CATCHING STRIPED BASS IN THE CHESAPEAKE BAY

Sad, blood-red sunshine seeped mournfully through the Bay

Bridge girders and bathed those blushing radio towers standing

guard over Whitehall Creek. The Frog's engine idled us down the

creek, past angry Princess Osprey nesting atop the channel

marker. That twenty-nine foot, rebuilt wooden cabin cruiser was

on its way to invite striped bass for supper.

Michael John Hinson fishes when he's not flying. Mike is

from a family of aviators. His grandfather is John Kershaw

Hinson, Cessna airplane dealer in Baltimore for many years.

This magnificent boat was rescued for a few dollars and its

Chrysler 318 cubic inch, V-8 engine rebuilt by Mike. How it got

the name The Frog waited until we caught the first Striped Bass.

Mike had six bucktails of various colors following in our

wake as we trolled at 1000 rpm a mile north of Bloody Point.

"Bass on their way to spawn split up right about here," Mike

told me. "Some break off and go to Eastern Bay."

They don't swim in schools this time of year. Each one goes

its own independent way, looking for its loving destiny in the

friendly waters of the Chesapeake Bay.

In addition to the six bucktails, Mike had rigged a "Dummy"

line, a primitive choice, just a line tied to a cleat. But it

was loaded with something different. Mike said it was called

that because dummies didn't have any more places to set poles on

their boats.

"This plastic Alewife with this great big hook," Mike

grinned. "Watch them want it first."

Pronounced "L-Y", this ten inch replica looked exactly like

it was escaping from those enormous swarms of alewives that are

netted for cat-food and fish oil.

"There she goes! See the line!" Mike motioned toward his

dummy line that was no longer parallel to The Frog's wake, but

looked like it was about to tow us up Eastern Bay.

"Uh. Big one," Mike grunted, as he hauled in the line, hand

over hand.

"Thirty-six inches," he reported. The beautiful Striped

Bass lay on the deck alongside a yardstick measure inscribed

there. "Natural. Not a hybrid."

Two others, twenty-eight and thirty inches, were rapidly

released after tasting Mike's brightly colored bucktails.

He told the story of his boat's naming. It is one of the

few with no lettering on the side reflecting someone's attempt to

tell the world about his first love. This boat has a great big

green frog's face climbing over a log painted on the gunwale.

"One summer," Mike began the story. "It was a lovelorn

bullfrog and our neighbor's dog."

Mike and his wife, Andrea, have two sons. Their names are

Adam and David. Adam is the oldest. Everybody calls Mrs. Hinson

by her nickname, Andy.

Andy had built a small decorative pond in the backyard. A

bullfrog hopped from someplace and decided to spend the summer in

her pond. It had another interesting facet to its personality.

One evening, just about dark, David told his mother that the

bullfrog was croaking at the neighbor's dog.

"Not so," argued Adam. Older brothers know more things.

Mike moved his newspaper just enough to look at Andy and

agreed, "Stupid dog across the street is barking back at the

bullfrog. That's what it is."

The family owned a pair of beautiful, honey-colored Labrador

Retrievers, male and female. They didn't even move one muscle,

not even their tails, just lay there listening to the family

talk.

They were with us as we went about hunting Striped Bass for

supper in Mike's cruiser named The Frog. Nothing bothered these

two. They lay there on the deck, asleep or at least pretending

to be. Bored with it all, oblivious to these men who struggle

with small lines trying to land such large fish for supper.

David asked his mother, "Why aren't our dogs barking at the

frog?"

Mike thought about it for a little while and finally

muttered, "Nothing to bark at."

"Ribbit . . . Ribbit . . . RIBBIT!" The frog sang its song

of love.

From across the street came an uncertain reply, "Huff.

Wuff. Hoof! BOW, WOW!"

Adam peered scornfully through the window in the direction

of the confused dog. "Can't even bark right."

Mike rustled the newspaper slightly, thought a moment and

said, "Must be the season for frogs to seek a mate."

Andy grinned and said, "Won't like the looks of what's

answering him."

David appeared a little worried. "Think that dog might come

across the fence?"

Their own two dogs remained silent, probably scornful of

such talk between the neighbor's dog and that miserable frog.

"Naw, never happen." Adam shook his head in final

concluded.

All that season the two mismatched sons of nature continued

their conversation, never quite getting the words right. But

Andy was convinced their hearts were truly devoted to the song

they sang that year.

Mike checked his lines and said, "Every word that has deep

feeling is not always love, but gets very close sometimes."

Suddenly, Mike began to reel and pull. Something had

severely bent one of the poles as we trolled a mile west of

Kentmoor. He said the biggest fish are always caught right in

this spot.

Handing me the rig, Mike said, "Here. Pull up like this.

Then reel in the line as you lower it."

Seemed like we were in the grip of something prehistoric.

Ten minutes we reeled and heaved. Every time some line was

lovingly hauled in, whatever was down there made the brake scream

as it reclaimed its right to own the Chesapeake Bay.

"No, never. Can't tighten it any more. Bust the line if we

do. Getting tired? Fish winning?" Mike asked. His grin told

me not to give up.

"Ah. There she is. Back her down into the net." Mike

helped me board one really big Striped Bass.

Thirty-seven inches of good eating lay there on the deck.

Mike pointed to the stripes. "Hybrid. See. They're uniform and

parallel on that other one."

Mike told me the Department of Natural Resources had crossed

White Bass and White Perch with Striped Bass. He thought some

kind of genetic alteration was done to alter the uniform stripe

pattern of the natural fish.

"So they can keep track," Mike guessed.

We had our supper and headed back to Whitehall Creek.

Sitting in her nest on top of the red channel marker was Princess

Osprey's sister, Fussy Feathers. She squawked at our intrusion

and circled several times.

"We probably look too big for her to pounce," Mike said and

shook his head.

After docking, we proudly called the Department of Natural

Resources and reported our trophy catches, one thirty-six inch

and one thirty-seven inch Striped Bass. They seemed unimpressed

and only wanted to know if we did it from a pleasure boat or for

commercial reasons. We said it definitely was for sport, but the

fish nearly won.

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