Weakfish

A steady east wind rustled my sweater as I waded into the choppy, muddy waters of a western Long Island Sound bay. It was early June, and I was late. The squeteague had been in for weeks already and I was behind the curve. Weakfish, squeteague, tide runners... the only regular visitor to these waters of the Cynoscion genus, enter estuaries to spawn in the spring in numbers much diminished from their historical highs. A good eating fish, anglers still routinely harvest weakfish. It should not be legal to do so, these fish are in worse shape than striped bass. I seek them for other reasons. The few times I've been so privileged to be in the presence of a weakfish, I was stunned by their beauty. And, like many of the most beautiful things, they don't come easy. I love a challenge.
So there I stood on a chilly evening in the wind, having horseshoe crabs try to mate with my wading boots, waiting for something magical.

Unlike most times I've made this pilgrimage, that magical moment came to be. In the waning light at the tip of a curling bar, I came tight at the end of a long cast. The fish was fighting uniquely, and even though it jumped and showed his trademark characteristics my mind wanted to believe I'd hooked something else. But no, it was a weakfish after all. A quite small one, but only my second ever, and two years after my first. I couldn't be more pleased. That I'd caught this one by deciphering where a pile of them might hold in this bay on a very non-traditional tide was no small factor.

As the sun dropped and the tide quickened it's pace, fish began popping, splashing, and jumping in the rip. I hoped I just might convince another weakfish to take my pink and olive Popovics Jiggy. I was. And though it was even smaller than the first, my third ever weakfish brought a huge smile to my face. 

I thrive on variety, and to an extent New England's depleted saltwater fisheries deprive me of the chance. Winter flounder, cod, pollack, tomcod, and other species that were once so abundant here no longer add to the variety, and weakfish or even bluefish aren't as reliable as they once were. Each weakfish I catch stands as a lavender, chrome, yellow and blue glimmer of hope. They aren't gone yet, and if we stop killing them, and the habitats they require, maybe they'll still be around after I'm gone. I doubt it, but I do hope so. Though I doubt it and I think weakfish, like many other species I love, will be locally extirpated if not wholly extinct in my lifetime, I won't go down without a fight. Take me kicking, screaming, and biting if you have to... I'll fight all the way.

Don't kill weakfish anymore. It isn't right.

Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

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