One month has passed since I lost my husband, Al Pellini. Although I have children and grandchildren, this is no consolation for the loneliness and complete sorrow I feel every single day. My husband’s death was a tragic accident. He drowned while fishing for stripers, alone, on Cuttyhunk Island off the coast of Massachusetts. The coroner ruled that it was not a heart attack, stroke, or cerebral hemorrhage. I could have better accepted illness as God’s will, but instead it was ruled an accident. Al was known to be an expert fisherman, catching the second-largest striped bass from shore recorded in 1984. He had been fishing from the time he was a young boy in his home state of Rhode Island, but no amount of prodding or cajoling could convince him that fishing by himself was foolhardy and risky.
Saying striped bass fishing was his passion is not even close to explaining what Al did. He made a science out of studying phases of the moon, tides, specific areas, and other guy’s catches, and he kept extensive logs and charts. He knew so much about the weather he could have gotten a job as a TV meteorologist. His fishing buddies are all having such a difficult time trying to piece together just what might have happened on that fatal day.
As I understand it, Al wet-suited. He would swim out to clumps of rocks he used as his perch, and he knew just when to make his return to shore according to the tide. He had a big, old, gray truck with four-wheel drive that he used to reach obscure areas. The truck was loaded from floor to ceiling with waders, reels, lures, eels he had strung himself. A roof rack held a number of rods, many of them he had made from blanks down in our basement along the edge of the ping-pong table during the cold winter months. From a wife’s point of view, I understood none of it. How could one of your life’s major goals be to catch the largest striper ever caught? Would you eat it, sell it, give it away, or mount it?
When we were a young couple together, no matter how much vacation time he got, half of it was spent on various fishing trips. I would have preferred vacation time to be used as family time. When Al retired, however, I would even encourage him to pursue his favorite sport. On New Year’s Day, or certainly the day after, we would get out our calendars so that the ideal fishing dates would be firmly in place. Then we could plan our other little jaunts once that task was completed. We went to visit our children and grandchildren often, and they just adored their Grandpi. Their lives, too, have been changed forever. He gave the littlest one a fishing rod just last Christmas and promised to take all the kids fishing now that they each had a rod of their own.
Last year he had 86 days plugged into the calendar for fishing. This year I believe it was only 59, as his 50th college reunion occurred during some prime fishing time. Not much else would have kept him away from June fishing. Al always said fishing was a lot better than some things a man could be doing. I did not fish and could not have kept up with him physically anyway. He stayed in such great condition, after having survived kidney cancer twice, through diet modification and supplements. I even went and took fly-fishing lessons, as I thought, if you can’t fight-em, join-em. That was not the fishing he loved, however; striped bass fishing was his true avocation. I’d say, take me along to Block Island or Cuttyhunk, but my allergies precluded my staying anywhere with the least bit of mold or mildew. He over-nighted in real fishermen’s cottages where it didn’t matter if he walked in with his waders on, and he had a place to keep his smelly strung eels.
What bothered me the most though, was not where he went or how often, but the fact that he chose to fish alone. I would beg him to take a friend, or at least fish where there were other guys casting, but I guess that is not the fisherman’s law. They don’t seem to talk about where they have caught a big one and they know enough not to even ask one another. It was their secrets, their planning, and their expertise that had resulted in a major catch.
Why am I writing this article for a fishing magazine? My intent is that maybe you avid fishermen out there will realize you are not invulnerable, and how devastated your family and fishing friends will be if that horrible unexpected accident actually occurs. Al even taught courses on fishing safety, so he did know what to do and was totally prepared, but the sea is awesome and relentless, and oftentimes violent. Please do not let this happen to another fisherman and his family.
There has been such an outpouring from the “fishing community,” and it has lifted my spirits to know how many friends and admirers Al had. I have learned he was noted all along the East Coast for his fishing skills, but from Al all you ever heard about were the other great fishermen he knew or had heard stories about.
Please remember that life is tenuous, and safety is paramount. I am certain there is a fisherman’s paradise in heaven, and he is catching stripers day and night, great big ones. My sadness at his loss will not end until the end of my days.
Editor’s note: Al Pellini was a skilled sportsman, loved and admired by many in the fishing community, and will be greatly missed. He contributed an article to On The Water in March, 2005 titled “A Sixty in the Snow.” The full article is available here.