Party Boat Wreck Fishing

My grandfather was living with us for the summer, but the busyness of my schedule meant that we weren't able to go fishing as much as I would have liked. 

So when the end of August neared, I decided to take us out to the coast for a day wreck fishing on a party boat. The main targets for the day would be black sea bass and red hake (called "ling" locally), both of which would be new species for me. Funnily enough, I had never fished for these locally abundant species before, despite living so close. I was fairly confident that we would encounter sea bass and red hake, but I knew there were opportunities for several other bottom-dwelling fishes. 

The morning came quickly, and at sunrise the boat motored off towards the Atlantic. 

My grandfather enjoying the sunrise

The boat planned to stop at several inshore wrecks to target Black Sea bass, before moving to deeper water for red hake.

Upon arrival to the first stop, anglers dropped their lines as did I, and within a few seconds I have a bite and cranked up a double-header of black sea bass, a male and a female. We were using high-low rigs with clams as bait and 6-8 oz sinkers.

The black sea bass–species #130.

Both fish were too short, so back they went.

My grandfather and I did eventually tie into several nicer specimens that we kept for dinner.

The action was hot, although most fish were short. My grandfather caught a very plump Atlantic chub mackerel that we cut up for bait in addition to the clams.

Once most people had gotten their limit of two keeper sea bass, the boat left the area and headed east towards deeper water. It took a while to get there, and once we did, it took even longer for the boat to be positioned, since the lack of wind made for a tough drift. The first few spots produced a fish or two for some people, but the action just wasn't present. Finally, at one of the spots I got a little knocked, cranked up 200 feet of line, and pulled up a little baby hake that was missing an eye.

Species #131, the red hake.

As slimy as they are, I was able to position this one nicely enough to get a decent photo. 

After the first ling broke the ice, fishing improved and I caught several more hake. A man next to me was consistently catching American conger eels and ocean pout, but I couldn't replicate his success. 

Then on one drop, I got tangled with one of my neighbors (a common occurrence, especially on crowded days). After clearing the tangle, I felt weight on the line and set the hook into what felt like a much more decent fish than the ling we had been catching. Reeling it to the surface was an effort, but I was delighted to see an ocean pout on the end of the line. 

That's species #132, if you're following along. 

The pout was the highlight of my day, one of the strangest fish that inhabits our waters and one that I was really hoping I would encounter. 

Cool as they may be, they present quite a challenge to any person wishing to straighten one out for a quick photo. 

Beautiful pectoral fins on this specimen. 

I ended up finally getting a decent shot of it before sending it back into the ocean. 

One notable comment regarding the ocean pout: ocean pout are able to produce an antifreeze protein to prevent their body fluids from freezing in sub-freezing saltwater. My final project in Biochemistry is on antifreeze proteins in fish, and in researching it I came upon this knowledge; one more interesting thing about this species. 

No more new species would make an appearance, but as the day wound to an end I did get several nicer-sized red hake. 

A solid day fishing with my grandfather; we combined for a multitude of ling and sea bass to take back home to cook. And I got three new species out of the endeavor, bringing me to 132. I am on the road to 150!

Europe: Denmark and Sweden

I was off to mainland Europe after Iceland; this would offer a fresh opportunity to catch new species in new countries.

The first stop was Copenhagen, Denmark. While the city was beautiful, I had a tough time during our visit finding somewhere to fish—the canals, though plentiful, seemed mostly devoid of life. The river in front of the Royal Museum had some nice-sized carp, but the AK-47 carried on the guard shoulders radiated out an unmistakable "no fishing" sign.

The one place of note was the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, situated by the shore north of the city. After the museum visit, while the rest of my family grabbed dinner, I raced to the rocky bank to see if I couldn't catch a new species or two.

The shore was rocky and full of seaweed, but there was much life in the calm and clear water. I saw pipefish and assorted small reef fish that didn't care for my bait. Standing on rocks protruding over deeper water, however, I saw tiny gobies on the sandy parts of the bottom and they were more than happy to oblige. 

A quick look online revealed these to be sand gobies, species #111 and the fish that added Denmark to my list of countries I have caught a fish in. That species would conclude my short but sweet fishing in Denmark. It was off to Stockholm, Sweden, where I hoped I would have a more fruitful time chasing freshwater fishes.

The very first area we visited upon arrival in Stockholm was the Vasa Museum—a fascinating exhibit dedicated to a 17th-century warship salvaged after spending three centuries in the ocean. The boat was extremely well preserved. I managed to get some pretty cool close up shots of it.

Equally fascinating were the numerous, though small, European perch I observed swimming in the side basin next to the museum. Dropping a little feather jig was enticing enough, and species #112 was mine, Perca fluviatilis. With the yellow perch of the North America, P. flavenscens, I have caught 2/3 of the Perca genus; to complete it requires a trip to Kazakhstan.

After leaving the museum, I decided to fish around the little island a bit and caught some more European perch.



There were some cool boats around the dock; as interesting as they were, I was keen on finding fish in those waters.

The first day yielded just the perch, but there was plenty more to come.

I needed to find a spot I could walk to from where we were staying. With Google Maps, I found a set of fishy-looking docks next to some reeds by a canal a short 20 minute walk from the our place.

The second morning I woke up bright and early to get to the spot and get some fishing in before the events of the day. I was immediately excited when I spooked schools of fish hanging in the shallows. I found a good spot and waited for the fish to settle. It took a little convincing, but the first fish fell for a chunk of white bread freelined to the school.

The ide, species #113. A strong fighter and an aggressive fish, by European cyprinid standards, anyway.

The same tactic yielded a roach next, species #114, probably the most abundant fish in the canal.

There were the deeper-bodied common bream as well, the largest fish of the schools swimming by the dock, but for some reason I found them incredibly wary, contrary to what I had read online about their abundance to the point of pestilence.

With several ide and roach, I turned my attention to the smaller cyprinids hanging under the dock, which fell easily to a small piece of bread on a tiny hook. Most, it turned out, were juvenile roach, but between roach I pulled out a small, silvery bream. A lateral line scale count revealed it to be a white bream, the only white bream I would catch. Species #115.

Going to the same spot every morning, I was consistently greeted by more roach and ide.

On one of the mornings, however, I noticed schools of smaller, slender fish swimming near the surface towards the middle of the canal. They were too far to reach with my micro setup, although they seemed fairly aggressive, chasing but not committing to micro hooks placed nearer to the dock. Improvising, I tied a tanago hook to my regular rod and attached a small float above it so I could cast the setup out. For bait, I put a little piece of bacon fat on, leftovers from Iceland. Casting it out and reeling it back in so the bait moved just under the surface worked wonders, as the fish attacked the bait with vigor. It didn't take long for one to get pinned, and I had species #116, the bleak.

What remained were the common bream. I had a very close call with a very large bream, but missed the hookset, and for some reason the other bream weren't responding at all to my corn and anything else I threw at them. Perplexing indeed, but in attempting to catch bream I caught plenty more of the same species.

Every now and then, I would see perch swim  by the docks, and so I decided to pitch some larger lures under the docks to see if any willing predators were around. It payed off, and I was rewarded with plenty of more respectable perch.

Live bleak and juvenile roach proved to be tempting for the perch as well.

Eventually, it came to my last morning at the docks, and by this point I was getting quite frustrated by the lack of cooperation from the bream. I decided to put all my effort towards catching them, but was still greeted with indifference.

Resorting to whatever I had in my tackle bag, I tied on a small hook with a single kernel of corn and a hot pink Gulp! maggot, and almost had a heart attack when one of them nibbled. This got me thinking. I found a school situated under the dock, and tried my best not to spook them. Directly overhead of them, I dropped a single, freelined pink maggot down, and watched carefully as one of them came up to it before turned away, and then another came and sucked it in without hesitation.

For all the trouble it gave me, it didn't really fight much and I grabbed it without difficulty. No matter, though, because I had finally caught a common bream, species #117. A success, and I could head back to the States with one less overseas grudge. A fine fishy ending to a fine summer.

All the fine natural baits I tried, and they opted to bite this pink smelly bit of rubber.

Iceland Part 1: Bacon

A fitting end to the summer was a family trip to Europe, something that I had been looking forward to for quite some time. The plan was to begin the trip in Iceland, and visit Denmark and Sweden after, in that order, and I couldn't have been more excited. 

This was only my second time visiting Europe, the first being a trip to Italy when I was considerably younger. On that trip however, no fishing was done, so I had yet to catch a fish from the continent of Europe. I had grandiose plans of getting as much fishing as I possibly could in a family trip, and was especially optimistic in terms of species hunting because I knew almost every species I would encounter would be new. Little did I know, the first leg of the trip I would find myself allied with an unexpected culinary item... more on that later. 

Iceland was the first stop, and was also the country we would be spending the majority of our time in. I was glad this was the case, as I vastly prefer the rugged beauty of Iceland over the more urban environment in Copenhagen and Stockholm. Upon arrival, we got into our rental car and started the short journey towards Reykjavik, the capitol city. Along the way, we marveled at the sights of an alien landscape, and eventually stopped at a fault line where the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates meet. Iceland truly is a strange and wondrous place: dark grey volcanic rock covered the terrain, looking like little meteorites. Flashes of green and pink dotted the ground where the small and hardy flora species clutched on to life. 

In the picture I was standing on the bridge that connected the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates. Pretty neat.

After a while, onward we went towards Reykjavik. We had booked a quaint little AirBnB in the Old City, a short walk away from the harbor. When we got settled in, I found myself free and wasted no time getting my gear in preparation to fish the saltwater around the numerous pilings and docks around the harbor. The harbor would be my only opportunity to fish the salt in Iceland, so I was eager to make the most of my time, as Iceland has a very limited selection of freshwater fish species. 

The first issue was bait. It seems as if the only recreational anglers on the island were interested in solely salmonids and fly fishing, so bait was a no show. I paid a visit to the local grocery store however, hoping to find some raw seafood, but it was processed and expensive. Instead, I picked up a thick pack of cheap bacon. I had watched a video some time ago in which the guy catches a ton of fluke using bacon strips on jigs for fluke. If summer flounder in the northeast like bacon, I was sure that some variety of cold, salty Icelandic fish would. Besides, after weeks upon weeks of scouting locations and fish, I had a fairly good idea of what I would be targeting, and none were especially picky. 

The next issue was finding a location to fish. An unfortunate turn of events resulted in my original spot getting blocked by construction, so I was left to wander the harbor in search of a place to fish. I'm not complaining though, because I got to see some pretty cool sights. 

I passed by the famous landmark Harpa Concert Hall, home to thousands of live performances, including dance, orchestras, operas, and music festivals.

And I decided it was a good place to fish.

I didn't expect anything large, so I decided to start by probing around with a little 1/16 feather jig. I tipped the jig with a sizable piece of bacon, and opened the bail to let line fall out. I let the line go slack and the monofilament pied up on the water's surface. As the bait dropped in the water column, line would follow, and when the line stopped moving, I would know that the jig had met bottom.

Only, on the first drop, the line kept moving for impossibly long. I knew the water wasn't that deep, so I tightened up to see what was going on. When all the slack was gone, I felt a little wiggle, and only then did I realize a fish was attached!

The fight was short and sluggish, and when the fish materialized in the water, I saw it was a small Atlantic cod. I crossed my fingers and hoisted it up, and I had species #105.

It quickly became evident that there was an abundance of these cookiecutter cod in the area, because dropping a bait down into the dock pilings would result in a hookup almost every drop.

After my jig had gotten acquainted with quite a few cod, it was clear that I would have to change my strategy to catch something different. So I dropped down a very small hook with a tiny bit of bacon on a bottom rig, and set it to the side while continuing to fish with the jig. Every now and then, I would get taps on the small hook, only to lift the rod up and feel pressure for barely a moment before feeling nothing on the line. This occurred for a couple of times, before finally, the hook stuck and I reeled up what felt like dead weight. When the fish neared the surface, I saw why: the mouth was huge, and I realized that I had just been pulling the hook straight out of the fish's mouth the entire time.

Since it worked last time, I again crossed my fingers and hoisted my line up onto the pier and thus had species #106, the shorthorn sculpin.

This was a species I'd hoped I would encounter. Sculpins are an incredibly interesting and diverse group of fishes, not to mention aggressive. This was my second saltwater sculpin species: the first being the Pacific staghorn sculpin from Washington state back in 2014.

More sculpin ensued, and it quickly became clear that they were prolific on the harbor floor.

Although the sculpins' mottling and striped fins were eye-catching, I needed to turn my attention elsewhere if I was to have any hopes of catching more new species.

Through thorough investigation, I learned that there were a couple of flatfish species around the area. Unfortunately, every time I sent out a stationary bottom rig, the sculpin would reach it too fast, way before any other fish could have a chance at taking the bait.

To this I gave a good deal of thought, as I needed to come up with a different approach, one that presented a moving bait that would weed out some of the sculpins. The fish I would be targeting would be small, for sure, so any larger lures would be out of the question.

I ended up borrowing a page out a the Northeastern fluke anglers handbook. The idea is to use a three way rig, with a heavy bucktail jig on the outward line, followed by a longer length of line with a teaser lure or smaller jig. The big lure would fall fast and kick up sand on the retrieve, attracting the attention of flatfish. The flatfish could either bite the bucktail, if they were feeling aggressive, or they could see the teaser coming a few feet back and take that instead.

Since the rig needed to be downsized, instead of a bucktail I used a small bank sinker, and instead of a teaser I put on a tiny hook and a small strip of bacon. I cast it out, making sure to bump the weight on the bottom on the retrieve.

Not three casts in, I felt a hard hit and was greeted by something that fought much harder than the sculpin and the cod. It was what I was looking for, a common dab and species #107.

The tactic proved killer for the dabs. Using it, I only caught dabs and caught zero sculpin or cod. Changing tactics can pay off when targeting even similar species in the same environment.

I would end the session with three new species, a solid start, but I knew there were more to be caught. The next morning, I went out early and tried a different location, and was greeted by the usual three fishes.

However, I observed small, codlike fishes swimming in a slight current caused by an outlet on a pier wall. I had seen similar fishes, but they were swimming in schools and moving too fast to target effectively. This situation, however, presented an opportunity where the fish would remain stationary. I suspected the fish were simply juvenile Atlantic cod, but I decided to give it a crack anyways. Putting a tiny piece of bacon on a size 16 hook under a tiny float, I lobbed out a cast into the current and was pleasantly surprised when the fish were quite aggressive. They did have the tendency to spit the bait, however, so it took a couple tries before I actually hooked one.

I brought the fish in, and immediately recognized that it was not a cod. Rather, it shone a turquoise color, which confused me. Later, I realized that this was a juvenile coalfish, and species #108.

Coalfish (Pollachius virens) is known as pollock in the States, but in Europe, the common name pollock refers to a separate species of the same genus.

The coalfish would end my saltwater fishing in Iceland, but thankfully freshwater provided me with some new targets, though limited.

Walking through a city park in the middle of Reykjavik, I saw some small fish scuttling about in the shallow, weedy water of a pond, and immediately recognized them as three-spined stickleback, which sounds a lot more difficult than it was, considering there are only 12 species of freshwater fish on the island, and one stickleback species.

Unfortunately I was without anything to catch them with, but since the place we were staying was less than a mile away, I ran back and grabbed the necessary supplies, then ran back to the pond. It was fairly urban, after all, and I was unsure of whether or not fishing was allowed, so I settled in a small corner sheltered from the wind with a little drainage pipe.

The stickleback were aggressive, and a little strand of bacon fat was all it took to convince them. Species #109 was in the books.

When they lock out their spines like this, you can prop them up like a tripod. 

A catch of note: this is my smallest catch ever, edging out my previous smallest, an eastern mosquitofish from Florida.

The three-spined stickleback would conclude my endeavors in Reykjavik, but a wild goose chase lay ahead in the slightly more wild parts of Iceland.