Added on Thursday, April 29, 2010  Fish Post

New River’s Spring Bonus Plan

After suffering not one but two broken ankles (resulting in several surgeries and some titanium skeletal adornments) this winter, saying I was ready to hit the water this spring was an understatement that would’ve made the British proud. Fortunately for me, Capt. Wayne Crisco, of Last Resort Charters, called to tell Gary Hurley that the Atlantic bonito had arrived north of Topsail, he’d be chasing them on Saturday, and would we like to tag along?

Gary was just about as fishing-starved as I, since Fisherman’s Post, family, and school obligations had kept the newspaper publisher/English teacher/father twice-over land bound for much of the winter. Needless to say, we leapt at the opportunity.

As Wayne throttled up the 150 Yamaha four-stroke powering his brand new 23’ May-Craft bay boat and pointed the bow down the ICW towards New River Inlet after picking us up at the North Topsail Wildlife ramp, my anticipation was fairly boiling over.

The brief April appearance of Atlantic bonito gorging themselves on tiny baitfish at local nearshore reefs offers one of my favorite angling opportunities of the year and, combined with my fishing jones, had my heart racing before we even reached the inlet. It seemed I was due for some good luck, and it didn’t take long to materialize.

“There they are,” Wayne said, moments after guiding the May-Craft through the narrow channel between New River’s treacherous sandbars.

Gary and I each followed his outstretched finger with our eyes and witnessed a sight that never fails to thrill me. Between our vessel and the dozens of boats prospecting for fish at the large hard and live bottom area known as Diver’s Rock a few miles offshore, the ocean’s slick surface was repeatedly torn apart by a gang of ravenous bonito gorging themselves on tiny baitfish. In the midst of dozens of splashes that looked like bricks falling from the sky, several fish leapt clean from the surface in their frenzied pursuit of a luckless and soon-to-be nonexistent school of glass minnows.

“I’ve got diamond jigs in this bag,” Wayne said, plunking a bag full of the prismatic lead lures onto his leaning post. “I’m going to ease right up to them.”

As I hurriedly tied on a jig, Wayne guided the boat towards the mayhem, pulling back the throttle just as we got within casting range of the fish.

Gary and I each fired a jig to the edges of the whitewater while Wayne quickly rigged his own rod with a jig. After letting mine sink for a few seconds, I began speed-reeling it back to the boat. The lure only made it halfway there before stopping dead. I snapped up the rod tip to set the hook and felt momentary resistance before the line went slack.

“Is that him?” Wayne queried as I again speed-reeled, trying to get the slack out of the line. For a moment I wasn’t sure, but it soon became apparent that one of the speedy little predators had grabbed my jig and charged the boat.

The rod doubled and the reel began a mournful wail as the fish changed directions, and I could do little but hang on, keep the rod tip up, and grin for the next few moments.

“Yeah, that’s one of the ones we’re looking for,” I said through my smile.

The darting runs and sudden turns, along with the spinning reel’s drag, eventually took their toll on the fish, and a few minutes after I hooked up, I saw my adversary’s silver flanks flashing 10’ below the boat in the clear green water. The fish soon locked into the mackerel and tuna family’s signature move at the end of a fight—circling, stubborn and slow—beneath the boat as I lifted the rod and reeled to try and pressure the bonito to the surface.

The tackle took its toll soon enough, and I worked the bonito toward the boat. Just as I felt I’d won the battle, the fish gave a final headshake and my diamond jig came flying out of the water. I think the fish may have been as surprised as I was for a moment, but only a moment, as it shot down and away from the boat to go back to its school after an incredibly brief pause.

No matter. We could see plenty more schools of fish breaking amidst the 40 boat-strong fleet in the area, and what game would be fun if you won it all the time?

Somehow, Gary’s jig had failed to find a bonito in this first batch of fish, and as I licked my wounds, Wayne already had another school in his sights. He throttled up, and in moments we were again gliding up to a slashing school of fish.

“Get ‘em boys,” Wayne urged as the three of us ran to the bow and tried to gauge the school’s motion to put our lures in their path instead of their wake.

Gary apparently got it right, as he barely turned his reel handle before he was the proud owner of a light, doubled-over spinning rod and a squealing reel.

Wayne and I fired a few more casts at the area where the school had been while Gary endeavored to change his fish’s mind about which direction it wanted to go.

As it became apparent the school had moved on, Wayne gestured to the console.

“Look at the bottom,” he exclaimed, and I turned my head to see a vibrant display of life represented in detailed color on his Lowrance bottom machine.

“That might be some of them below us,” he continued. “Let’s drop down and see.”

Wayne and I both dropped our jigs to the seafloor 30’ below, and I don’t believe either one of us jigged the lure three times before our rods dipped under the protest of a hooked fish. It quickly became apparent these weren’t Gary’s fish’s schoolmates, as they came off the bottom fairly easily and didn’t take supercharged runs away from the boat.

While Hurley seemed to be gaining the upper hand in his bonito battle, Wayne and I swung a pair of black sea bass over the rails.

A quick check on Wayne’s measuring board revealed his fish was above the 12” legal limit while mine fell just below it. Wayne’s bass hit the ice just as Gary was locking into the spiraling endgame with his bonito.

Wanting to avoid a repeat of the last bonito’s sudden pardon, Wayne stood ready with a landing net to put Gary’s fish in the boat as soon as it was within range. The moment of truth came a few seconds later, and Wayne was soon disentangling the toothy fish’s jaws from the mesh of his net.

Gary was clearly elated to have a fish in the boat, and the bonito joined the bass in Wayne’s cooler after a quick modeling session for the camera. Unlike their similar and often-confused relatives the false albacore (often also referred to as bonito), Altantic bonito are delicious, rivaling their more distant relatives, yellowfin tuna, on the grill and in sushi for more adventurous anglers.

Gary’s bonito had hardly hit the ice before we were closing in on another breaking school of fish, and this time Wayne was the lucky angler to hook up. While he fought his fish, Gary and I dropped our jigs into another solid mark splashed across the Lowrance like an abstract painting.

Again, the sea bass proved willing and we were all quickly hooked up. This time, my bass was a keeper and hit the ice, while Wayne continued to work on what was quite clearly another stubborn bonito. By the time Wayne had his fish boatside, Hurley and I decked several more bass, adding a fat 13 incher to the box.

Another quick net job by the captain moments later had Wayne’s bonito turning the cooler into a percussion instrument as it beat out a staccato rhythm with its tail.

Another school popped up just out of casting range, cutting our celebratory exultations short as Wayne maneuvered us close enough for a cast.

This time, however, I heard a groan from the captain before we’d had a chance to launch our now beat-up jigs at the fish.

“Come on,” he lamented, and I followed his gaze at a large walkaround barreling towards the fish. “They’re going to run right over them.”

His prediction turned into reality a few seconds later when the boat plowed right through the school, sending them packing into the depths and ruining our shot at a hookup.

Like Wayne, most of the crowd of boats were following established bonito etiquette, which holds that a boat get just within casting range of the breaking schools and then drift while casting to them, as opposed to running directly into the schools. Not only is this method far more effective at drawing bites from the fish, it allows several boats to successfully fish a single school at once. Unfortunately, the walkaround scenario was repeated by several other vessels over the course of the morning.

The bottom life once again bloomed on Wayne’s sounder, so we dropped our jigs to the seafloor again. Something pounced on mine before I could even get the bail closed, and once I did, the rod tip dove towards the water.

“Whoa, what’s going on there?” Wayne asked, and I had to admit I wasn’t sure.

“If it’s a bass, he’s a keeper for sure,” I replied. “It doesn’t feel like one, though. Maybe a little gag?”

A set of defined black and white stripes materialized below the boat in answer, and surprised at what I saw, I turned to Wayne.

“Sheepshead, and it looks like a pretty nice one,” I said.

Wayne had the sheep in the net practically before I finished the sentence. As someone who’s spent a fair bit of time striking out on sheepshead while fishing for them the conventional way, with crustacean baits near inshore structure, I was thrilled out of proportion to the fish’s size to have landed one on a diamond jig.

All the action on the bottom proved to be too much for Wayne, a die-hard flounder addict, and he was soon eyeing his bottom machine knowingly.

“I guarantee you there’s a flounder down there,” he explained, somehow gesturing at the screen while putting the finishing touches on a Carolina rig, “and I’ve got some pretty mud minnows for him.”

Wayne indeed had a few minnows left over from a previous inshore trip, and he baited up with one after he’d gotten Gary and me within range of another busting bonito school.

We fired jigs at the surface activity while Wayne sent his minnow to the bottom, and Gary and I were soon hooked up again.

My fish shook the hooks a minute into the fight, but Gary was vying with an obviously larger bonito than his first.

Wayne landed a few smaller sea bass on the Carolina-rig while Gary struggled to gain some control of his situation.

The newspaperman’s efforts soon paid off, and five minutes into the battle a healthy bonito lay circling below the bay boat.

Once Wayne netted the fish and we had another quick photo session, he sent the Carolina rig down again. After releasing another barely sub-legal sea bass, I looked back to see Wayne fighting something a bit stronger than the bass.

It was my turn to ask what was going on, and Wayne had to admit he had no idea.

Since it seemed his fish might take its time coming to the surface, I dropped my jig again.

“Max, come over here. You’re going to like this,” I heard from Wayne’s side of the boat, and I jammed my rod into a holder and grabbed the net.

A fat tautog was struggling just below the surface, and despite a few juke-and-jive moves just to make it clear how much better a netter Wayne is than me, I soon forced the ‘tog’s hand and we swung it in the boat.

We were starting to have quite the diverse crowd in the cooler, with our bonito now joined by a half-dozen keeper bass, a sheepshead, and a tautog.

As often happens, the bonito action slowed down a bit once the midday sun crept high, and the crowd of boats began to fan out, with a few die-hards (ourselves included) chasing the dwindling number of schools coming to the surface. Wayne managed to put Gary and I on a few more hookups before the action slowed to a crawl around noon.

Instead of going back to the jig, Wayne had remained steadfast in his quest for a flounder, but small-medium sea bass were all he landed by the time we began talking about heading in and back to the afternoon obligations Gary and I had in town.

Just before we made the call, Wayne reminded me why I enjoy being on his team in flounder tournaments so much.

“Feels like a flounder,” he exclaimed after again setting the hook. I’ve heard Wayne utter those words dozens of times, and unlike myself (famous for having the net waiting for an “sure doormat” that mysteriously turns into an oyster toadfish at the last minute), Wayne is rarely wrong in that regard.

Sure enough, the waiting net soon slid under a flounder. The fish wasn’t a doormat, but it was legal. And it beautifully rounded out the diverse and delectable collection of fish in the cooler.

On that note, we made the call to head in and leave the scattered schools of bonito to the dozen or so boats remaining from the morning crowd. Over the course of the morning, none of us spent more than a few minutes without being hooked up to something, be it a bonito, a sea bass, or one of the various and sundry bottom dwellers that also took an interest in our jigs and Wayne’s minnows.

After spending so much time on the disabled list this winter, it was great to get back in the game, though instead of quenching my thirst to fish, it seems the action-packed morning just made it stronger.

Atlantic bonito will be in the area for a few more weeks, and anyone looking for fast action and some delicious (and diverse) seafood meals would do well to give Capt. Wayne Crisco a call to get in on the action. Aside from the bonito, Wayne chases spanish mackerel, speckled trout, flounder, red drum, and other inshore targets year-round. Give him a call at (910) 465-0611, or check out his website at www.site.lastresortcharters.com to discuss a fishing trip or get more information.