Stevie's Story

When the Kessinger family gets together, naturally stories of fishing are at the top of the agenda. We often reminisce of the old days on the Startsream II, the funny tales, and the assorted people who were a part of our lives for so many years that made us laugh, moan, or instill some other inner emotion. The Starstream, and other boats my Dad captained, were my summer camp. My brothers and sisters and I grew up with saltwater in our veins and at one time or another, we were an integral part of its history. We often talked of writing a book about our mischief and adventures, which inspired me to at least start with creating this website in honor of my Dad, Mom, and the most important woman in our lives, the 85-foot queen of Freeport. I have to say I haven’t been this juiced up about anything since my honeymoon, so the countless hours of scanning photos, organizing the webpages, gathering facts and stories were well worth my efforts. I hope you enjoy viewing this as much as I have in bringing this piece of history back to life.

My first memories of fishing with Dad go back to the early 1960’s on the Capt Jack IV and VI. I remember reeling in doormat fluke that my Dad hooked as I was just a toddler at the time. My memories of the Capt Jack VI, the “battleship” StarStream, and of course the flagship of its time, the Starstream II will stick with me until my demise. Dad always had a milk crate ready for me to stand on so I could fish at the rail. I was a short, shy, geeky kid, which made me prey for teasing, pranks, and getting my balls busted by the crew and some of the customers. Growing up in a fisherman’s family with five kids didn’t leave us with many luxuries. Living just on the border of a well-to-do neighborhood of Baldwin Harbor, I quickly learned from my wealthy schoolmates that our lifestyle was a lot different. When that 85 foot toy came into town, the priceless experiences negated the material world.

As a young kid, I quickly learned the value of a dollar. I would fish on the old Startstream on weekends and when school was out. We would hawk our fish at the dock and the mates would give me a cut of what I caught and sold. I began working on the full-time payroll night bluefishing in the summers from 1974-1979, while in high school and college. Capt. Chris Specht and I were the steady constants for the first few years, as other mates moved in and out of the job every season. I also “shaped up” as Dad would say on weekends during codfishing, and seabass/bottom fishing when he needed an extra deckhand. As I finished college, got married, and raised a family in the mid to late 1980’s, I had had my fill of party boat fishing, and didn’t step foot on the vessel to work or fish ever again. My career, grad school, and family consumed my life, just as once the Starstream had.

As a geek and scholar, I gotta admit that the job as a mate didn’t best fit my skill set. It was by no means a glamorous job – and I struggled through many nites especially when the fishing was dead, or a “hack” as we called it. I recall earning $20 -$25 a night, but of course the tips, cleaning and selling fish supplemented the wages. I paid every penny of my five years of college tuition for pharmacy school with “fish-blood” money earned on the Starstream. I also learned life skills of working with people of many different races, colors and backgrounds. That’s what made the job so interesting. There is such a long list of “regulars” who fished with us and became part of our lives and who got caught up in our mischief.

I never cared much for cold weather, and probably one of the main reasons why I now live in Florida. My fingers and toes were always numb – I hated that itchy, burning, prickly, skin tingling thing you get when you got home in the heat and your flesh thawed out. Thinking about my experiences immediately brings to mind all the data that my brain gathered over the years from the sensory experiences. Naturally, seasickness is at the top of the list. The nausea, headache, and general feeling of malaise from the rolling and pounding in the rough seas is something that you never forget. Eventually that disappears and you can eat a meatball sub, can of sardines, or fried chicken on the worst of nites, no problema. But boy we took some poundings nite blue fishing. Even with a decent pair of sea legs, I got my share of bumps, bruises, and ass whoopings from the wrath of the sea and the physics of bone on aluminum. And their ain’t nothing like the fierceness of Mother Nature while being miles offshore in the intense summer thunderstorms, torrential rains, and the deafening boomers and lighting strikes all around us.

Here is a list of some of the things my senses will never forget. The schools of maggots and horseflies and horrendous stank of the garbage baking in the 90 degree summer heat in the dumpster when you emptied the trash. Gagging, as I cleaned up more puke in a summer than an oncology nurse sees in a lifetime. My gnarly, dried out, blood-stained fingers maimed with knife wounds, line cuts, fishhook barb holes, and fish oils in the pores at the end of the nite bluefish season. Standing in the bow in pitch black night air as lookout for Captain Chris when the heavy fog rolled in. The stench of raunchy chum, fish guts and diesel fumes. The frenzy of hooking up with a voracious school of blues and multitasking the chum bucket, gaffing fish, re-rigging a customer, and managing monofilament bird’s nests, spiderwebs, and sweaters knitted by incessant tangles. Climbing out on the bowsprit in the high seas to unfrig the rigging or detangle a fishing line. The smell of low tide coming through Loop Bridge. Playing with the live squid that were attracted to the night lights and “inking” each other. Mastering the hand simulations of the squid tentacle swimming motions. Backed up toilets and "brown trout" in the heads. Teaching customers the fishermen’s handshake and barking “any bites,” “walk em down,” “lift em’ or lose em’” and “let em take it” Slinging chum, serving beer, cutting bait, shucking skimmers, setting/pulling anchors, rigging rods, repairing reels, re-spooling line, sweeping/mopping the cabin, cleaning toilets, and of course scrubbing down 85 feet (x 2 sides) of blood stained aluminum. The cold spray in the face when taking one over the bow. Second hand smoke – I never smoked a cigarette in my life but if I ever get lung cancer it was ‘cause of being in confined quarters with cancer sticks in the heated, closed-door cabin during the winter. The sounds of the “gaga” reels, screaming drags, the pleas for the “gaff”, the calls for “Raaaalph”, the gongs, horns, bells and whistles. The first glimpse of the giant beast coming up from the depths and the grim looking acid waters. The sound of whacking dogfish on the decks. My favorite sounds as mate were the three whistles at the end of the nite and that popping sound of the cold beer at the end of a long sweaty shift. Nothing topped the end of a shift like breakfast with the boys at the Freeport Diner.

Then there were the nicknames we had for each other or our customers: Big Nose Larry, “A-hole” Freddie, Jeff the Dentist, Sinker Al, Louie the Plummer, Poppie , Gene the Cab Driver, Tanglefoot, Bogus, Berkfy, Captain Kotex, Wolfie, Buck, Gonzo, and Mumbles. And oh the pranks that still make me laugh today. When the fishing’s slow, and the crew gets bored, watch out. Here’s a few I witnessed: tying fruit, faucets, and any other inanimate object we could find to customer lines caught on the opposite side of the boat, “cruller shots”, the simulated phart noises and barf sounds through the engine room vent system. My own personal trick was sneaking a freshly opened sardine can inside the chum bucket and reaching in and taking a sample to entertain the fishermen or make them green. The poor saps who boarded with boxes of Dunkin Donuts or buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken – easy prey for the seagulling appetites of the crewmates.

My most memorable moments were in 1976 with the July 4th Bicentennial Celebration. First on the list was the massive fireworks display in NY harbor, which of course we had front row seats. We also watched for weeks as naval ships, schooners, clipper ships, and even Columbus’s fleet would pass us as we fished, to collect in NY harbor for the once-in-a lifetime celebration

Today, living in Florida, I fish mostly every weekend from a kayak in skinny waters in search of snook, redfish, trout, and even a bluefish once in awhile. When Dad’s in town, we dabble in offshore bottom fishing for grouper on his boat the “Outta Line”. He still loves the anchor drills and is mastering the use of new electronics (GPS). I personally admit that of the Kessinger boys, I was the least adept as a fisherman and of course, Dad usually puts us all to shame. The one thing I have mastered however that they haven’t even attempted yet is flyfishing. Don’t care what you say, there ain’t nothing like hooking and fighting a snook or a red on the fly. Still waiting for my first hook-up with a tarpon and the thrill of it pulling down my fly.

The chapter on this portion of my life has been closed for a long time. The experiences, memories, and sensory experiences will live with me forever. Looking back, I have only one regret - that I didn’t have a camera or keep a journal to better record my experiences. Despite countless hours worked, I have few photos of myself, my catches, any my time served aboard with my mateys. We didn’t have digital cameras and videocams back then, so many of the photos we have are digital scans of old technology.

This website is work in progress. I hope that other stories, photos, names, and search for missing persons that you too will share will bring many of the crew, our customers, and others in our lives back together to keep this a living and breathing resource

I dedicate this with love to my Mom and Dad, and glad that I could do this while they are still with us

Peace, love, friendship, and tight lines

Stephen Mark (Stevie) Kessinger

January 12, 2011

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