More on Boating in Delaware

Port Mahon Lighthouse 1978

After we got our boat, fishing was on the agenda every weekend. Many times we went to Port Mahon which was closer than Mispillion Light. It is east of Dover, north of Little Creek Preserve and south of Bombay Hook National Wildlife Refuge, a more than excellent bird watching area.

The Port Mahon Road extends about four miles and requires the driver’s close attention as parts may be under water during high tide or after storms. It’s best to time your trips with the tide charts. It is a beautiful drive right along the water of the Delaware Bay and at the port itself you can see the remains of an old fish factory and several dilapidated pilings that used to be piers for fishing and oyster boats. The shoreline is strewn with rocks and shells of all kinds with intermittent patches of sandy beach. If lonely is what you’re looking for, this is the place.

Nothing as exciting as getting lost in the fog happened at Port Mahon, but I do have some very pleasant memories of fishing there. We never went out into the Bay as far because the best fishing was closer to shore. After coming back in, I always liked to explore the shoreline for rocks and shells and shore birds and snap a few photos. There was an osprey nest on top of a large pole near the parking area that drew my interest on several visits. A falling-down store and a shucking house were near the old fish factory, and I had to explore those much to Jim’s chagrin. Exploring old buildings was one of my things in my younger days.

I recently read that the old lighthouse, which looked ready to fall down in the 70’s when we were there, was set afire in 1984 by some young kids up to no good. It completely burned except for the sixteen rusted iron pilings. It was built in 1903 and had a keeper of the light until 1939 when it was automated. It remained active until 1955 when the Coastguard transferred the light to a nearby skeletal tower.  Once it was abandoned Mother Nature and vandals began a long twenty-nine year goodbye. I never could find out if it was actually built in the water or if the Bay encroached underneath later. I suspect the latter. At least the pilings were a good idea either way. I’m sure it shone the way to many an oyster dredge, but I do remember a couple boats that were dead in the sticky salt marsh mud. That reminds me that the water was usually very dark and churned, not the kind you’d want to swim in.

I do remember one embarrassing moment that luckily went unnoticed by all but us because of the desolation of the place. Jim had just lowered the boat off the trailer into the water when to our surprise the Bay started coming inside the boat. Immediately we knew what had happened and Jim quickly reloaded it back onto the trailer.  The water drained out of the stern through that little hole below the motor, the transom drain hole you’re supposed to put the plug back into after washing out the deck from the previous fishing trip. It only took one time to never forget again.

We caught many different kinds of fish at Port Mahon, but I think the most abundant were sand sharks. Some people said they were good to eat. Except for one time, we never kept any to try. They weren’t aggressive as you would expect sharks to be, but they had fierce-looking teeth that intertwined through each other. The one we kept went to our next door neighbor who was a master fish chef and often cooked our catch. He made a fish gumbo with the shark but I couldn’t get past the smell to manage a taste. I never liked any kind of fish stew so I was likely prejudiced to begin with. Everyone else said they enjoyed it.

As I write this I Google “Port Mahon” and find that the road today is almost impassable during high tide because of the rise of the Bay. Some new boat launching docks have been installed and there is a thirty-five car parking lot, but fisherman must pay close attention to the tidal charts for a safe return and exit. Much of the road traffic is from Dover Air Force Base trucks off-loading jet fuel from Bay tankers. That’s a picture I don’t care to remember. I’ll keep my memories of fishing trips, shell picking, and the old Port Mahon Lighthouse imagining its guiding beam to incoming ships of the past.

Mispillion Fog

 

Mispillion Lighthouse from the Delaware Archives

It may have been 1975 or 76. As a water baby, I was always campaigning for the purchase of a watercraft. I really didn’t care what kind as long as it didn’t leak. My first thought, as the end of summer approached, had to do with boat ramps being raised and the beaches gearing up for Labor Day weekend.

I scanned the newspaper ads for boats for sale. I can’t tell you how many boats we looked at, but Jim always found something wrong…until the right one came along. It was an 16’ MFG open bow, cathedral hull with a 125 HP Evinrude. Ours was like the blue one.

The cathedral hull (or tri-hull) is shaped somewhat like a wavy m and is more stable in the water. That means harder to turn over, but in a heavy sea it’s a rougher ride because of the additional surface contact. Jim, a West Virginian turned Delawarean via Dover Air Force Base and marriage, was not a water lover like me, but he did like to fish and the open bow and tri-hull sold him on the boat.

There are lots of things you don’t think about when buying a boat like the hitch, the size ball, registering with the State, and getting the required safety items such as a compass, life preservers, flares and an oar. These all take time and effort and delay the fun part. We did our paperwork, made the trek to the Department of Motor Vehicles, and went shopping for the other stuff. Maps and a two-way radio were purchases left for another day. We were ready to fish.

First, we had to decide where to fish. I’m not much for fresh water so I lobbied for the Delaware Bay. Even that left many options because Delaware, although a small State, has a lengthy coastline. Many sites beckoned close by, including Woodland Beach, Port Mahon, Slaughter Beach, Mispillion Light and some others. We chose the Cedar Creek Marina just south of the Mispillion Lighthouse for our first outing. Although renowned for sudden storms, the fishing was said to be excellent.

Hot, clear and sunny was the forecast when we pulled out of our driveway in the morning mist at 6 A.M., towing our new, used motorboat behind us. After waiting in line to launch at the marina, we slowly snaked our way through the creek in a long line of impatient fisherman. The first thing we realized we had forgotten was insect spray. Mosquitoes were on the warpath and we, the cavalry,were sitting ducks. There was no turning back in that line.

Where an inlet meets a larger body of water, it usually means a churning of the waves. Think of it as trying to pour water from a soup pot into a Coke bottle and you’ll have the picture. I had been standing in back of Jim as he piloted us into the Bay from the Inlet when we saw a woman driving her sleek-looking powerboat too fast. She hit an oncoming wave at the mouth of the inlet and went almost vertical in the air. I thought she would hit the bell buoy, but she slowed down just in time. After righting her boat, she took off again and was soon out of sight. I thought of her later.

Once we were in the Bay, I estimated we rode along at a steady pace about 25 minutes. Then we cut the engine and dropped anchor, slathered on some sunscreen and baited up with squid. We were after speckled trout for a fish-fry supper with the family next door. Jim caught a small one right away, but our luck didn’t hold. An hour went by and nothing snagged our hooks.

“Did you happen to notice the compass setting when we came out of the inlet?” Jim asked. He was sitting on the bench in the stern with his line dangling over the side.

“No, I was too busy watching that lady driver bouncing over the waves with her bow stuck up in the air.”

I turned around and looked back, shocked to see a rolling fog coming toward us. The sun had disappeared behind a mass of gray sky.

“Do you have any idea which way is back?” I asked.

“Well, I’m sure it has to be west, but I’m not sure we’ll find Mispillion Light. I don’t think we’ve been going in a straight line.”

These were my thoughts, too.

“Well, what do you think we should do? Sit here and wait for it to lift or try to find our way back?” Jim didn’t answer.

The fog rolled in quickly until we could barely see the ends of our fishing poles. It was so quiet not even a hungry gull could be heard squawking overhead. Then we heard a clicking noise. Click, click, in a continuous rhythm. It was coming from the stern. Jim stood and looked over the motor at the water, and I cautiously walked down the center aisle toward the back to see.

The dark water was circling around the motor like it was going down a drain.

“We must be in a little whirlpool, and it must be turning the prop and making that clicking noise.” Jim voiced his logical explanation.

I leaned over slightly for a closer look. The bottom could be a hundred feet or more this far out. Oil tankers travel up and down the Delaware Bay with their heavy loads on their way to refineries near Philly. We were probably in their channel, which made my heart pound since we couldn’t see five feet ahead of us.

We had set the anchor, we thought, but it looked like we might be drifting. We had the required flares, but who would see a flare in this stuff? Those oil tankers could plow right over us and not even feel it.

“Hey, we’d better turn on our running lights,” I said to Jim, as I heard the sound of a massive hull moving through the water and felt our boat rise a little from the waves. I held my breath until I heard it moving off in the opposite direction. We had seen nothing through the thick murk. We rocked back and forth from the tanker’s wake, and I clenched the side of the boat until my knuckles turned white.

We were hopelessly disoriented, and there was nothing to do but wait for the fog to lift. If we moved, we could run into something, and we had no idea which direction to go anyway.

After a couple hours the fog began to clear and we were able to see the beacon at Mispillion flashing our direction home. It remained overcast so we opted to hightail it in while we had the chance. No more fishing this day. 

We learned a valuable lesson about boating. Always take a compass bearing just before you get out into open water, but after telling our story to everyone we met when we got in, they said we did the right thing by staying put. They strongly suggested we buy a marine radio if we planned any more early morning fishing forays. And a boating course couldn’t hurt either.

When we got home, our neighbor said it had been hot, bright and sunny all day. No fish-fry this time, but seafood restaurants are for unlucky fisherman, or in our case, lucky.

The Apollo

One of the hardest things I had to give up when we moved to Florida in 1978 was our fishing boat. I knew it would be a very long time, maybe forever, before we had another. It’s not that I love fishing so much, but that I love the water, salt water, in it, on it, even under it.

So not very long after we got to Florida I began to look around for charter fishing trips. The closest I found was one out of Crystal River on a boat named The Apollo. Who could not feel safe and love that? I later found out the owners, the Standard family, boasted generations of fishermen. I don’t remember our pilot’s first name, but he did look seasoned by the wind and salt and sun.

The boat pulled out of the dock at seven sharp so we had to leave Gainesville very early. Unlike many people I always enjoyed getting up in the dark preparing for an adventure. It’s almost like writing a story. You’re not exactly sure what’s coming but you have an outline, and you know it’s going to be exciting.

It was dark at 5 o’clock in the spring of the year when we got on I-75 south and exited on 121. We wanted plenty of time and would use any extra for a stop to enjoy a second small breakfast. With our car windows down, the air smelled clean and felt cool, and the farther we went, the brighter the stars got in the dark sky above.

It was only a little after six when we turned onto 19 South with just a few more miles to our destination. With our anticipation rising, we opted not to stop anywhere, continuing on to the dock site while sipping our Thermos of coffee.

When we found our turn-off, we wound around and between several canals to finally sight the crowd of happy fisherman waiting in front of the big white boat. Guess they were eager, too. We unloaded what we had been told to bring and joined them.

The boat was a real fishing boat, closed bow, pilot’s cabin (with a tiny little head just big enough to do your business and get out) and an open stern area with a few attached wooden seats, a bench for fish-cleaning, and a well for our catch. And underneath the deck, we could hear and smell the idling diesel engine. Mix that with the salty brine hanging in the crisp morning air, the brilliant sun just peeking above the trees in the distance, and you have a picture of true beauty to a fisherman. A chest-high railing ran the length of the port and starboard sides, meeting at the point of the bow for lots of fishing room.

When we were allowed to board, I perched on my favorite spot, the raised part of the closed bow. Here I could feel the bump-bump as we crossed the waves and my face would be powdered with salt spray carried by the wind. And I could see everything.

As I remember, it was around ten o’clock before we dropped anchor. Our boat was a slow one, and we were told we would be going over thirty miles out to find the fishing grounds (radar was involved). Soon, a couple of deck hands passed out fishing gear and squid for bait. I found a spot, baited up, cast over, and prepared to wait. The cool breeze and warm sun made me sleepy. No one got many bites so after a short time, our captain decided to move on. I took off my squid and returned him to the sea a little worse for wear. With my rod propped against the railing, I returned to my favorite spot. We moved slowly so some people trolled. I knew this would result in tangled lines when we stopped. It did, so I had plenty of time to re-bait and cast over when we were at a full stop.

I got a bite right away, a very strong one, and most everyone’s attention was riveted on my line. After some maneuvering and help from one of the deck hands, I landed a huge grouper, black grouper I think the captain said. This must be the spot. Most everyone had their hooks in the water, got bites, and landed something; happiness all around.

We moved a few more times as the bites slacked off, and by 2 o’clock the captain said it was time to head back in to the dock. Just at that moment I hooked onto something that would not let go. The captain came over and helped me wind it in. As it appeared on top of the water, he said, “That’s fire coral. Don’t touch it.” He sounded excited. I thought to myself, Don’t worry.

He reeled it in and gingerly got it off my hook with heavy gloves and a tool. When he said he’d like it for his aquarium and had been trying to catch one, I said, absolutely. Although it looks just like coral, later I learned it's not really a coral but related to the jelly fish. So glad I gave it away to someone who wanted it.

The one I caught looked like this. 

On the ride back in, the deck hands weighed and cleaned our fish. My grouper came in at second biggest catch of the day, which provided us and Jim’s brother a few excellent fishy meals. And, of course, the ride home was much less exciting than the ride to The Apollo.