, the smell of wet rope and the scent of bougainvillea mingle over the riprap. A watchman uses an ancient key to open the iron gate that leads to the seawall. Shore fishermen with their lunch pails, handlines and rags say buenos dias and walk through. They take their positions on the jetty. Clients, mostly Americans, step out of taxis. They drag heavy coolers, rods and reels. They…

If you live in the Northeast, fall fishing is our beautiful obsession. Nothing revs our tribe’s motors like the fall run. No disrespect to spring and summer, but fall is the season to be on the water from Maine to New Jersey, forgoing sleep, calling in sick to work and using up vacation time to chase bluefin and yellowfin tuna, albies, bluefish, black-fish and, of course, striped bass — the fish that has come to embody fall as much as any species in the region. Pick your moons and tides, circle the most productive weeks on the calendar, contemplate your favorite ambush spots, and fish until the tank is empty. It only comes once a year. The Blitz Flip the calendar to early fall, and heavy surf and strong west…

There’s a possibility we won’t land a permit over the course of the week — a sentiment that is paired with the unending optimism that we might. Everyone treats permit fishing differently. I prefer to go with the “journey is the destination” mentality and not worry about the outcome. It’s 4:45 a.m. I sip a cup of coffee and dig my bare feet into the cool, presunrise sand. It’s warm, and the breeze is non-existent. People move about quietly and slowly, the modus operandi of mornings here. A few brush their teeth while standing shin-deep in the Caribbean. Others grab clean laundry from a maze of clotheslines. Guides and staff speak an English-Creole fusion brought over from the Bay Islands to the west. There’s an exotic melody to the soft,…

ALMOST 30 YEARS AGO, Kevin Nakamaru found himself amid one of the hottest blue marlin bites in sportfishing history. But the Kona, Hawaii, native wasn’t trolling his home waters of the Pacific; he was targeting a ledge off Madeira, a small island in the Atlantic, 600 miles southwest of Lisbon, Portugal. Every 10th marlin he saw was larger than 1,000 pounds. It was 1995, and Nakamaru, just 27, was at the helm of the 30-foot Pesca Grossa, fishing alongside some of the best big-game captains and anglers to ever target marlin. Heady stuff for a young skipper, but Nakamaru grew up among the pioneers of big-game fishing in Hawaii, including George Parker, the first man to catch a 1,000-pound blue marlin under IGFA rules; lure innovator Henry Chee; and captains Freddy…

UNDER THE WEATHER I was recovering from a bout of Lyme disease, so had the opportunity to read the Summer issue cover-to-cover. Twice. A great issue. I particularly enjoyed the story about catching giant cod off Norway [“Colossal Cod”], though I admittedly felt a little queasy reading about the rugged conditions one has to endure. And, of course, I loved “Block Island Bruisers,” since that is one of my favorite spots on the planet. I was wondering what happened to the old “God Bless Go Fish” sign I used to see on the trail to Old Harbor Point. Dennis Zambrotta is its caretaker. Stephen Sautner SERENDIPITY We survived the deluge that soaked South Florida in mid-June, but the subsequent easterlies put the notion that I might fly-rod a snook in…

CAPT. DICK HARRIS IS A WELL-SEASONED OUTER BANKS, North Carolina, skipper who’s plied the offshore waters for the last 44 years. Plainly put, this man can catch tuna — it doesn’t matter what kind. Harris and I are longtime friends, having fished out of Oregon Inlet Fishing Center for more years than we care to admit. We speak almost daily. Harris owns and operates Fintastic, a 55-foot sportfish built by legendary captain and Carolina boatbuilding pioneer Omie Tillett. This past February, Harris invited my wife, Capt. Sarah Gardner, and me tuna fishing with one of his best clients, who was fishing alone and wanted some company. There was a nice weather window with two clear days, so we gladly accepted the invite. Winter weather on the Outer Banks is notoriously…

I’VE BEEN RUNNING THE VIKING 92 SIR’ REEL FOR JOEY ACCARDI SINCE 2022. The boat was built in 2018. When we first looked at the Viking, it was like stepping aboard a space-ship. At first you’re a little overwhelmed, but once you get a handle on it, it’s just like any other boat. Sir’ Reel is the Sky Bridge model. I used to run it from the flybridge because that’s what I was used to, but now I’m in the enclosed bridge unless we’re fishing. It’s like a living room, so quiet and comfortable. We’ve got five screens to monitor everything, and there’s a wing station for maneuvering and docking. A lot of people ask if you can really fish a boat this big, and the answer is absolutely yes.…

Standing on the floating dock outside Brabant Lodge, I’m closer to the Arctic Circle than I am to the nearest movie theater. North of the 60th parallel in the Northwest Territories of Canada, I’m about as far outside my fishing comfort zone as I’ve ever been. It took two days of travel to get to this remote stretch of the Mackenzie River on the outflow of Great Slave Lake. I’m not here to see the northern lights, though; I’m here to catch northern pike. I missed a half-day of fishing due to a canceled flight in Toronto. To get to Brabant from Florida requires four or more flights. You must first get to Yellowknife, where you spend the night, then fly to the small town of Hay River the next morning.…

A pair of young landscapers pulls into a lot in an old, red dump truck filled with brush. Two surf rods are laid across the load. By the looks of things, they are knocking off work a little early. Good for them. They could have been me 40 years ago. It is the last week of October. The rutted trail to the beach snakes past dozens of milkweed plants heavy with seed pods swollen to bursting. I shake a few-dozen parachute seeds from a pod that’s cracked open and watch them sail away on the strong westerly breeze. The surf is waist- to chest-high, and the waves build and boom as the afternoon slides toward sunset. When I first wade out, I scan the sky for hawks without success; most…