By any measure, it was an exceptional afternoon on the water. Fishing buddy Chuck Edghill and I launched Chuck's boat a few hours before sunset at the Havre de Grace public boat ramp at the head of the Chesapeake Bay. Sweater weather. No wind. Suprisingly, as we motored from the ramp area out onto the Susquehanna Flats, not one other boat could be seen. We were hoping to hook up with some trophy rockfish on fly tackle. Little did I know the afternoon was to produce a memorable Butt Tale.

The Susquehanna Flats is a vast six-mile wide shallow area just below the end of the more confined half-mile wide Susquehanna River. Captain John Smith was one of the first Europeans to survey this area in 1608, and he named the river for the Susquehannock tribe of Native Americans. The Susquehanna River originates near Cooperstown, New York, some 444 miles from the upper Chesapeake Bay. Eons ago, the river free-flowed all the way to the continental shelf south of Ocean City at the Norfolk Canyon, ending in a massive waterfall. Back then, the ocean was about 60 miles east of Ocean City.

In more modern times the Susquehanna Flats is home to a variety of fish and waterfowl attracted to the expansive area of shallow water and extensive aquatic vegetation. The Flats has seen ups and downs from an environmental standpoint, with Hurricane Agnes destroying much vegetation and depositing massive amounts of silt. Incredibly, the Susquehanna River represents 50% of all the freshwater flowing into the entire Chesapeake Bay, delivering about 24 billion gallons on a typical day.

Then there is "body booting" on the Flats, a rather extreme way to hunt waterfowl wearing chest waders while standing among a spread of decoys in shallow water.

Returning to the Butt Tale, the striper fishing was exceptional, at least until my cigarette lighter failed. A catastrophe of Biblical magnitude. Anxiety swept over me like a continuous wave of cold water. What to do? What to do? Edghill was no help. He did not smoke. I checked tackle boxes for matches. Barren.

While debating whether to ask Edghill to run miles back to the dock for matches, it hit me. The idea was pure genius. Cut a small piece of cloth from my undershirt, grip it with a pair of fishing pliers, and create a makeshift, improvised giant Q-Tip.

I turned to Edghill and said, "Chuck, I'm gonna dip the cloth in gasoline. Then I'll remove one of the engine spark plug covers and hold the gas-soaked cloth between the plug and the cover. You turn the motor over and the spark will ignite the cloth."

He replied, "Are you nuts?"

"It will work," I insisted.

"Not with my engine," he barked.

But Edghill had my back, and a big smile crossed his face. He reached into a locker box, pulled out an emergency boat flare, and gave me a light. Chain smoking was then the order of what remained of the day.

Below: X marks the spot - Susquehanna Flats