It was fascinating to hang out in the Cove back then. The foot trail wooden drawbridge we had to cross from the Pine Hill approach was hand cranked back then. It was usually only hoisted for sailboats as most of the lobster boats cleared it just fine. We often lingered at the midpoint of the bridge and watched the boats heading out the channel or returning with a catch. The Cove, back then was a fishermen’s place that tolerated a fair population of resident artists and a small but precariously emergent summer tourist throng. There was a solitary restaurant, which was open late spring through early fall and sold hot dogs, steamed clams, boiled lobster, and pop. There was no asphalt pavement anywhere in the Cove during those bygone days. The portion which is today a parking area for the nearly year round tourist traffic, was previously a general work and storage area for the fishermen. In that wind swept open salt grass meadow, many lobster traps were stacked awaiting the next trip to sea. From this vista the artist would craft his seascape of the rocky Oar Weed Cove or the Marginal Way footpath above the rocks misted in salt spray from waves crashing below. Opposite the ocean side was the tranquil view of moored lobster boats, punts tied to the dock. Perhaps a crusty fisherman hoisting a wooden barrel of salted fish racks, and then lowering the preferred lobster bait on board a grubby craft named after some favored female.  After a big blow at sea the fishermen would bring in huge twisted masses of traps, buoys, and warp, which they would all pick away at in an effort to salvage what gear was theirs. An artist working from the trunk of his car, a whole winters effort on display. Big stacks of lobster traps, and balls of tangled gear, that’s my memory of the area that is now a parking lot surrounded by restaurants and yuppie boardwalks. I was lucky to grow up when and where I did, for I now can reminisce back to that setting as described. What has developed is a poor surrogate for the raw splendor of antiquity with its culture and native industry all but lost. 

     It was the unwritten rules of the Cove, that all fishermen would each provide a punt (small boat) to get back and forth to their moored lobster boats. It was common that anyone might borrow someone else’s punt if more than one was needed, yours was out for repair, or someone was presently using yours. All the punts were tied to rocks or pilings, but never chained and locked, as that would be an affront to everyone else in the Cove. Fishermen did usually take their oar home with them daily. I say oar in the singular as they only used one and mind you it’s an oar not a paddle. Only a highlander from some inland fresh water lake would show up with a paddle. True fishermen do not row to their moored vessel, but instead stand up at the square end of the punt and through a technique called sculling drag their punt backwards to destination. Fishermen were always good to the next generation coming on. Those salty old seadogs would help us youngsters with our cuss words, and let us in on dirty jokes long before we could get the meaning. Sometimes we didn’t figure things out until we checked with the older kids in the back seat of the school bus. I suspect it must have been entertaining for the fishermen to see young kids playing on the waters edge. They never seemed to mind when one or more would find an old board, borrow a punt, and paddle around the Cove.

     On this particular day of my recollection, Captain Bob suggested we take our hand lines and head for Perkins Cove to try and catch some flounder from the channel embankment. The lengthy but insignificant bike ride was behind us without challenge as we entered the restaurant to buy some live clams for bait. There was undeniably much more tolerance for kids back then and we tested it on this particular day. The man at the restaurant waited good-naturedly while we hand picked thirty-six live clams. We debated the merits of each clam, and then paid the invoice in pennies. Although we anticipated fishing from shore it was decided we could reach the hot spot most easily from the water. We scouted the seaweed and flotsam piled on the water’s edge and came up with two pieces of board, which would serve as paddles. With a manifest of all required items on board, we cast off. With brother Bob as our Captain we charted a course with high hopes for a bountiful harvest. An honest effort at the destination in our original plan did not provide the anticipated catch. At this critical juncture in the development of a fishing Captain, Bob says, “Ain’t no fish here I know a better spot.”  We moved from spot to spot but Captain Bob never lost confidence or his resolve. In due course we had made our way past the channel markers and continued on to the bell buoy in the open ocean. The waves were larger than that little punt had ever suffered before, however our total lack of experience protected us from apprehension. A pea soup fog was settling in and the humidity was carrying a chill. We decided to stay mid way between the two bell buoys, smack dab in the traffic lane of the channel. The fish weren’t cooperating yet the clams kept slipping the hook. Bob was at the bow, I sat amid ship, and Clark was in the stern with the bait. We all faced forewords. For sometime we had been acknowledging our hunger and were getting cold, still no one suggested we quit. I asked Clark for some bait where upon he replied, “ It’s all gone.” Bob and I knew that couldn’t be and both looked around as Bob said, “What happened to all the bait?” Clark said, “I ate it.” An icy shudder went through me follower by uncontrolled pucking, first breakfast, then something from the day before and a long gagging session of dry heaves. At the first heave from me, Clark proved that he had indeed eaten the bait by blowing all over my back. Captain Bob chimed in with some chum of his own. Soon we were all so sea sick that we lost equilibrium and the ability to focus our eyes. Captain Bob instinctively knew what to do in our moment of crisis. “Everyone paddle toward the sound of that bell buoy, we need to get out of the center of the channel before a boat hits us in this fog.” Too the buoy we went, and the last service Captain Bob provided was to tie us fast were we stayed until a passing lobster fisherman hooked on to us and brought us in. The loud and incessant clank of that channel marker bell only increased our agony, as we lay in the bottom of the punt covered in chuck and unable to focus our eyes or balance our heads. It was a longer than usual ride home on our bikes. I must proclaim, I did not feel so unpleasant again until I was old enough to illegally drink alcohol.

     Captain Bob is still taking Charters after all these years. He can still find the hot spots and still get you back in. Check out Captain Bob’s Web page at www.leathalweaponfishing.com. Lots of good pictures of recent charters and catch, plus all the information you need before you call or e-mail for your adventure on the ocean with the true salt of the sea.