There was “flash” – bundles of shimmering, iridescent plastic filaments – and there were rooster feathers. There were bucktails that had been Boraxed, shampooed, and dyed bright colors. There were rows of plastic eyeballs stuck onto sheets of paper like watchful candy buttons. Cooper Fersen stood in front of the wall of fly-tying supplies at Coop’s Bait & Tackle, taking stock.
Fersen, or “Little Coop,” uses all of these bits and bobs to tie his own flies for fly-fishing. He also works for Cooper Gilkes, or “Big Coop,” at Coop’s Bait & Tackle in Edgartown. He isn’t Big Coop’s son, although he gets that question a lot. Before Little Coop was born, his father, Paul Fersen, was living in Vermont and working for Orvis, the outdoor wear and fly-fishing gear company, when he came to Martha’s Vineyard on business. Paul met Big Coop and developed a lifelong friendship built around the sport. When Paul’s son was born, he didn’t have to look far for a worthy name.
So, Big Coop isn’t Little Coop’s father, but he has been a fatherly mentor, especially when it comes to fly-fishing – spin fishing’s quiet, graceful brother. It’s an elegant, ancient practice where a fisherman casts a line by hand, creating a wave and a loop through the line, to send the fly at the end out into the water. Some historians say fly-fishing dates back to 100 to 200 AD and originates in ancient Macedonia. Cultures around the world have developed their own styles, such as the 400-year-old Japanese practice of tenkara (“fishing from heaven”). Today, some people think it’s only done in freshwater, à la A River Runs Through It, but the saltwater fly-fishing community is large and the Island is a prized location.
Wherever you do it, the cast takes practice. “My dad would teach me at home and then, in the summer, I would come here and Coop would teach me more,” Fersen said. Lessons often took place in Big Coop’s backyard.
Over time, Fersen has polished his skills. The tall, blond fisherman speaks with a steady voice and is humble, but, when pressed, admitted that he’d come in first, second, or third place in one of the fly-fishing species categories in the Martha’s Vineyard Striped Bass & Bluefish Derby each year for the past four years. He’s also an adept fly tier. He teaches classes at the Martha’s Vineyard Rod & Gun Club in Edgartown in the winter, along with other Island fishermen and women, and ties flies year-round, some of which are used by the folks he takes out on his fishing guide company, Red Moon Charters.
How many flies does he tie per year? “Roughly two hundred, somewhere in that ballpark.”
With his supplies selected from the wall, Fersen was ready to get down to business. He set up his equipment on a chest freezer at the bait and tackle shop. There was a rotary vise, which is a stand that holds and spins the hook. There were white and pink bucktails, pink flash, a spool of white thread, and scissors. The plan was to create a fly that would mimic a squid in color, size, and shape. First, he secured the hook in the vise, then he wrapped string around the hook. Next, he snipped a pinch of bucktail hairs, fanned them out around the hook, and secured them in place. He added a few white rooster feathers.
“When it’s in the water, these feathers do a really nice job looking like squid tentacles,” he said. Several delicate strips of flash were added. Each element was layered carefully and tied with precision.
The full-body work of fighting a massive catch seems miles away from the delicacy of this intricate tying and snipping with what is essentially colorful, sparkly craft supplies. Fishermen come in all stripes but often “you think of them as these big, brute people who smell like bait,” Fersen said. “The nice thing with flies is you don’t smell like bait.” Also, it’s an outlet for creativity. “There are so many different techniques and there’s not one right way.”
Fersen gave the fly a few last snips and held it up to the light. The pink at the top transitioned fluidly into the white at the base. The body tapered and the flash glimmered. It was beautiful. “The fish seem to like it,” he said.
The shop was quiet, so Fersen grabbed Big Coop’s flyrod from his truck holster and headed out to the grassy yard behind the shop for a lesson, just like he’d received as a kid. He explained that the cast consisted of a series of motions that serve to gather speed. He pointed out the loop that travels down the line like a magic trick, which carries the line out over the water. He wound up and let it soar. The line shimmied and flicked out farther than seemed possible.
“And that’s it,” he said. “Everyone who fly-fishes, you’ll stand at a jetty or a beach for four hours at a time, just doing this.” But that’s what makes it so special, Fersen said. It’s the quiet, the art, the community. And “it’s just the endless pursuit of a fish.”
