CKB
Well-known member
- Joined
- Nov 12, 2020
- Messages
- 246
- Reaction score
- 1,578
- Points
- 93
- Location
- Channel Islands
- Favourite Fishing
- Shore
After Friday nights long hikes for little reward, I had a few glasses of red wine on Saturday at our island bonfire night and took it easy. My sleeping pattern has been all out of sync because of fishing lately, and I ended up awake in the small hours of the morning wondering if I should try to get some sleep or whether to have a walk down to the harbour to try for a few squid and cuttle. I had the heating on and was wearing thermals, and it still seemed a bit nippy, which was putting me off the idea of fishing. However, I keep doing this sort of self-psychosis where I tell myself that I won't catch the fish I want by staying at home. Then I start dreaming about all of the fish I'd love to capture. I certainly don't let my mind become infused with thoughts of catching dogfish and strap eels all night, even though that's a reality at times. At around 2am, I was still not 100% that I was going to give it a go but, I did start to pack a thick carrier bag with squid jigs, then I began to convince myself that I should put a bait out down there, after all, it was a big tide, and I'd be fishing the flood. I couldn't face carrying the two big rods, two reels and the tripod/holdall. I had my carp spod rod leaning against the shed outside with a Saltiga on it; that setup would do just the job from the harbour wall, and I could skip taking a tripod too by wedging the rod between the tyres in the corner. Next, I nipped into the shed and had a nosey around my chest freezer. I picked up one pack of around 15 sandeel, one packet of 3 frozen mackerel and a couple of frozen scad. It didn't want to carry tons of bait I didn't need with me, and I was only fishing one bait rod after all.
By around 2:40am, which was bang on low tide, dressed in my warm kit, I headed down the avenue only to realise my Airpod batteries were flat. Music or something motivational audio certainly helps take my mind off my aches and pains carrying kit, that and my optimism that it'll be a great session. It was pitch black going down the hill; the only sound was that of the odd startled bird up in the dark canopy of the trees, spooking as I stomped down the muddy hill. The sky was pretty cloudy but there was the odd window of stars. The wind was pretty cutting as I turned the corner from the old tip and passed through the tunnel into Maseline Harbour. I quickly changed the leader on the bait rod and tied one of the four or five up and over rigs that I had with me. I always use up and over rigs to fish on clean ground, especially in a tidal run. On this occasion, I had no intention of casting into the rough stuff near the tunnel; I wanted to be fishing without snags and as lazy as this sounds, without hassles. Friday was still on my mind, and the Silver Mines had physically and mentally crushed me.
The first cast, I sent a quadruple sandeel bait out with 4oz and turned around to pick up the Graphex lure rod. First chuck with that, I was into a squid. It was windy, so I'd opted for a fixed paternoster instead of working the jig manually. I kept casting and getting more and more, all were perfect bait sizes instead of the whoppers that are usually about. I glanced to my right and saw the carp rod was nodding and had moved a long way down-tide. I leant into it, and it felt like unless a cuttle was on, a lump of weed was probable. To my surprise, it went light, and nothing was on. Next up, I fired 3/4 of a mackerel out and got back to squidding. The same thing happened again, but it felt like a cod nodding; it was a strange sensation. Realising it might be something I wasn't used to catching here, I nursed the fish up to the surface slowly until I could see it, and to my surprise, a big old squid had taken a dead bait. I did my best to get it to the smaller drop net, which was already floating below me, tethered by the twisted blue rope. But to my disappointment, it came off yards short.
I feel I should explain at this point; I'd left my 5ft diameter circular net for big fish at Port Gorey, hidden on a flat rock, as I couldn't face carrying it 2 miles home. That meant it wasn't down at the harbour to use to land fish, only the much smaller one, which is suitable for squid and LRF species (2.5ft). I'd had a stroke of tremendous luck; there is a blue shipping container that is usually tight to the railings by the steps; it's the only thing that prevents you from walking the fish along the concrete breakwater and landing them at the steps below. For some reason, the harbour master had moved it with the crane, and it was on the opposite side, meaning I could land fish if I were lucky enough to hook anything decent. Dogfish were munching my sandeel almost as soon as they hit the water, very frustrating indeed. And even more disheartening, sand fleas were devouring the mackerel; this was a bit of a low point; I'd enjoyed the squid fishing but, had I made the wrong choice taking bait gear?
Next, things started to pick up, and I had to abandon the squid gear; decent bites began to come, and they became more purposeful. My excitement levels were up; after a good pull down on the braid, I struck, I was into a better fish. For those of you who have never owned or cast a spod rod, everyone should own one. They are so lovely to cast with their whippy action, and when playing a fish, they absorb every kick and thump; you get this recoil down the thin blank. I played this fish to 20 yards out for just about long enough to see it was half decent bull huss, I saw the Catseye type reflection briefly, and in a split second, it was gone, slipping back into the eerie darkness; it had spun off the single catfish hook.
I wasn't bothered; I wanted a tope, a ray or a decent eel; huss was last on my list from the harbour, mainly because I have a mark up the north end of the island that produces them pretty reliably. I cast out again, and the same thing happened twenty minutes later, another huss gone. Losing them is pretty common unless you are using circle hooks, in which case you rarely ever lose one. Bullhuss are experts at spinning free but, with an 8/0 circle, almost every fish is hooked ideally in the corner of the mouth. I went back to my bag of makeshift gear to travel light and checked the three remaining rigs to see if any had a circle instead of a catfish hook. I was in luck; one of the coiled-up rigs had just the hook required for these angry huss.
I was pretty pleased with how my baits were looking, and the newly deployed circle wire trace had a fish on within five minutes, and it felt good. I hopped up on the tyres and began to play it, guiding this fish beneath me around the corner of the breakwater, passing the rod from one hand to the other, around the light post so that I could hop off the wall. I gazed down at the huss thrashing in the deep green water illuminated by my torch. It's a beautiful sight, seeing these stunningly marked fish gliding through the water. Without that blue container in my way, it was a pretty easy job walking the fish to the steps in the far corner of the harbour. As I lifted it with the trace in one hand, the wire cut into me a little, making me think it was probably over ten pounds. I didn't really have a choice but to carry it up the steps this way, as my rod was in my left hand. I popped it on the scales, and it had just made my criteria for getting a photo; it was 10lb 1oz.
I managed to get the hook out pretty quickly. Then I set my tripod and big camera up for a couple of shots. I had another bait ready to clip on and send out. I quickly cast and then took the pics. This is about the time when things got chaotic; I'll explain why. The harbour light is usually set on a timer that comes on when it's getting dark and goes off at first light. However, someone has bungled things up in the harbour master's office (my theory, I could be wrong), and the light isn't coming on until well after dark, and it's going off well before first light. I set my camera up by the light, to use it as a light source, and it suddenly goes off. I put my thinking cap on and decided I'd put my torch on the floor and use that as the light source to help the camera take the image using auto-focus. It's all quite tricky, especially picking a huss up with no torch on and getting the proper distance from the camera. As I am doing this, my rod wedged between the tyres starts nodding forward, and the reel has line peeling off it. I am up like a shot, or as fast as someone with a weary, broken body from fishing lately can be, and I instantly feel a fish is on. Immediately after I struck, I wasn't sure what it was; it really felt heavy as it fought, but it began to feel like a big huss, thrashing as I worked it toward the old stone breakwater. There was one problem, I'd grabbed the rod before I grabbed my torch, the pier light was off, and I was light-less. As I worked the fish toward me, keeping it high in the water column, I glanced back at my torch on the floor, some 4m behind me and wondered how I'd get to it without the line touching the structure. I was worried, too, as I was back on the catfish hook, and if this was a nice huss, it could come off. Eventually, I chanced it, and in one scoop with my right hand, I had the torch off the deck and on my head whilst still maintaining contact with the fish. The broad bodied beast breached the surface; it looked magnificent. I really wanted this one in. I carefully walked the length of the breakwater, watching it below as the stout fish went into a crocodile death roll a few times. I soon descended the slippy steps to the emerald green water as it washed over the sandy coloured stone. I was wearing wellies with tungsten studs in the soles for grip. I didn't mind getting a bit wet on the lower landing, It was pretty calm anyway. I guided it with the rod, aware that if it was going to be lost, this is likely the spot, as often the fish needs resistance to spin free. I beached the bull huss at the base of the steps and grabbed it in a split second and was off up the steps, still concerned it would find its way out of my hands and into the sea, as we have no railings down there. I felt relieved when I reached the top, finally getting the fish somewhere secure. It wasn't a PB but a tidy bull huss. I have been stuck on 13lb 5oz since about 2013, and I am convinced that the Channel Island shore caught record can be beaten on this island; there are lots of them over the rough kelpie ground.
I quickly weighed this fish, and it was 12lb 3oz's, not bad, not amazing. I needed to get the first huss back in the water; it darted off as if nothing had happened. Then came the task of photographing this horror of a fish. I almost got bitten whilst unhooking it; it jackknifed back at me with the skill of a cat. Whilst this creature was calming, I popped another bait out and got the camera ready. I found a product photography light in my bag, which made things a bit easier for me. After two or three images, I slipped the fish back, and it took no time to recover. Huss are so tough and resilient; only the close relative, the lesser spotted dogfish, has this hardy nature.
Just as I was collecting my thoughts and thinking that I'd love a drink, the rod again went, a blast on the drag. An identical routine played out; it felt lighter and looked less broad from above. This huss was 9lb 9oz on the scales; I made an exception to my "no double, no photo" rule, as the camera was already set up. This one was a total pain, every time I hit the camera button for the 10-second timer, it coiled up like a cobra and was determined to bite me.
Dawn was by now breaking; I had not stopped and was feeling pretty jaded as the horizon toward Jersey and France filled with colours. The huss were gone, and the dogs replaced them, one after another. In my infinite wisdom, I thought I'd get a nice photo of one, and for the briefest of moments, I let go of its tail and, yes, the back of my hand now looks like I have had a boxing match with a gorse bush.
I had a few flicks with metal lures at high tide in daylight. I had one black bream get hooked up but, it came off as I tried to lift it; it was only titchy, shimmering silver and purple a few metres below me. A boat zipped by, and one of the locals stopped for a chat as I was packing up. It had been a lively session, some good sport, especially on the spod rod but, I was knackered, and dreading the climb up the harbour hill.
Thanks for reading.
Cheers
Chris
PS Sorry I am not getting around to commenting and interacting on many of your great reports, I just feel like I have no time at the moment to do anything other than work or fish.
By around 2:40am, which was bang on low tide, dressed in my warm kit, I headed down the avenue only to realise my Airpod batteries were flat. Music or something motivational audio certainly helps take my mind off my aches and pains carrying kit, that and my optimism that it'll be a great session. It was pitch black going down the hill; the only sound was that of the odd startled bird up in the dark canopy of the trees, spooking as I stomped down the muddy hill. The sky was pretty cloudy but there was the odd window of stars. The wind was pretty cutting as I turned the corner from the old tip and passed through the tunnel into Maseline Harbour. I quickly changed the leader on the bait rod and tied one of the four or five up and over rigs that I had with me. I always use up and over rigs to fish on clean ground, especially in a tidal run. On this occasion, I had no intention of casting into the rough stuff near the tunnel; I wanted to be fishing without snags and as lazy as this sounds, without hassles. Friday was still on my mind, and the Silver Mines had physically and mentally crushed me.
The first cast, I sent a quadruple sandeel bait out with 4oz and turned around to pick up the Graphex lure rod. First chuck with that, I was into a squid. It was windy, so I'd opted for a fixed paternoster instead of working the jig manually. I kept casting and getting more and more, all were perfect bait sizes instead of the whoppers that are usually about. I glanced to my right and saw the carp rod was nodding and had moved a long way down-tide. I leant into it, and it felt like unless a cuttle was on, a lump of weed was probable. To my surprise, it went light, and nothing was on. Next up, I fired 3/4 of a mackerel out and got back to squidding. The same thing happened again, but it felt like a cod nodding; it was a strange sensation. Realising it might be something I wasn't used to catching here, I nursed the fish up to the surface slowly until I could see it, and to my surprise, a big old squid had taken a dead bait. I did my best to get it to the smaller drop net, which was already floating below me, tethered by the twisted blue rope. But to my disappointment, it came off yards short.
I feel I should explain at this point; I'd left my 5ft diameter circular net for big fish at Port Gorey, hidden on a flat rock, as I couldn't face carrying it 2 miles home. That meant it wasn't down at the harbour to use to land fish, only the much smaller one, which is suitable for squid and LRF species (2.5ft). I'd had a stroke of tremendous luck; there is a blue shipping container that is usually tight to the railings by the steps; it's the only thing that prevents you from walking the fish along the concrete breakwater and landing them at the steps below. For some reason, the harbour master had moved it with the crane, and it was on the opposite side, meaning I could land fish if I were lucky enough to hook anything decent. Dogfish were munching my sandeel almost as soon as they hit the water, very frustrating indeed. And even more disheartening, sand fleas were devouring the mackerel; this was a bit of a low point; I'd enjoyed the squid fishing but, had I made the wrong choice taking bait gear?
Next, things started to pick up, and I had to abandon the squid gear; decent bites began to come, and they became more purposeful. My excitement levels were up; after a good pull down on the braid, I struck, I was into a better fish. For those of you who have never owned or cast a spod rod, everyone should own one. They are so lovely to cast with their whippy action, and when playing a fish, they absorb every kick and thump; you get this recoil down the thin blank. I played this fish to 20 yards out for just about long enough to see it was half decent bull huss, I saw the Catseye type reflection briefly, and in a split second, it was gone, slipping back into the eerie darkness; it had spun off the single catfish hook.
I wasn't bothered; I wanted a tope, a ray or a decent eel; huss was last on my list from the harbour, mainly because I have a mark up the north end of the island that produces them pretty reliably. I cast out again, and the same thing happened twenty minutes later, another huss gone. Losing them is pretty common unless you are using circle hooks, in which case you rarely ever lose one. Bullhuss are experts at spinning free but, with an 8/0 circle, almost every fish is hooked ideally in the corner of the mouth. I went back to my bag of makeshift gear to travel light and checked the three remaining rigs to see if any had a circle instead of a catfish hook. I was in luck; one of the coiled-up rigs had just the hook required for these angry huss.
I was pretty pleased with how my baits were looking, and the newly deployed circle wire trace had a fish on within five minutes, and it felt good. I hopped up on the tyres and began to play it, guiding this fish beneath me around the corner of the breakwater, passing the rod from one hand to the other, around the light post so that I could hop off the wall. I gazed down at the huss thrashing in the deep green water illuminated by my torch. It's a beautiful sight, seeing these stunningly marked fish gliding through the water. Without that blue container in my way, it was a pretty easy job walking the fish to the steps in the far corner of the harbour. As I lifted it with the trace in one hand, the wire cut into me a little, making me think it was probably over ten pounds. I didn't really have a choice but to carry it up the steps this way, as my rod was in my left hand. I popped it on the scales, and it had just made my criteria for getting a photo; it was 10lb 1oz.
I managed to get the hook out pretty quickly. Then I set my tripod and big camera up for a couple of shots. I had another bait ready to clip on and send out. I quickly cast and then took the pics. This is about the time when things got chaotic; I'll explain why. The harbour light is usually set on a timer that comes on when it's getting dark and goes off at first light. However, someone has bungled things up in the harbour master's office (my theory, I could be wrong), and the light isn't coming on until well after dark, and it's going off well before first light. I set my camera up by the light, to use it as a light source, and it suddenly goes off. I put my thinking cap on and decided I'd put my torch on the floor and use that as the light source to help the camera take the image using auto-focus. It's all quite tricky, especially picking a huss up with no torch on and getting the proper distance from the camera. As I am doing this, my rod wedged between the tyres starts nodding forward, and the reel has line peeling off it. I am up like a shot, or as fast as someone with a weary, broken body from fishing lately can be, and I instantly feel a fish is on. Immediately after I struck, I wasn't sure what it was; it really felt heavy as it fought, but it began to feel like a big huss, thrashing as I worked it toward the old stone breakwater. There was one problem, I'd grabbed the rod before I grabbed my torch, the pier light was off, and I was light-less. As I worked the fish toward me, keeping it high in the water column, I glanced back at my torch on the floor, some 4m behind me and wondered how I'd get to it without the line touching the structure. I was worried, too, as I was back on the catfish hook, and if this was a nice huss, it could come off. Eventually, I chanced it, and in one scoop with my right hand, I had the torch off the deck and on my head whilst still maintaining contact with the fish. The broad bodied beast breached the surface; it looked magnificent. I really wanted this one in. I carefully walked the length of the breakwater, watching it below as the stout fish went into a crocodile death roll a few times. I soon descended the slippy steps to the emerald green water as it washed over the sandy coloured stone. I was wearing wellies with tungsten studs in the soles for grip. I didn't mind getting a bit wet on the lower landing, It was pretty calm anyway. I guided it with the rod, aware that if it was going to be lost, this is likely the spot, as often the fish needs resistance to spin free. I beached the bull huss at the base of the steps and grabbed it in a split second and was off up the steps, still concerned it would find its way out of my hands and into the sea, as we have no railings down there. I felt relieved when I reached the top, finally getting the fish somewhere secure. It wasn't a PB but a tidy bull huss. I have been stuck on 13lb 5oz since about 2013, and I am convinced that the Channel Island shore caught record can be beaten on this island; there are lots of them over the rough kelpie ground.
I quickly weighed this fish, and it was 12lb 3oz's, not bad, not amazing. I needed to get the first huss back in the water; it darted off as if nothing had happened. Then came the task of photographing this horror of a fish. I almost got bitten whilst unhooking it; it jackknifed back at me with the skill of a cat. Whilst this creature was calming, I popped another bait out and got the camera ready. I found a product photography light in my bag, which made things a bit easier for me. After two or three images, I slipped the fish back, and it took no time to recover. Huss are so tough and resilient; only the close relative, the lesser spotted dogfish, has this hardy nature.
Just as I was collecting my thoughts and thinking that I'd love a drink, the rod again went, a blast on the drag. An identical routine played out; it felt lighter and looked less broad from above. This huss was 9lb 9oz on the scales; I made an exception to my "no double, no photo" rule, as the camera was already set up. This one was a total pain, every time I hit the camera button for the 10-second timer, it coiled up like a cobra and was determined to bite me.
Dawn was by now breaking; I had not stopped and was feeling pretty jaded as the horizon toward Jersey and France filled with colours. The huss were gone, and the dogs replaced them, one after another. In my infinite wisdom, I thought I'd get a nice photo of one, and for the briefest of moments, I let go of its tail and, yes, the back of my hand now looks like I have had a boxing match with a gorse bush.
I had a few flicks with metal lures at high tide in daylight. I had one black bream get hooked up but, it came off as I tried to lift it; it was only titchy, shimmering silver and purple a few metres below me. A boat zipped by, and one of the locals stopped for a chat as I was packing up. It had been a lively session, some good sport, especially on the spod rod but, I was knackered, and dreading the climb up the harbour hill.
Thanks for reading.
Cheers
Chris
PS Sorry I am not getting around to commenting and interacting on many of your great reports, I just feel like I have no time at the moment to do anything other than work or fish.
