Mackerel on Light Gear

Whether I'm fishing for tarpon or tomcod, I seldom pay any attention to the antics of bathers, picnickers, or shell collectors. My wife tells friends that the nibbles of an eel would make me ignore an exploding grenade.

But a few years ago, while black-fishing from a bluff on a stretch of rocky Rhode Island shore, I was distracted by a lady who appeared below me carrying two items which didn't seem to belong together: an artist's easel and a large wooden bucket.

Placing the easel on a boulder, the lady lugged the bucket to the edge of the water and ladled out half a dozen scoops of thick liquid into the sea. Returning to her easel, she painted for some minutes and then paused to dipper out some more of the liquid. It looked as though she were chumming, but if so, why wasn't she carrying fishing tackle? After about half an hour of this dippering-painting routine, I felt that I must get to the bottom of the mystery. I reeled in and made my way over to where she was.

"Yes, I'm chumming," the lady told me. "But for my husband, not for myself. He's fishing the cove around the bend below us. When tides and winds are right, as they are today, currents sweep the chum into that cove and mackerel often follow it in. I don't care for fishing myself, but I don't mind helping my husband while I'm dabbling with seascapes."

"I'll walk down to the cove and see how he's making out," I said.

Climbing down the steep, winding path which led to the cove, I found a most happy man. He had a good fish on the end of his whippy bait-casting rod, and judging from the boils near the end of the reef, there were plenty more where that one had come from. Obviously, the unique chumming operation was paying off.

He played his fish carefully, allowing the fish to run without too much rein until its strength had been exhausted. Then, reeling steadily, he worked his prize closer in, and finally, with a long reaching net, scooped in a 3-lb. mackerel.

"Say, that's a beauty," I exclaimed. "Yes, they're running good size this fall," he replied.

He looked at my tackle and noticed that I was carrying a bait-casting outfit not much heavier than his.

"Why don't you replace that bottom rig with a spinner and join me?" he invited.

"There's plenty of room on this reef and I'd be glad to loan you one of my spinners."

"Thanks, I'd like to, but I have a little box of lures in my bag. I always carry them this time of year in case a school of mackerel suddenly shows up."

It took me just a moment to snip off my light black-fishing rig and attach a yard of nylon leader and a bead-chain snap swivel. Instead of a twin-bladed spinner such as my new-found friend was using, I decided to try a shiny, 1oz. wobbling spoon.

By the time I was ready to cast, some of the mackerel had moved in closer. A silvery horde of small baitfish had also moved into the chum slicks making the area doubly attractive to the mackerel. Some of the little fellows brushing over the surface like hard flung pebbles, had retreated almost to the inner edge of the cove where they were comparatively safe. Only on rare occasions have I seen the deep-running mackerel enter depths less than 4 ft.

I brought back my rod, took aim, and cast out beyond the edge of the cove. Letting the lure settle about 2 ft., I gave it a hard twitch for extra flash, and then, holding the rod at a side angle of about 45˚, I reeled in fast.

A few moments later, I had a swift, slashing strike that made my line come taut as a fiddle string. The mackerel shook his head, flipped his tail, and then began racing toward open water.

It was a heavy-throttle run of more than 100 ft. When it ended, the fish dropped a little deeper, bolted to the side, and threw his weight recklessly against the line as he launched into a number of shorter runs. I could predict each time he was ready to turn by the way he flung himself against the line. One reason mackerel are such fast moving fish, is that they are among the few fish which lack air bladders to keep them buoyant.

When the mackerel finally began to show signs of tiring, I kept him off balance by dropping and raising the point of my rod from a side angle. In easy stages I began putting on greater pressure until, after about 10 minutes, I had the blue-and-silver warrior close enough for netting. He was about the same size as the one I'd seen my companion land, possibly an ounce or two heavier.

The school hovered around for almost an hour, and by the time it moved out, I had four more on my stringer-a nice haul of fish that taste as good as they fight.

It's not surprising that the Atlantic mackerel is such a little package of dynamite at the end of a light rod. He can claim relationship with some of the finest gamefish that swim: tuna, wahoo, bonito, albacore, cobia, and even swordfish and marlin. Of more direct kinship are the Spanish and king mackerel of warmer Atlantic waters, and the hard hitting Pacific mackerel.