Dinghy. The Little Magazine. Issue 12

April 24 - May 7 2012

FREE

To Good H

ome.

Fun & frolic on Olde Cape Cod.

Dear God, Thank you for the perfect dessert.

photo J. James Joiner

www.CapeCodLollicakes.com 3821 Falmouth Rd Marstons Mills 02648 (774) 521-3563

NEW LARGER LOCATION New England’s largest selection of kaleidoscopes — from toys to collectibles!

They make unique gifts!

Durette Studios

3 Central Square

Mashpee Commons, Mashpee

Chesnik Scopes On Reflection

508-477-0661

www.CapeKaleidoscopes.com

(Not so) fine print.

Dinghy is published bi-weekly right here on Cape Cod, by a locally owned business. We believe in supporting local at every possible opportunity and think you should too.

We’d love to hear your comments, story ideas, or submissions. Send ‘em to hey@thelittlemagazine.com.

If you’re not of the digital persuasion, you can use the good ol’ USPS at P.O. Box 404 Cotuit, MA 02635.

Although at that point you may as well just give us a call at (508) 348-9845.

Can’t wait for the next issue? www.thelittlemagazine.com Or make it Facebook official: Facebook.com/dinghymagazine

On the cover: Stripers are back! A fly at the ready. photo J. James Joiner

Get your Cape Cod on.

www.CindyJoiner.net (508) 542-3695

Dog a y s

Coming May 1, 2012 to the Cotuit Center for the Arts

www.littlebluepillmovie.org

Made Home made suet balls.

A great way to get outside and enjoy the legions of happy songbirds that are returning to the Cape for summer, these mini birdfeeders are cheap, fun and easy to make.

What you need: String Pinecones Peanut Bitter Birdseed.

photos by J. James Joiner

Start off by spooning liberal amounts of peanut butter onto your pinecone. Once it’s heaped on there, smoosh it with your hands – don’t be afraid to get a little goopy! The sprinkle and smear the birdseed into your peanut butter base. Don’t be stingy!

Cut strings, keeping in mind you will be hanging these, and tie onto the bottom ridge of your pinecone.

Hang your bird treats at varying heights from a tree you can see easily from a window, this way you can sit back and watch the feeding frenzy!

Birds will usually find these within an hour.

While birds love these home made suet balls, they’re not the only ones... Make sure you keep your eyes open or other domestic predators will swoop in and help themselves!

Fish How to: The Surf Snake

words and images by Chris Kokorda

I dream flies. I know that sounds a bit overboard, but bear with me.

When I’m done fishing my mind is usually racing from the experience. The details, subtleties, intricacies of the process all fascinate me. How can I do this better the next time?

Somewhere around age 10, my grandfather showed me how to tie my first flies. He wasn’t particularly accomplished as a fly-tier, but the knowledge he imparted was an inspiration, an epiphany. The pursuit of catching fish, not on bait or lures you buy, but on flies that you design and create yourself. Too cool!

So, I’ve been tying flies for a long time, more on than off for the better part of thirty years. Tying is just as much a part of flyfishing for me as casting. Post-fishing analysis often leads me to alter and create flies to improve or suit fishing situations. After a long day on the water, I wind down, with some food and drink, tie a few at the vise, and hit the pillow still tying – so I dream flies. Eventually I try to put those dreams down on paper. Sketched in pencil, those ideas sometimes become actual flies, conceptualized, developed and engineered to fish.

The Surf Snake is a pattern derived from my night fishing experiences on the outer beaches of Cape Cod. One September evening I was launching big black deceiver-like patterns to 20-pound linesiders in the wash. A two-handed eight weight with a shooting head really lets you cover some water and cast a big fly. I was hooking some and landing a few, but I had dropped several better fish.

I hollered over the roar of the surf to my friend Mahoney in the dark, “Dropped him again, damn it.”

He yelled back, “Dull hook – rocks.”

Mahoney always knew the skinny. I checked my fly. Sure enough the point of the 5/0. was scraped and dinged over. The fly I was using was a standard tie with the hook point keeled down. The deep wash we

were fishing dictated probing low with a heavy head line. As the fly swung down through the wash, the riptide raked the hook over the rocky bottom resulting in a dull point. I finished out the night constantly re-checking my fly, fighting a few more fish but mostly unable to prevent the hook damage.

On my drive home the wheels in my head start turnin’.

Food, drink, tie flies, sleep, dream flies, tie more flies, fish – and repeat.

The new fly represents a favorite food of beach-going bass, eels! Eight to 12 inches long and rides hook-point up. No more dinged hooks and the big ones are brought to hand.

This dream really did come true and Gramps would be proud.

Chris Kokorda lives, works and fishes on Cape Cod. He manages a fly shop and does what he loves.

Wind blown.

Photo J. james Joiner

Buzzing the tower.

Photo J. james Joiner

Dawn at Prince Cove Marina.

Photo J. james Joiner

Photos

A lone boatman in Osterville.

Photo J. james Joiner

Eating greens.

Photo J. james Joiner

Captain Jack. Sparrow, that is.

Photo J. james Joiner

Daddyism Woke up early and made coffee to go, hoping the right rod was in the trunk.

You can only feather the gas pedal for so long with the warning light beaming its orange beacon through the haze before common sense and a general distaste for hitchhiking takes over. Had to dive head first into the overdraft protection for a full tank and some gas station breakfast, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Cruised the usual spots, drive-by slow, squinting into postcard perfect pre-sunrise gold for any signs of life, but not a lot is happening except for a flotilla of boats tearing into position just offshore, the good ol’ boys howling and barking at each other over whining motors and a turning tide.

If I were a fish, I feel like I’d know better than to be here.

But I’m not a fish, just one of the apex predators who stalks them, and so I am here, slathered in bug sauce and sweating through long sleeves in the rapidly warming spring air. The opiatic good natured dullness of early morning is giving way to daytime’s caffeinated reality, my illusions slowly cracking under the weight of responsibility. I have to at least get the line wet, risk having more than mosquito pimples and eye baggage to show for leaving the warm safety of bed’s nest in an attempt to fly on my own.

Knots are hard this early, stumbling fingers don’t do as they’re bidden just yet, but I finally get the mass of feathers, tinsel and hook secured and crunch across someone more fortunate’s third home’s oyster shell driveway and down to the open expanse of sandy beach, a surly cloud of seagulls ruffling and hopping away at my clumsy approach.

The sun is higher – too high, really, to justify just getting out here – and glows molten across calm water, silhouetting the Normandy invasion of boaters bobbing just past the surf line.

Kayaks and Whalers and Carolinas and bigger, more exotic breeds all purring and growling an arms breadth from each other, vying for space and waiting for something to happen like the guy who sold them the frozen hunks of bait yesterday said it would.

Sighing a deep exhalation of wrongly-placed self righteousness I strip line into my name brand plastic tub, wishing I had either loosened the belt a bit or had a few less adult sodas the night prior. Belt loosening seems the most realistic preference. A couple haphazard false casts, the rod tip moving back and forth, chased by the gently buzzing fly, a quick jerk of the line and release, it pitches forward and divides the distance between my sandy-footed self and the fiberglass shoreline bobbing beyond.

Strip, strip, strip... The blue line holds slight coils as it fills my basket, salty water bringing a briny smell once free of the glassy surface tension. Repeat. And again.

Nothing is happening.

Any migrating fish that are headed this way have likely either already passed or sonically picked up on the noisy line of man-made shore birds and made the decision to seek breakfast elsewhere, a decision I agree with and am about to emulate when a shout comes from the distance.

I don’t understand the words, but the meaning is clear, and the exclamation is repeated again

and again down the line, a flurry of activity as rod after rod suddenly bends, line taught. The real train wreck begins as those who aren’t immediately seeing action kick engine’s throttles and move closer to luckier parties, a sudden gridlock of shouting, swearing, hook waving territorial disputes.

Cast, strip.

Cast, strip.

Cast. Strip.

Cast. Stri– hit!

The line changes direction suddenly, pulling back through the guides, emptying the basket and sending salty droplets of shrapnel through the air. My heart pounds, a tired brain adrenalizes, switches to instinctive reaction. I set the drag a bit and get it on the reel, give and take line as it plays back and forth. Connected, suddenly hardwired, we move in unison. I wade into the surf a bit, cooling water traveling up my jeans, inching towards future discomfort. The din of offshore angst is lost in the moment, all senses focused on the line and bending, epileptic rod.

Line is cranked back on the black anodized spool of the reel, then whiningly ripped back, over and over again. We seem almost at a standoff, equals dancing, though the fish with ultimately more to lose than I. Seconds turn to long minutes, minutes blending together into space, a space outside the normal span of time. There are only the two of us, locked together in battle, though the outcome is for all intents and purposes harshly prejudiced. The sun is higher, the air brighter and warmer, when we at last lock gazes, my bloodshot brown eyes and its huge black and sullen yellow ones. No recognition is registered in those distant pupils, they look through me, fate accepted as I drag its tired body into shallow water. No thanks, either, as I slip the cruel hook free of its bloody mouth and push it away, its tail propelling it back to the

deeper water. All that’s left is a few scales, floating silver in the water, and soon they too wash away.

The boats are still a makeshift island of anarchy, the fish having moved on and left a bit of chaos and some good tales in their wake and I cut free my battered fly and reel in, reality back and in full effect. Until dusk.

The author anxiously awaiting his next striper blitz. photo Angela Schwarz

Mention this ad for 10% off your next order

J. James Joiner Photography

www.jjamesjoiner.com

(508) 246-7241

facebook.com/jjamesjoinerjr