Rainbows and Stripers
By Paul Melnyk
Sometimes you just know something is up, but the morning started out very gloomy in Montauk and I just couldn't get out of bed, even though I felt sure the day would bring a slew of stripers to the coast. Another fall storm had been pounding the north side for three days now, and not much was seen of the expected run of herring. I rolled out of the sack at around six a. m. and made the choice to skip the beach. With the storm moving off, I just didn't feel the tug of the surf. Don't ask me why I went to work.
Around three o'clock my phone rang. It was Joe Gaviola. Joe is the owner of Gaviola's Montauk Market, Sandwich Emporium and Bodaga. Along with the great coffee comes the best fishing gossip in the village.
"Get down to the beach, now! There are fish all over the point!"
"Any size?"
"Forties!"
It doesn't take much to get the bass "jones" going. You know what I mean. The sensation that this could be the day- my lucky day. I was out the door in less than a half hour and on my way to Clark's cove, on the north side of the lighthouse beach. The drive out was cool and drizzley. Rain showers threw up a fine curtain of spray, making it difficult for the windshield wipers to do their work. The blow was pushing thirty m.p.h. and the highway was covered with fallen leaves and tree branches. Their brown corpses littered the roadway for the last couple of miles to the point. The fragrance was fabulous- the smell of life renewed. There is nothing in the world that can stir sweeter memories for me then that aroma.
When I rounded the bend at the lighthouse, I could see the word had been spread quickly. A line of buggies were making a convoy toward the parking lot. The beach had been hammered during the storm and it had rearranged itself. It was high water now and Joe had told me the dirt road into the cove was impassable. I parked in the upper lot, grabbed my gear and took off for the beach. I could see gannets and gulls diving as I descended those slippery stairs to the bluff. On the beach, the scene was a mad house. Every shoreline rock had a fisherman standing on it. The sea was pounding the bluffs. The highest tide I can remember. This was literally washing the cliff away. It pulled large portions of rock and clay into the wash. I had a hard time making the trip to my favorite spot with the rip tide-whitewater pulling at my legs. I was glad that I had worn my wetsuit, even though it was rather cool in the wind and fine spray. As I reached the bluffs west of the lighthouse, I noticed the beach was strewn with fish. ten or more cow bass lay in a row, behind the shadow of the cliff. Not one was under twenty five pounds. There were at least fifty surfcasters standing in the wash throwing bucktails and tins. Every third man was hooked up. It was time to elbow my way into the fray. I found my pals, Joe, Atilla and Dennis and squeezed in between them.
"Hey! Get outa here you Goog!", was their tender welcome to me, in unison.
"If you cross my line I'll kill you Melnuck!"
"Yeah, I brought my knife!", says my pal Atilla.
Ahhh... how I love the comradrie of our little tribe!
"Get off my rock you little shit!", I hollered back at them as I squeezed between Atilla and Dennis.
Dennis is now hooked up to a fish. It is a slob, as is evident by the severe bend in his rod. He looks over at me with an excited glare.
"Hey Joe! I got a contender on here!", Dennis shouts to his brother.
"Don't drop it Goog, it's just a rat!", Joe yells in retort.
The crew is into the heart of the Montauk Locals Bass Tournament. Everyone is looking for a fish for the leader board of the largest surfcasting purse on Long Island. We all start singing the theme music for the sixties action show "Batman", but we have changed the words a little bit to match Dennis's nickname.
" Dada, dada, dada, dada, dat- RATMAN!"
Dennis is well hooked. He gives up his perch and moves down tide with his fish, jostling and contorting with all the fishermen and gear along the way.
"Excuse me- fish on- sorry fellah..."
Of course, being his buddy, I hop on his rock, and hook a fish with the first cast! Down the beach I go, following Dennis as my fish also pulls me down tide. I land the fish and it is a nice bass of about twenty five pounds. I released her back into the wash and watch her swim away. Dennis is nowhere in sight. Back to my pals I go, where I find my friend Eric has taken the rock. I squeeze in with them and get pounded in the surf. I am rolled around like so much flotsam.
"Hey Paulie! Come up with me, I've got room for two up here!", Joe shouts to me.
Being a lefty, I have little trouble sharing a rock with someone. I hop up on my favorite boulder with Joe, a double rock, flat and wide that we know harbors a deep bowl in front, about seventy five feet out. I am now in fish heaven.
In the distance we see the clouds are breaking up. Deep blue holes appear in the overcast and the sun's rays shoot like laser beams through the rolling sky. The rain has changed to snow flurries which sparkle in the sunlight like tinsel. Directly before us, a magnificent rainbow arches through the air. It is so vivid, I feel as though I could reach out and touch it.
"Look at that!", I whisper to Joe.
"What an omen! One of us is gonna score big!"
We begin to hook up regularly now as a flock of gannets moves into our zone. They crash at the water from dizzying heights, like dive bombers. I watch as a bird flies away with a twelve inch herring in it's beak.
"Holly shit! Did you see that?"
"I did, my friend, I did..."
From behind us I here a commotion. I turn and see Dennis on the beach with people gathered around him. Dennis holds up a bass of over thirty pounds.
"I gotta go weigh this fish at Johnny's Tackle, save my rock!", he shouts.
"Get outa here you Googan!", we holler back.
Dennis heads towards the parking lot.
Joe and Atilla are both hooked up at once. I help Joe down as he moves off with his fish. Attila is not far behind him.
"Come on! It's my turn!", I whisper to the bass gods, and I am greeted with a solid thump to my line. As my rod bends in half, my drag starts to sing. Joe and Atilla are back with their fish, two high twenties. With this storm tide the fish are getting a lot of leverage in the fast rip. I jump down and begin to chase my fish down the beach.
"Excuse me, Pardon me, Fish on..." I make my way through the gauntlet of casters.
When I finally get a handle on my fish, I pull him up into the wash. It is a big fish, about forty inches long, bright silver, shining in the afternoon sun. As I reach to grab the beast by the jaw, a flash of sharp teeth lunges at my hand.
"You son of a bitch!"
I have landed a twenty pound bluefish. The chopper jumps and flops about in the rocks. As I reach for his tail my rod springs back over my shoulder. The monster has cut himself off, taking my two and a half ounce bucktail along with him.
"Don't that take the cake...", I mutter as I shake my head. As I walk back to my friends I notice there must be twenty bass beached among the rocks at this time. What a day. A little further I pass whole herring washed up onto the sand. I know that there has got to be a fifty pounder out there.
Back at our rock, Joe asks me about my fish.
"Aw, It was a big chopper...."
"Well change your terminal tackle. He probably nicked it all to hell..."
"What you think? I fall off boat yesterday?", I say in my best Russian accent.
I replace everything, including about ten feet of line that I cut back. With the wind and the waves working hard to delay me, Joe has managed to land two more high teen stripers.
"Hey! You fishin', or just takin' up space?"
"Aw, Shut the Fu...", BOOM! I am swept from the rock by a wave and land on my back in four feet of bubbles! I get up laughing. We all are.
"That will keep those foul thoughts from your head!", Joe hollers at me.
I reach the sand and look to my right where I see a disturbance further down the beach. Eric is in a heated discussion with some woman who has worked her way into the bluffs. As they approach to within earshot, the two of them having a tug 'o' war with a nice sizes linsider.
"You murderer! You have killed another living thing, one of gods creatures! This fish deserved a life, just like you!"
"Lady, as it says in the old testament, God placed these beasts on the earth for the use and servitude of man and If you don't let go of my fish, It will be you who goes for a swim!"
Eric grabs his fish away from the P.I.T.A. woman and heads towards me with the bass hugged close to his breast.
"Can you believe that, Paul? She was gonna throw back my dinner!"
"Anything is possible in Montauk, Eric."
I head for my rock. Hopping up, I take a cast and relate the story that had just unfolded to Joe and Atilla. We all have a good laugh!
"Hey look! Here comes Richie! He is supposed to be working behind the Deli counter at the store! Hey Richie! What you doin here!
"Hey, up yours Gaviola, your asshole brother just waved a thirty two pound cow in my face. He is in first place on the leader board and I am fishin!"
"Well don't think I'm gonna pay you to fish!"
We here Richie mumble something under his breath. He elbows his way between two fishermen and makes a cast. Two jigs later his rod bends in half.
"Richie's gotta a rock, Richie's gotta rock!", we all sing in concert.
"Hey, Fuck you! Rocks don't take drag!", Richie hollers back with a big smile on his face.
Everyone watches as Richie is pulled down the beach by his fish.
"Hey! look out! I got a three thousand dollar fish on here!"
The arguing and cajoling follows Richie into the cove where we loose track of his progress.
"Drop it. Drop the fish." I here Joe mumble under his breath as Richie rounds the corner.
We are all hooking nice fish now. I make a cast and feel the rod tip sink. A rock. I hall back to free my bucktail, and the line takes off with a spray of mist through the guides. I look up and see a huge tail and swirl where my bucktail had just been.
"Oh god! You gotta slob Paulie!" Joe sings.
All I can do is hold on as the fish takes off line from my reel. Rip, zipzip-zip. I turn and smile at Joe.
"Fuck you!", He says.
I jump in the water and follow my fish down tide, trying to keep free of other casters. I have about twenty men between me and that fish.
I reach the shelter of an open spot in the surf and I stand my ground to fight the fish. It has taken about a hundred yards of line from my reel. I am making headway on the fish. It is very heavy. I feel as though I am pulling a load of bricks. The next few seconds are burned into my memory forever. Quite suddenly, there are three big jerks on my line, and the tip springs towards the sky. Nothing. My heart sinks.
"I don't believe this!"
I retrieve my line and examine my leader. The fifty pound test Cross Lock snap has been twisted like a short hair. My slob has opened the snap with her jaw. I make my way back to the rock.
"Hey! Where is your fish Paulie?", My buddies chant to me.
"Aw, don't ask...", I make another cast.
Ten minutes later, we see Richie dragging a bass down the beach. It is so big, he has trouble shouldering it. He is followed by a line of onlookers. He poses as someone takes his picture.
"Hey Joe! I'm goin back to the Deli right after I weigh in this fish!"
We all gasp. His fish is well over forty pounds. We didn't know it at the time but Richie had made one cast, and hooked the winner of the Montauk Locals Striper Tournament and while playing hookey to boot!
"Hey Joe! Thank your brother for me for dropin' by the store to shove his fish up my ass!", Richie shouts back towards us as he heads for the lot with his catch.
Rainbows and stripers. I don't know which was more aw inspiring that day on the beach. We stayed till slack water, and headed back home with our catches and memories. The Jones had taken hold and tournament fever would plague us for the last weeks of the contest, but no one would out do Richie's work day fish.