A lifetime harvesting the resources of Great Bay - New Hampshire ...

B ay m a n
A lifetime harvesting the resources of Great Bay forges a lasting bond
between a man and the estuary he loves.
My wife says I live by the sunrise, sunset and the tides. Those
are the assets I use to successfully harvest the bounties of the
Great Bay.
It all started years ago. When I was just a boy, my mother loved
watching horse pulling contests. That brought our clan to the Stratham
Fair each summer as I was growing up. It was from the tower atop
Stratham Hill that I got my first look at Great Bay. I remember seeing
the sails of the sailboats and the wake of the powerboats. That
view of the water would taunt a young boy on
such a hot summer’s day.
I was never far from connections with the
bay. The waterway that ran by my childhood
home was Wheelwright Creek, which feeds the
Squamscott River, one of the major tributaries of the estuary. In the
spirit of Tom Sawyer, the outgoing tide led me to Great Bay. My
memory is still clear of that 15-year-old lad in his 10-foot rowboat
with a 5-horsepower engine, testing the current as he passed under
the Stratham-Newfields railroad trestle. I didn’t belong there in that
boat. But I knew I would be back.
Bay Lore
My childhood was full of Great Bay adventures. I don’t know if
I should thank or scold a very gracious neighbor, Pete Lazlo, who
by David O’Hearn
took me on my first striped bass fishing trip to Adams Point when I
was 12. I caught my first schoolie bass on that outing, and angling
for these amazing fish is a passion I hold dear to this day.
Paul Carlton of Portsmouth was another of my Great Bay mentors.
Paul took me to the next level of striper fishing. In the summer
of 1986, shortly after the striped bass moratorium in the Chesapeake
Bay states had been lifted, I was invited to share his boat on a moonless
night under the General Sullivan Bridge. We were there for the
slack tide. It was my first experience fishing
for stripers with live eels. The limit was one
fish, 36 inches. I boated and released a 35-inch
striper that night, and the seeds of a “Bayman”
had taken root.
Another night after that, Paul again shared his boat with me. It
had to be past midnight when we heard a giant splash very close
to the boat. At first we were afraid someone had jumped off the
bridge. But after seeing a second splash and talking to other fisherman
under the bridge, we knew this was a whale. It turned out the
whale swam all the way up to Great Bay that night. The story ended
happily, as the authorities steered the whale oceanside the next day.
Good seeds need nourishment. Mine came from a kind man
named John McCooey from Dover, NH. John is an old-time Bayman.
We spent countless hours with our fishing boats gunnel to gunnel.
July/August 2009 • Wildlife Journal

I loved to listen to his stories of
Great Bay’s past. John was the
fertilizer I needed.
When I was growing up, it
was a neighborhood tradition to
see who could construct the best
smelt shanty. Those shacks were
hauled down to Depot Road in
Stratham, N.H. I remember one
even had bunks. At that time, Great Bay was the hotbed for winter
smelt fishing. The smelt camps in Greenland and Newington were
in full operation. Over the years, ice conditions and slow fishing
caused the shanty city to move to the Squamscott River. We are seeing
a reversal of that trend now, as Great Bay once again boasted
some of the best area smelt fishing this past winter.
During my teenage years, the New Hampshire Fish and Game
Department tried to establish a coho salmon fishery in Great Bay.
I remember standing on the shores of Moody Point in Newmarket,
before the blades of development had transformed the land, and
watching those silvery salmon jumping clear out of the water. The
end came for many salmon in Wheelwright Creek. I remember being
in awe of the size of those red salmon as they spawned and died in
such a small brook.
©David O’Hearn photo
Author Dave O’Hearn with two “keepah lobstahs.”
On the Water
It’s hard to be a man of the bay
without a boat. So, after much
pleading and negotiating, my “better
half ” gave in, and I purchased
a 17-foot center-console craft in
1990. I soon learned the ins and
outs of launching and retrieving
my boat at Chapman’s Landing in Stratham. This, in turn, launched
a new chapter in my career as a Bayman.
Some of my fondest memories are of catching alewives in the
headwaters of the Squamscott River. From downtown Exeter, I
would motor to Adams Point with a live-well full of those little silver
fish. The striper fishing action was hot. I remember using those
alewives as bait was like feeding candy to babies!
Late summer brings the menhaden or “pogies” into the Great
Bay. Menhaden are another favorite food of the striped bass. Last
year was very special. I got to share a couple weekends with my son
live-lining pogies for striped bass at Adams Point. It was definitely
quality time.
Having my own boat gave me the ability to explore and harvest
the clam flats of Great Bay, something I love because from an early
©nhfg / victor young photo
Wildlife Journal • July/August 2009

In longstanding tradition,
Baymen meet on
the mud flats of Great
Bay on a September
Saturday for the first
day of clamming season.
©David O’Hearn photo
An engine chugs across
the Stratham-Newfields
railroad trestle over the
Squamscott River near
Great Bay.
Previous page and
below: Still stunning
today, the expansive
view of Great Bay
from the fire tower
in Stratham Hill Park
inspired the author as
a boy.
age, I had acquired a taste for softshell clams. There is
a Bayman tradition that continues to this day – all the
“old salts” like to meet at the flats on the first day of
clamming each September. It is a good place to share
a beverage and catch up on each other’s activities. The
oyster tongers are there too. If we’re lucky and the
water is clear, we can pick a couple gallons of oysters
right off the bottom. This is a day I look forward to
each year.
Lobstering
Like any good tree with strong roots and a straight
trunk, branches started to appear – my interest in the
bay deepened as I discovered new possibilities. Two
of my good friends, Joe Daley and Mark Dolloff of
Newfields, N.H., were trapping lobster in the Great
Bay estuary. After a couple adventures on their boat, I
knew this was something I had to try.
Who would have thought so far from the ocean we
would have American lobster? The nursery of Great
Bay plays a special role for the lobster. Each spring,
lobsters migrate from the ocean into Great Bay to
shed or “molt” their shell. The lobsters come for the
mud that dominates the floor of the estuary. After a
lobster sheds its shell, it is very vulnerable to predators.
Lobsters use holes in the mud to hide in while
their new shell hardens. Great Bay is a good place
to see the difference between a hard shell (recently
arrived from the ocean) and soft shell (new shell
hardening) lobster. A hard-shell Great Bay lobster is
quite a delicacy.
I started with five traps. Those five traps grew to
ten, and then to twenty, in the first few years I trapped.
I had outgrown the center console and started searching
for a genuine lobster boat. In 1997, I purchased
a 1972 18-foot Norton, originally made in Hampton,
N.H. I equipped it with a 75-horsepower Yamaha.
Then things came full circle – a boat slip became
available on the Squamscott River. The USS Coalman
had found a new home.
©David O’Hearn photo
Call of the Bay
It is hard to describe the feeling I get each time
I pass under the Stratham-Newfields trestle into
Great Bay. The first thing to come into view is Mount
Agamenticus in York, Maine. As I bear left in the
channel along Black Bank, the Labonte Farm and the
mouth of the Lamprey River come into view. When I
reach the point where the Squamscott and Lamprey
rivers converge into Great Bay, I can see the Stratham
Hill tower. It makes me chuckle, thinking there may
be a young boy or girl at that very moment, standing
July/August 2009 • Wildlife Journal

atop the tower, watching my wake and dreaming of
their day on Great Bay.
A very special friend and my favorite Bayman is
Dick Pinney of Greenland, N.H. Dick guides striper
fishermen in the Great Bay during the summer. A
few years ago, my brother-in-law and I took a Great
Bay charter with Dick. The memories and knowledge
shared that day will last a lifetime. I sometimes envy
some of the accounts of Dick’s adventures on Great
Bay. But as I compare his experiences to mine, I find
we share much common ground – a powerful appreciation
for the rich resources and natural beauty of
the Bay.
Learning from these adventurers who plied the
bay before me, I, too, have become a Bayman. When
I am out on Great Bay, my internal clock tells me I
was born 200 years too late. I want to be for a day
that Native American who paddled his canoe from
Thompson Point across the strait to Adams Point. I
want to see the racks of salmon drying in the sun. I
want to hunt deer and wild turkey on the shores of the
Great Bay, where towering mast pines once stood.
As each spring approaches, I feel my blood thickening
with salt. It is a mineral smell that washes the
winter from my blood. There is new life to see and
new adventures to be had. The Great Bay calls me to
her shores. I am proud to be a Bayman.
David O’Hearn is a lifelong resident (49 years) of
Exeter, N.H. He and his wife Karen have two sons,
Adam and Shawn. Follow his adventures on the bay
and at his hunting, fishing and trapping camp on his
blog, huntingresource.com/coalman.html.
©David O’Hearn photo
The author gained much
of his knowledge of Great
Bay from old-timers like
outdoor columnist Dick
Pinney, above.
Clockwise from top left: Shawn O’Hearn, the author’s son, with striped bass caught
near Adams Point; smelt shanties; sunrise on Great Bay; the U.S.S. Coalman awaits
the author’s next Great Bay adventure.
©David O’Hearn photo
©David O’Hearn photo
©David O’Hearn photo
©hannah clements photo
Wildlife Journal • July/August 2009
©nhfg / victor young photo