Capt. Bob Gaskill is headin’ off..
“Tide’s fallin’, boys…let’s go!...got to make it out Little Egg Inlet while she’s still friendly.” And that he did, usually with a parade of other boats trailing him out of Morrison’s Marina in Beach Haven, NJ. Heading for the Wilmington Canyon.
The bite was on…reports of ‘em thick, tailing on top, migrating north where all over the squawk box. White marlin. Sometimes he’d get the “shiggers” so bad he’d sleep on the boat ‘night before. The regulars might include Joe Bossard and Ironsie and Dickey Crosta and Eddie Histand and Mike Wennal and maybe Uncle Jack Scheimreif. Perhaps he’s be shadowing “Piney” Parker on the ABC, but just as likely he’d head south to the “fingers” on his own, looking for signs.
THIS TRIP IS DIFFERENT. “CAPT. BOB” GASKILL IS HEADIN’ OFF.
The tanks are topped, freezer is jammed and he’s heavy on Cutty Sark…nothing out of the ordinary. But this trip is different. He’s way out past the Forty Fathom Line now…his course is straight, and he’s driven by something. He’s not stopping on tiderips, he’s blowin’ past weed lines, birds and the flyingfish aren’t slowing him down. The fleet is long and far behind.
The wind has shifted, the tide is crossed and there’s a moon, yellow ‘n blue…punching a hole where the sun used to be. He’s up on the flybridge under the Bimini top, staring off. The chatter on the VHF is now just static. He’s alone and not turning back. Just him on his beloved Bee-Dee.
“Capt. Bob” Gaskill is heading off.