Smashed on the Bonita Bar

A gray mist lingers over the harbor. It matches my state perfectly. The two cups of instant coffee I downed heading out the door have done little to rouse me from sleep. A glance in the rear view mirror reveals pillow indentations only now beginning to fade. I force myself out from the driver’s seat, and lazily let the weight of the truck’s door shut itself. Slinging two splintered oars over one shoulder, I saunter down the dirt road to the dock. Caught in the moot transition from night to morning, the scene is unwelcoming. I drag my dingy into the water. Once the little row boat is freed from the shallows, I jump in. Morning dew seeps through the seat of my pants as I sit on the bench. Rowing out to my boat, I watch the distant silhouette of an osprey’s nest fade in and out of focus through the mist.
The routine of setting up the boat carries me through the morning. After wiping the dew from the decks and seats, I rig six rods with leaders, and lures. Three fly rods, two nine weights and a ten, are set up with Creese flies. I check my oil and gas, turn the batteries on, and fire up the 200 horse power, two stroke Yamaha. As the boat gyrates alive, I slide across the bow on my belly, and unhook the boat from the mooring. A slight breeze pushes the boat away from the barnacle coated mooring buoy.
Some minutes later I meet my charter at the dock. After some small talk, we shove off. Pushing down the trottle, the din of the engine gives me a break from conversation, and I consider today's fishing options. This time of year, on this tide, I know exactly where I am going: The Bonita Bar.
The Bonita Bar is a shoal off the west end of Nantucket Island. It is created by shallows that stem from Nantucket’s western most point, Smith Point and another from Tuckernuck Island’s eastern shore, known as Whale Shoal. The two sand bars stretch out into the open Atlantic and connect a mile off, creating an enormous underwater horse shoe of sand. On an Eastern flowing tide, or incoming tide, the Bonita Bar is battered by current, creating an upwelling. Current churns up the nutrients held in sandy ocean floor, raising it to a higher water collum. This nutrient rich water attracts hordes of baitfish, mainly Sand eels. In late August, migrating Bonita Tuna feed on these enormous bait-balls of sandeels.
In the early days, few Nantucketers knew of the Bonita Bar in August. Only knowledgeable Captain’s patrolled the bar, cashing in on a plethora of small tuna. Unfortunately, the secret got out over the last seven years. Now on calm days, when the wind blows slow or with the tide, the Bonita Bar is a parking lot of up to fifty anchored boats. Most of these boats are owned by weekend warriors who often anchor less than a casting distance away from the next boat. On windy days, however, when the wind goes against the current, waves regulate the fishing pressure on the bar.
Reaching the Bonita Bar requires venturing through a breaker zone that can be riddled with swells up to 20 feet high. The enormous Atlantic funnels into Nantucket’s Madaket Harbor through a small opening between Smith Point and Tuckernuck’s Whale Shoal. Within this area, series of dangerously shallow sand bars turn massive swells into crashing waves. The water moves fast, and aggressively. Three years ago, a ten foot rouge wave crashed head-on into my boat while going through the openning. It shattered a half inch thick plexiglass windshield, put three feet of water in the boat, and sent the Captain I worked with at the time to the hospital. Every couple years a boat capsizes in the openning.
Passing through the fog, I can only hear the waves. They sound big. An offshore storm earlier in the week put the ocean into a rage. I turn up the radio and listen to the chatter of other captains. Two boats made it out already. I decide to go for it. Once the boat leaves Madaket Harbor and enters the breaker zone, it is committed. Turning around in the openning leaves the boat vulnerable to being hit broadside and capsized.
Entering the openning, I realize it is much bigger than I anticipated. Nervous to the point of nausea, I navigate through the onslaught of towering waves. Each is a juggernaut. My mouth dries instantly. In this mine field of moving water there is only time to act once. The sets lack cadence. Heaving to, bow to the waves, I read each swell and make swift decisions. Looking up at an encroaching wall of water and seeing the slightest bit of light pass through its thinning crest, I throw the throttle down and charge up its face before it crashes. Passing over the top, I ease the throttle, and the boat falls off the back of the wave. The hull slams violently in the wave’s trough, sending a salty spray over the boat. Mist clings heavily on my eye lashes and scruff. The next wave stays thick, deep blue, and slow. We rise over it like giant flotsam.
The thickening fog exacerbates the situation. The stangnant mass of gray humidy clouds my sun glasses and forces me to futily wipe them with my shirt sleeve ever twenty seconds. Frustrated, I give up and toss the glasses onto the brim of my ball cap. My eyes now throb in the day’s dull gray light. They dart from the angry ocean, down to my GPS, and back again. Condensation distorts the small indigo screen of the GPS. I wipe it with my pruned fingers and find my bearing.
Through the fog, I can just spot the outer limit of the breaker zone. I need to start steering port. Making that move requires a series of slight adjustments. Steer left, but keep the boat in a position to take a wave head-on. After a few of these small moves, I see an opportunity to gain some ground. In the long trough of two lazy waves, I pull down hard on the wheel’s suicide knob and slam the throttle. Running diagonal down the tube, I watch the wave build to my starboard. As the boat begins to rise with the wave, I whip the suicide knob around, and heave to. Through the instruments I feel the prop dig deep into the climbing water as the bow clears the swell. Landing, I crush the throttle into the panel and cruise to the relative refuge of deep water. Here in the depths, the swells pass like sleeping giants. Only when they hit the shallows is their wrath provoked. Dropping into neutral, I silence the engine and natural noise returns.
“Alright guys, ready to fish?”
While some may argue that nothing is worth running that risky gambit, the fanatic fisherman contends otherwise. For just past the crown of the breaker zone exists some of the most exciting salt water fishing on the Atlantic. The water sizzles as enormous bait balls frantically break the surface. Big squaking Gulls and Arctic Turns fill the sky with commotion, diving into the water to snag sandeels. Seven to ten feet down, schools of Bonita Tuna work as a team rounding up the bait.
Bonita, meaning 'beautiful' in spanish, is a loose term for small tuna. These tuna are Atlantic Bonita, a trully magnificent fish. Its body possesses the same streamlined design as larger tuna. Each fin slides into a perfect slot, making them completely hydrodynamic. Its rumored they can swim up to 30 miles an hour. When hooked, a bonita rips line from a reel mercilously. I've seen the knuckles of flyroders bloodied from some of these runs.
After getting my clients casting, I prop my weight on the gunnel and look back at the breaker zone. The waves chase eachother to the shoreline. In the moment, I could not judge how big the swells actually where. From this vantage point, I estimate their height to be as high as boat's highest antenna, about fifteen feet. Any one of those waves could have toppled the boat- not to mention, the fatal certainty if the engine had died. It forces me to consider the nature of this occupation, and its inherent risk. Just as this thought washes over my concious, a reel screams in agony, and the boat erupts in jubulation. I am quickly reminded why I do it.