A passionate fisherman has left us all too early. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that Bob (Hawkeye) Jacobs has passed on. This is a tough one.

Unique is a word that comes to mind. A bit eccentric and quirky. Not a malicious bone in his body. A brilliant man who was amazed when he discovered that my dogs actually understood what I was saying to them. “He knows what you are saying?” he said. “Yes, Hawk, dogs actually understand some vocabulary,” I answered. He was not fond of dogs or kids, but he tolerated mine.

I met him somewhere in the 1970s when he came here for the summer to drive cab. We fished together many, many times over the past 40 years.

He took John Best and me to Gay Head one night. He waded out into the abyss and left us on the beach. Neither of us had a clue as to what we were doing in the dark. John remembers that his lure was landing behind him. I only remember my waders filling up with water. That was what it was like when you went fishing with Hawk, you better be prepared because once you got to the water, you were on your own. John gave up after that night, but I would join Hawkeye in his maroon 1968 Plymouth. When we fished up-Island, we usually broke down on the way home. My husband Tristan would drive up and pick us up off the side of the road. I laugh now, but I was not amused then.

He may have appeared to be a disheveled, absent-minded professor. But he was a master of numbers and had an analytic mind that drove his friends crazy at times. He had rote memory. He remembered everyone’s license plate numbers and knew where they fished. He remembered fish weights and the years they were caught. He remembered the weights of my fish, ones I had totally forgotten about.

I have had so many remarkable times with Hawk, fishing together or having a typical one or two-hour phone conversation. We fished two entire derbies together after I lost my mentor, Jack Coutinho. After fishing with Jackie for 12 years, I really needed Hawkeye in my life and I am so grateful for all the hours and months he was there for me.

Then we took Ron Mckee into our fold and became the wild threesome. The hours we fished together were ridiculous; we were three compulsive fishermen that didn’t have enough sense to go to sleep. We just lit a fire under each other.

Hawkeye was so interesting, his personality would flip between that of a helpless child and incredible, brilliant man. We could talk fishing, politics and life in general, ad infinitum.

My ear was always sore when we finally hung up the telephone. He was more like a brother to me than actual my brother.

I’ll never forget the nights we fished Lobsterville when the bluefish blitzed. We released all of them, but one night we decided to keep one to share for food. When we got back to my house and weighed it, it was over 19 pounds. We amazed ourselves that we were releasing bluefish that were over 20 pounds.

He preached the bachelor diet: On the beach it was Little Debbie Fruit Pies, until he discovered Stop and Shop chocolate chip muffins. And he always had a steady beach snack of little packaged crackers.

He insisted on describing how delicious his frozen bluefish fillets tasted night after night through the winter months. I begged him to stop talking about it as I did not find them at all palatable. But every time we talked he ended our conversation by saying: “I had the most delicious frozen bluefish last night.” I would say “Hawkeye, you are so annoying!” I can still hear him saying “I take pride in being your most annoying friend.” He really worked hard to hang on to that title.

And about those beach buggies: I’ll never forget the night that the big bluefish arrived and we planned on meeting up at the rip. As I was driving over the dunes, I saw the smoke. I knew immediately that it was his jeep that smelled of gas. I had tried to get him to pay attention to the fact that his jeep reeked of gas fumes, but he found me annoying.

It was difficult for him to take a passenger in his beach buggies because he had his own method of organization. Some would call it clutter, but he knew exactly where everything was and could get quite upset if anyone moved his stuff.

He couldn’t sneak around with his bail-less Penn 706. The grating sound that carried in the night time gave up his secret spots. You could hear him from North Neck all the way to the gut or a good half mile down the north shore. And how can we ever forget those baggy Greylite waders? With no belt.

I could go on forever with memories of my friend Bob Jacobs. Our trip to Cabo San Lucas, our secret fishing spots, his annoying brotherly behaviors. My brilliant friend could make me laugh until my belly ached and he could bewilder me as I listened to his interpretation of how to catch fish. He was definitely one of a kind. The world as Hawkeye sees it. He leaves a big hole in the fishing community on Martha’s Vineyard.

Thank you to all the Martha’s Vineyard Surfcaster Association members who showed up at his grave and the gathering to show his family how many people he touched. I hope there is a hereafter where his spirit can connect with the big ones that he pursued. He was a one of a kind that can never be replaced.

Janet Messineo is a fisherman, artist and fish taxidermist who lives in Vineyard Haven. Bob (Hawkeye) Jacobs died on May 8 at the age of 68.