For as long as I can remember, and for many years before,
“50” was a meaningful number for striped bass fishermen. A 45-pound bass was just a “good fish,” but a
fish over 50 was something else, a desired trophy that was held in special regard.
I did a lot of striped bass fishing when I was young, spending
part of most days on the water. Sometime
during my 19th year, I decided that I had to put my own 50 on the
scales before I turned twenty.
My chance came on July 10, 1974, 26 days short of my
self-imposed deadline, when I found bass pushing bunker along a familiar
section of Connecticut shore. Things all
came together, and before 8:00 a.m. I hung a 51-pounder on the tackle shop
scales.
Let’s be honest—I was elated. The only thing that I cared about was getting
the fish to a taxidermist as soon as the rush-hour traffic would allow.
But time has a way of cooling folks down.
Not long after I killed the big fish, it became all too clear
that the striped bass were having real problems. Recruitment was down; few small fish were
entering the population.
By the time that I hung my bass on the wall, it was as much an
object of guilt as of pride. As the
population slid toward collapse, I started asking myself just why it had to
die, realizing a bit too late that protecting the big, older fish
mattered. As my ethics developed, the
mounted striped bass served as a rebuke and reminder of something that I should
not have done.
Today it remains, a sort of personal albatross that doesn’t
hang ‘round my neck, but instead lies on a basement table. The taxidermist I used was not very good;
skilled only in small fish, he botched the big job, producing something to ugly
to hang on a wall. Yet as my first 50, I
can’t throw it away.
So yes, I understand the impulse to kill that first, really
big fish, and under most circumstances, I’m not inclined to criticize someone
who does it.
Still, there are boundaries.
Down in Louisiana, they grow some big tarpon, fish that can
weigh over 200 pounds. Tarpon are an
esteemed gamefish, strong and prone to making spectacular leaps. However, their sporting qualities don’t carry
over to the table; although they are technically edible, they’re not generally
killed for food, except in the sort of primitive, backwater places where
anything that might contain protein is valued.
At the same time, the tarpon population certainly isn’t
getting any bigger. While there is no
formal assessment that reveals the health of the stock in the Gulf of Mexico, there is plenty
of evidence that suggests it is shrinking.
Thus, killing a tarpon just to show it off doesn’t make too
much sense.
Even so, last
fall, a Louisiana angler killed a 246.1 pound tarpon for no better reason
than celebrity—to claim a “state record.”
While an angler might be excused for killing one such fish in a
lifetime, reports indicate that he killed at least two more of the magnificent animals,
tarpon of 228.81 and 219.5 pounds.
That’s a lot of fish wasted for no better reason than claiming 15
minutes of fame.
In the same neighborhood, the Grand Isle Tarpon Rodeo is billed as “the
oldest fishing tournament in the United States.” In a world where catch and release tarpon fishing
is the norm, the Grand Isle tournament is probably the largest, and one of the
very few, kill tournaments for tarpon remaining in the United States.
A quick review of the standings for the last few years tells
its dismal story. In 2015, tarpon of 165.875,
154.5, 129.375, 96.875 and 93.625 pounds qualified for prizes, along with
another prize for the first tarpon killed and weighed in, with no indication of
how many other fish were dragged dead to the scales but failed to earn a place
on the leader board. In 2014, prizes went
to dead tarpon weighing 175.25, 168, 138.25, 119.75 and 99.375 pounds. In 2013…
Well, you get the idea.
That sort of mindless killing, for nothing more than a dead
fish photo and a prize, was common during the early days of sport fishing, when
people believed that the ocean’s bounty was limitless, and that recreational
fishing would never harm the stock. We
should know better by now.
Except, of course, we don’t.
I’m an active offshore fisherman, who chases shark and tuna,
and occasionally marlin, almost always from my own boat in my home waters off
the South Shore of Long Island. When I
think of some of the things that go on in the offshore arena, the Louisiana
tarpon fishermen don’t look all that bad.
While we’ve grown past the days when giant bluefin were
trucked off to landfills (because now fishermen kill them to sell), and sharks
were regularly hung up for photos then dumped into the sea (in part, because many
“inedible” sharks such as duskies have grown so scarce that regulations
prohibit killing any at all), a lot of abuse still goes on.
These days, it mostly happens in the tournament
context. In far too many cases, part of
the planning for an offshore event involves reserving a garbage truck or
dumpster that can be parked, discreetly, not too far from the scales, to
receive whatever sharks and billfish might be weighed in.
The somewhat responsible tournaments try to
minimize the waste by setting high minimum weights for sharks and billfish,
and/or limiting the species of sharks that may be weighed in. But with substantial cash prizes on the line,
along with side bets called “calcuttas” that frequently range well into six
figures, the incentive to kill fish remains high.
At a time when most pelagic species are facing threats on
multiple fronts, it seems an irresponsible waste, particularly when release
tournaments have been conducted for sailfish and marlin for quite a few years. They have proven very successful, making it
reasonable to ask how anyone can continue to justify running an event where
fish such as blue marlin are killed and carted off to the dump.
To be fair, it’s not only the big-fish crowd that gets out
of hand. In my part of the world, there
are striped bass fishermen who kill far more big fish than they can possibly
consume, and spend a lot of time running to tackle shops to weigh in their fish
and get their photos hung up on the wall. The smart money says that a lot of those fish are being illegally sold;
some are also given away, and some find an ignominious, freezer-burnt end in a
trash pail some months after capture.
At ports such as Montauk, that cater to vacationers as much
as to serious fishermen, it’s far from uncommon to see tourists get off a
charter boat, get their grip-and-grin
photos with big striped bass, then leave the fish behind because they’re
staying at a hotel and have no way to take them home.
When such tourists are thick, some charter boat
captains will leave a big female striped bass hanging in the sun all day,
hoping that, along with the flies, it will attract another bunch of tourists
who will re-enact the same sort of waste on the following day.
Whether we talk about tourists or tournaments, about state
or world records or mere bragging rights, there is something elementally
offensive about killing fish just for some fleeting glory, and not for food. Folks do it thinking that it validates their
standing as anglers, but in the end, it only casts doubt on their status as
sportsmen, who have a responsibility to think of the future as well as
themselves.
It’s not that tournaments, or record quests, are essentially
bad. I’ve fished in my share of events
over the years, but always in contests where the bigeye, mako or anything else I
might catch would be destined for the table rather than the local landfill. I’d nave no problem fishing in a fluke
contest today, knowing that even if I stayed off the leader board, I’d still
still have the prize of fillets.
In 1 Corinthians
13:11, St. Paul reportedly wrote
“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a
child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish
things.”
Although it would not have been the saint’s intent, those
words carry a lesson for anglers.
Killing fish merely to win a tournament, set a record or get
your photo in a newspaper or on a tackle shop wall is something that was done
in a different time, when salt water sport fishing was in its childhood, fish
were abundant and anglers believed that the ocean’s bounty was limitless.
Once a symbol of innocent excess, such
actions now demonstrate nothing more than an immature impulse to find
validation in the eyes of the crowd.
The sport has grown up since then. It is time for anglers to grow up as well,
and leave the kill tourneys—the records, the transient glory--behind. For the cost of such glories may be our
fisheries’ future, and that is too much to pay.
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