Dawson Creek

The water is still this morning. Brenda and Vernon Rose have come out before dawn to fish. They are standing on a pier casting their pre-baited lines--hidden from the road by scrub and tall pines.

“We prefer a strong wind with a lot of wave action,” says Vernon. “Days like this are hit or miss. It’s prettier, but the fish don’t think so.”

He stops himself and smiles. “Can’t let out too many secrets.”

Outside the county, this creek is famous as the inspiration for the television show “Dawson’s Creek.” But in the county, it’s famous for good fishing. That’s what drew the Roses to Pamlico County. They moved from Chapel Hill in 1972 to be near the creek. Vernon, who is 73, was one of few dentists in the county until he retired 15 years ago. His son Josh took over the business, which left Vernon’s early mornings free for his favorite pastime.

The pier is located where the creek merges with the Neuse River. Farther to the east, the river flows into Pamlico Sound; beyond the sound is the ocean. From the pier you can hear water gently gurgling against the rocks that define the shoreline. The land around the Dawson Creek bridge, which traverses the Neuse and is visible from the pier, was once wading water— shallow, with a sandbar that mirrored the coastline’s. Now it is a rocky shoreline created by large rocks placed there to help avoid erosion caused by frequent hurricanes and storms.

“Going to your usual spot?” Brenda asks Vernon as he walks past her to cast farther out.

They fish for speckled trout, freshwater drum and bluefish. But Vernon says you can also catch striped bass and flounder.

“Sometimes it’s more like a disease than a passion,” says Brenda. The strap of a fishing bag is draped across her chest. The bag holds a small flashlight, a measuring tape, little scissors and a split ring to help her get the hook out of a fish’s mouth. Brenda, also 73, married Vernon in 1970. He introduced her to the sport. “I can’t be married to him for 51 years and not fish,” she says.

The couple angles in worn t-shirts and jeans. Vernon wears what he calls “Walmart specials,” rubber shoes that are easy to slide off and slip back on. He says “Pamlico Reeboks” are the best, though—big white rubber boots that many fishermen wear around the county even when they aren’t fishing.

A powerboat zooms into view, coming from under the bridge and creating a heavy wake. “Boats don’t help,” says Vernon. The boat makes him pause before his next cast. Vernon and Brenda have identical casts, sharp and fast, that land their lures 30 feet out. They aim their fishing poles straight down and grip the handles like they are stabbing the water. The poles jab down and up quickly as they reel in the lines.

After about 20 minutes, they both switch to their secondary rods, which are already dressed with subsurface lures. (They favor the MirrOlure brand.) Vernon says they both prefer to use floating lures. “When the fish catch it, the water explodes,” he says. His two sons, also avid fishermen, made him this rod by hand.

Small fish, swimming in a school, jump. “Something was chasing them,” says Vernon. “That’s what we are looking for.” He rushes to send out one last cast. Nothing.

Hunting dogs are being fed breakfast somewhere near the creek; they bark and howl. The sun is now up, and Vernon squints at the light glinting off the water.

“Past two days, I caught a fish on the first cast,” he says. They were speckled trout. “But that was it. Not another bite.”

“Jinxed himself,” says Brenda. In her view, those lucky first bites negated any others.

He kept the trout. He and Brenda cleaned, broiled and ate them. But often they let go what they catch. They fish to be surrounded by nature.

Two blue herons squawk loudly and fly toward us from across the creek. A mullet leaps out of the water as if to taunt the Roses. “No one knows why they jump—they just like to jump, I guess,” Vernon says. “But they don’t bite the line.”