In an essay published in 1882, after a visit to many of the private striped bass fishing clubs that dotted the New England shoreline, fisherman and writer Francis Endicott said, “Father Neptune is no respecter of persons, and spatters his royal favors so lavishly and so impartially on the just and the unjust that, unless you are a believer in the theory that ‘saltwater never hurts nobody,’ and can take a thorough soaking philosophically and as a matter of course, you had better give up all thought of being a bass fisherman.”
Kib Bramhall has taken many soakings over his long, full life. A member of a rarefied fraternity, he embodies the Vineyard fishing culture he embraced when he arrived on the Island at age 12 in 1945.
In his charming book Bright Waters, Shining Tides, Reflections on a Lifetime of Fishing, Kib described catching striped bass, bluefish and weakfish on block tin jigs, split bamboo rods and Penn Surfmaster reels at Wasque Point on Chappaquiddick.
When he was 14, Island fisherman Tom Osborne invited him on a striped bass trip to Muskeget Island, a sandy bump off Nantucket.
“It was a hard sell to persuade my mother to agree, but in the end, she let me go,” he said.
They traveled, not by boat but aboard Steve Gentle’s Seabee amphibian float plane, leaving from the Katama airport grass strip. That was some mom.
Over the years, Kib received a top-notch education from legendary fishermen with sunburned faces and brined hands. In an article in Salt Water Sportsman Magazine published in 1962, he joined what he described as “that strange clan who come to life after the sun has set and haunt the beaches in nocturnal blackness, cursed with the need to search out striped bass in the unearthly world of the night surf.”
In the good old days of Martha’s Vineyard’s rich shore fishing history, a fisherman could drive his or her beach buggy from Gay Head to Norton Point. In a story about beach access I wrote for Martha’s Vineyard Magazine, Kib told me, “As a young man, I was thrown out of virtually every fishing place you can name on Martha’s Vineyard, once at gunpoint.”
On one occasion, when he was a teenager, he snuck into Squibnocket, a fabled and private Chilmark fishing spot.
“I was fishing on the bass stand at dusk, and an elderly man came out, and he was fishing too, and he said, ‘Why are you here?’
“And I said, ‘Well, I’ve got permission from Mr. Hornblower.’”
“And he said, ‘Well, I am Mr. Hornblower, and you’re welcome to stay here and fish with me, but please don’t ever come back.’”
In the big bass heyday, when the ferries ran on time, and rentals didn’t cost a fortune, the Island attracted serious fishermen, particularly during the five-week fall Martha’s Vineyard Striped Bass and Bluefish Derby. The names on the weigh station leaderboard amplified bragging rights and minted legends. Kib embraced the competition, setting derby and world fly rod records for stripers and bonito.
He won the boat striper division in 1967 and 1971. It was an impressive feat, all the more because for years he’d drag his nine-foot tin boat across Squibnocket Beach to seek out big bass among its surf and boulders.
In 1981, Kib caught a 42-pound, 13-ounce bass at Cape Pogue on a fly rod, a remarkable catch, and a derby shore and world fly rod record. At the weigh station, Vineyard Gazette photographer Mark Lovewell snapped a photo of Kib with wind-tousled hair, in waders, sporting a corncob pipe and holding up the massive striper.
Not as well known, he also holds the derby record for the most handsome photo of a fisherman holding a big striped bass.
Kib is often referred to in print as legendary. Amid his many accomplishments, his character and quiet demeanor stood out.
In the early 80s, it became clear to many fishermen, but not all, that striped bass were in trouble. The derby committee debated whether or not to remove bass from the prize structure. In 1983 and 1984, Kib boycotted the contest and joined the local and national effort to protect striped bass.
Kib took issue with published statements by two well-known Islanders that “virtually everyone who fishes for stripers does so in order to sell their catch.”
In a letter to the editor of the Vineyard Gazette published June 22, 1984, Kib said that simply was not true. “There are many anglers for whom the excitement and pleasure derived from battling a truly wonderful game fish is reward enough, and they realize additional satisfaction by releasing their catch. They would no more kill the very source of their sport than a golfer would burn his golf ball after the 18th hole.”
In 1985, under pressure from sponsors and fishermen, the derby committee removed striped bass from the competition, a change that remained until stocks recovered.
The fishing landscape has changed since Kib roamed the beaches. Texts and tweets have replaced the discretion practiced by silent men on dark beaches.
Late one quiet black night, without a vehicle in sight, I drove slowly along the road that parallels Lobsterville Beach. I stopped at a good spot and listened intently for the sounds of any feeding striped bass. A shadowy fisherman walked up off the beach.
Bass fishermen learn to recognize form and gait.
“Kib?” I called out. “It’s Nelson.”
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I was pretending to leave so whoever it was would think there were no fish here.”
The beach was loaded with bass. Not another soul on the beach, but Kib was true to form.
When I learned Kib was 91, I thought of a quote attributed to Herbert Hoover, our 31st president and a passionate fly fisherman.
Hoover said: “The Lord does not deduct from the hours of man those spent in fishing.”
By my calculation, Kib Bramhall is 28 years old.
Nelson Sigelman lives in Vineyard Haven. He delivered this essay during the Creative Living Award ceremony Wednesday honoring Kib and Tess Bramhall.
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