THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, December 7, 1994 TAG: 9412070027
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY PAUL SOUTH, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: WAVES LENGTH: Long : 158 lines
Kevin Cook stands in ankle-deep water that bubbles up like champagne, and watches as cormorants fly tightly in a long black V against a Carolina blue sky.
At 52, he sees more than nature's normal late fall migratory ritual.
``We're a lot like that,'' he says pointing at the stream of birds. ``It's almost as if you snap your fingers, and we're here.''
The ``we'' are seven friends from suburban Philadelphia. And for almost a quarter-century, as autumn chills the seas, they have come here to fish for bluefish, although they take whatever bites.
And they come for each other.
Charlie ``Dry Dock'' DeBow, Rod ``The Philly Fluke'' Deck, Don ``Gimp'' O'Gorman, Jack ``Fly Guy'' Kendra, Kevin ``C-Horse'' Cook, Jordan ``The Cookie Man'' Cook, and Richie ``Don Vito'' Danese make up the Bux-Mont Hatteras Anglers Club. Bux-Mont comes from Bucks and Montgomery Counties in suburban Philadelphia. The members' monikers are their CB radio handles.
And while they gather annually the week after Thanksgiving and call themselves a fishing club, 47-year-old DeBow says another name might be appropriate.
``Sometimes, it seems like the Bux-Mont Hatteras Non-Anglers Club,'' he says. ``Surf fishing is hit or miss. Basically, we're looking for big bluefish.''
Every angler comes to the Outer Banks this time of year to get the blues.
The feisty fighters have been bringing the friends back for 24 years. DeBow and Deck, 47, took their first trip to Hatteras Island in 1970.
``Charlie was just back from Vietnam and out of Penn State,'' recalls Deck. ``I was really into camping, and he was into fishing, and we started talking. It seemed like a good idea. Little did we know. . . . We created a monster.''
DeBow and Deck first came to Hatteras crammed in a Camaro with a couple of fishing rods. They stayed at a campground in Frisco, in a 12-by-14-foot structure with no heat and no plumbing.
``We kind of decided we liked fishing,'' Deck says.
Through the years the group and their lodgings have expanded. Two has grown to seven, and accommodations have grown from tents to cabins, to this year's stylish three-story bungalow.
``There's a flavor that I miss about the early days,'' Deck says. ``You can look at a video of some of those old trips, and see some pretty wild stuff.''
Deck is the cook. He gained legendary status after he grilled lunch on the beach in pouring rain while the others fished.
``We came up the beach, and Rod's standing out in the rain with a hibachi. He says, `You want bratwurst or knockwurst?' We couldn't believe it,'' says Kendra. ``It's like a tailgate party.''
On Thursday morning, while Kevin Cook photographs the sunrise, and O'Gorman watches cartoons, Deck works on breakfast. But his mind is on an absent friend member of the club - Danese. A soon-to-be-mailed card with Danese's address sits on the counter.
``Richie's in Florida recuperating from double-bypass surgery,'' Deck says. ``We call him the Godfather or Don Vito. He's our spiritual leader.''
Deck pauses for a brief moment.
``I miss him.''
The tone in his voice tells something about this group. Rod Deck is not shy when it comes to talking about his friends.
``Charlie is my best friend,'' he says of DeBow. ``But I love 'em all. We're like brothers. If you listen, you'll here one of us call the other `brother.' I think the secret is, we all find comfort in each other.''
Kevin Cook, and his younger brother Jordan, 48, find comfort in their friends, their family and this place. They too, have their mind on an absent friend, their father, Bill Cook.
The elder Cook, an Easterner who moved to the West and later became the mayor of Big Fork, Mont., is here too, in spirit. When he died, his children took a portion of his ashes to a favorite spot near Big Fork. They cast the remainder into the Atlantic off Hatteras.
Jordan Cook says few words, but when the topic turns to his father, he opens up,
``He fished every day of his life,'' he says of his dad. ``When we come down for a walk in the mornings, it's like he's here with us.''
Kevin Cook says, ``What hit me, when my father died, was that at 45, I was an orphan. I don't think you ever lose a little bit of the child inside.''
In a moment, Jordan Cook wipes his eyes. The wind quickly dries the tears, but cannot touch the feeling that the brothers have for the late mayor of Big Fork, or each other.
``We've always been close,'' Jordan says. ``We have a sister in Albuquerque. She's a part of this, too. We're tape recording different things on the trip so that she'll be here.''
During those morning walks, Kevin Cook takes a photo of a sunrise, the latest in his collection of Hatteras dawns. They cover his office wall back home.
``My wife is sick of sunrises,'' he says. ``But I love them here. Every day is different.''
Hatteras is a different place than it was in 1954 when the Cook boys came here with their folks. The old man of the bunch, Kevin Cook looks younger than his age. Only a shock of silver hair peeking out from under a black baseball cap gives him away.
Time has changed the island, and it has changed him. Especially the way he looks at sunrises.
``I think I see a little more of God in them than I used to.''
The ties to their families are here, but the strings run from the heart. There are no wives or children, and few razors.
In sunglasses and a porkpie hat, the bearded O'Gorman looks like a member of the rock band ZZ Top, or an extremely cool Santa.
O'Gorman and Jordan Cook are the only members not in the insurance business. Cook works in ``vertical transportation'' (elevators and escalators) for the Disney Corp. O'Gorman, 47, sometimes called ``Don-O,'' is a maintenance supervisor for a Pennsylvania school district.
And some years the only common door they enter is here.
``Some of these guys, I don't see all year,'' says Kendra. ``But we get here, and we just pick right up. It's amazing. We've come a long way from camping in 12-foot trailers and in 3 feet of water. I think it's gotten a little soft.''
Things may be a bit softer than 24 years ago, but one thing hasn't changed. There is the fishing, and the friendship. DeBow talks 90-to-nothing about the catches that might have been.
``We were out in the water, and the fish were running,'' he said. ``Trout were all over the place. You had to slide along as you walked in the water, because if you stepped on a fish, you'd fall down. They'd bump into your legs and almost knock you dowHatteras Island.
Photo
DREW WILSON/Staff
Charlie DeBow raises a bluefish banner upside down until the
Bux-Mont Hatteras Anglers Club catches its first fish.
by CNB