Dedication
Accolades are hard to find for Jack Gartside. He has fished every square inch of Boston Harbor, including the islands, and he tied his first fly with Ted Williams. He catches more fish than anyone and has more fun doing it.
The only thing more remarkable than Jack Gartside’s knowledge of Boston Harbor and striped bass is his willingness to share it, which he does through books, presentations classes, private lessons, and his website. He taught me everything I know about salt water fly fishing, but I learned only a fraction of what he has to teach.
Stephen Hunter Morris
Update: Jack Gartside passed away a decade ago, a victim of the cigarettes he managed to chain-smoke even while casting for stripers. He left us way too soon and wanting more. The last time I fished with him, he shared some rather intimate details of woman he dated until recently. Eventually she gave him an ultimatum, “Marry me … or else.”
He gave me a direct gaze, “Whenever you get a choice like that … always take the ‘or else.'” With cigarettes, Jack took the “or else,” and because of it, many of us lost a hero.
Now, let’s begin our story … but first, just a little more throat-clearing:
Four-Letter Words
This is a story about fish—big fish, little fish, schools of fish, allegorical fish, alliterative fuckin’fish, mythical fish, fiberglass fish (more alliteration), but, above all, fried fish.
And it is also a story about shit—good, shit, bad shit, family shit, fish shit, literal shit, frustrating shit, happy shit, sad shit, loose shit, heavy duty shit, meaningless shit, metaphorical shit. But not fried shit. Actually, it’s about fried shit, too, but not literal fried shit.
Shit.