By Paul Melnyk
I've been fishing the beaches and coves out in Montauk, on the eastern tip of Long Island all of my adult life. During that time, I have advanced in skill from bumbling beach bum to fully wet suited frog boy. I have seen days of plenty as well as pain. It is on one of these outings that I had the most memorable of experiences.
The reports I had gathered from various "connections" were all positive. If the news was true, the bass had been thick for the past few days in the remote portion of Montauk's rocky southern shoreline. The Blitz was on!
Noon time found me on the cliff walk which led to Caswell's Reef, an isolated spit of serious striper coast on Montauk's Atlantic shoreline. The sun shown brightly with only the hint of chill in the fresh October air. I donned my wet suit, gathered up my gear and made my way to the surf below. The entry point for this beach access was hidden down a twisting dirt trail that seemed to go on forever. I wove my way through the overhanging grape vines and bittersweet forming a natural tunnel through the scrub oak brush land. Sunbeams cascaded through the overhanging bows, settling on the path ahead of me and causing a peculiar strobe-like effect as I hurried. When finally I broke free of the woods and peered down over the edge of a steep bluff, a glorious feeling swept through me. I was alone like a hunter from a bygone era surveying the beach below. An easterly wind blew briskly in my left ear, building to about ten knots. The ocean had taken on a dull sheen, no doubt a result of the wind and tide whipping the sea into a medium roll. The water sure looked "fishy". After descending the cliff I waded into the surf, working my way out to a distant rock. After making several casts, and having no luck at all, I began to doubt the productivity this piece of the beach.
Doubt is the great conqueror of the angling spirit. For the fisherman, it is the harbinger of fate that may cause him to make his most rash decisions often leading to a skunking - or worse - causing him to move off the fish, usually, only moments before the big chew.
After thirty minutes, the eel was well on its way to drowning. Such a feeling of uncertainty came over me that I began a frantic search for any sign of life. In the distance I could see what appeared to be a darkening cloud gathering about a quarter mile east on Kings Point. This cloud took on a brownish, boiling effect as if some puff of smoke was hovering there on the horizon. I could almost swear it looked alive . . . birds.
Gulls are the great forecasters of bait just below the surface and the scaly beasties that chase after them. The awful truth though, about spotting gulls, is that with the strange parallax caused by temperature, humidity, and imagination, a person can never be sure exactly where the damned things are situated! It is an unwritten law that if you go off chasing birds, you will undoubtedly find them a mile out to sea when you get there.
Suddenly, I noticed the hazy figure of a man, rod in hand, walking the beach from that far point, and into my general vicinity.
All in all, the best way to put yourself onto the fish is to have someone tell you where they are! This technique also has it's drawbacks. You may never be totally sure of the integrity, or timeliness of this form of intelligence. Your best fishing buddies have been known to send you off on some wild goose chase, and then have a good laugh about it later! God forbid you should go seeking advice from strangers, for you never know weather he is a pro, a rank amateur, or a comedian.
With this in mind, I found myself wading back to the beach to have a fishin' powwow with my kindred spirit.
"What's going on at the other point, over there?" I asked after we exchange pleasantries.
"Well, I saw a few fish a while back, but they just kept runnin' in and out . . . took a couple a small ones."
My ears perked up at this. Could it be that my comrade has committed
the first sin of fishing and walked away from the fish?
"It sure looks like there is some bunch of birds over that way." I said, as I nonchalantly nodded toward the far point.
"Yeah, well . . . that's part of the problem, there were so many freakin' birds flying around that they were gettin' in the way. Why, I even got one caught in my line! Took me ten minutes to untangle the damned thing," he mumbled.
Hearing those words, I took off on a mad dash through the rocky badlands of Driftwood Cove. I didn't even say goodbye. He must have thought I was nuts to go charging off across that treacherous terrain.
This spot is one of the most stone strewn beaches in Montauk - not a bit of open sand to be seen for a quarter mile. There are enough boulders, rocks and pebbles to satisfy a homesick mountain goat. Oh, what a trek it was!
The heat of the afternoon sun pressed down upon me like some great weight on my chest. Gasping, I continued. All that I could think of was getting over to those birds. Reaching the halfway point, I had to stop for air - my wetsuit clinging to me like a python. The smell of ozone, caused by the sparking cleats of my Korker soles permeated the air. Taking a deep breath, I looked out to see . . . Yes! ... Those are birds! ...
I felt dizzy as I rounded the point. Multiple backs of striped bass broke the water as they leisurely humped through the surf! The fish were about a cast and a half out from the tideline. Wading out to them, I was blessed with a second wind. I dragged myself wheezing and stumbling through the surf. Three other men were already fishing the spot, each with a bent rod! This sight spurred me on.
Every rock and deadfall caught at my feet as I made for the center of the reef. The sky had darkened with the bodies or hundreds of gulls; their screams added to the pandemonium. They were so numerous that their bodies obscured the line of sight between the sky and sea as they fed on an acre of churning bait . . . mullet! Slowing, not wanting to spook the fish, I waded out to an elevated rock, about seventy-five yards from the tide line. I had to swim the last few feet. As I climbed onto a boulder, the waves crashed, throwing great plumes of suds into my face. I steadied myself to make a cast and saw that the eel I had run with down the beach had shriveled due to exposure. It looked like road kill. I pulled it free, flipped it into the surf, and fastened a fresh snake to the hook. His wilted companion drifted within a cloud of bait. A screaming gull dove onto the eel, but one of his fellows had the same idea. As they fought above this morsel it sank slowly in the current. Suddenly, a great shadow erupted from the bottom. In a flash that shrunken piece of meat vanished. I swallowed hard and made my first cast into the wall of frantic birds.
Now the most important aspect of fishing an eel is not to rush the process. The eel must swim at the bottom and in order to achieve this you must reel extremely slow. My nerves were sparking furiously and this seemed an impossible task. The waters were teaming with life and a strong case of "bass fever" was affecting my self control. With each crank, I had to remind myself to take it easy. I could sense the eel becoming agitated, the line vibrated with his gyrations. This bait had no intention of becoming a fish dinner. With all its darts and faints, the unlucky eel would only make its fate more sure. I felt the distinctive tug of a strike - I lifted the tip too early - and missed it!
At this point my line was halfway in. The fish were all around me. I steadied myself as a swell rolled over the rock. Two more slow cranks. Real slow. As quick as that, the tip was pulled down toward the water by another strike! Wait. This time, out went the drag! Now I could feel the fish's tail hitting my line and I knew that I had her in the perfect striking position. Tightening the drag, I slammed the rod back.
The fight was on! Out went my line in a series of long rips that stripped fifty feet from the reel. I saw the line cutting laterally through the water, leaving a little wake as it tore through the surf. Oh yeah, this is a nice fish! The line began to sing from the tension as it quivered in the wind. I palmed the spool to try to slow the fish and gain some control. Her head and shoulders thrashed in the vain attempt to free herself from her tormentor. She dove behind a rock. The line scraped along the bottom. I opened the drag and let the fish free spool, hoping that this will deceive her into heading for deep water. It worked! She doubled back on herself and I quickly brought in the slack. As the fight moved closer, the gulls went wild. With all the splashing, they began hollering at each other. They jockeyed for room over what must surely have looked like a free lunch. A gull struck at the line!
"Get outta Here!" I shouted at the critters, like a deranged taxi driver.
Time slowed at the end of the battle. The fish rolled in an attempt at freedom. Her great tail breaching the water like an upturned broom.
And there she was, big and beautiful under my feet. Jumping off the rock and into the churning surf, I grabbed her by the jaw as a wave broke over us. I had her! My hand seemed small as I fought to control her. Then she went limp. The fish must have weighed forty pounds or more! A huge belly signaled the presence of a million eggs. I carefully contemplated my next move as I pulled the hook and slipped her back into the water. Off she went, splashing me with an indignant flip of the tail. I smiled and waved goodbye.
"Hey, nice fish, buddy!" my neighbor
yelled as he too, leaned into good fish.
It had been about twenty minutes since that first cast, and I took a moment to climb back onto the rock, relishing the memory of that last fight. The water was alive, the sky was alive and I felt more animated then ever. The blitz had brought out a lost primordial instinct, sending me into the delirium of the hunt. With each cast came another challenger. As I fought one striper after the other, I was absorbed in the moment - all my senses sharpened. The green water was now crystal clear. The smell of chewed bait drifted in the breeze. I watched as mullet floated by my perch. The wind and surf had little effect on their course. Like a sea bound flock of swallows, this body of fish darted from one direction to another, with an intense flash of silver.
Every so often a hollow appeared in this school of bait. It was within this cavity that the huge bass swam. They glided along like animated vacuum machines, inhaling the unlucky stragglers, who wallowed into their path. These great creatures showed no haste as they proceeded past my rock. They began to congregate in groups of three and four abreast, as if on parade. The stripers seemed to be grazing on the schooling bait like lumbering Holsteins. As the sun sank lower into the autumn sky, a peculiar image was cast before me. The wind was holding up the waves into great curved walls of transparent water. Through this window I saw a beast of at least fifty pounds chasing an irresistible morsel within the curl. Backlit by the setting sun, I was witness to the silhouette of gods' great aquarium. The wave . . . the bait . . . the fish.
As the sun drew lower and the evening air grew colder, I walked off toward my distant trail - heavier with the memory of this day. Isn't it funny though, that long trip back over the rocky coastline didn't seem a bit difficult? Not in the least.