The Drail

By Paul Melnyk

The old man gazed at me with a glazed eyes and gave me the stare.

"What the hell are you doin' here so early!", he said over his glass. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.

"I wanna learn about drails.", I replied. I had come over to the cabin to pick the old man's brain. Long ago I had learned of the value in learning through the experience of the old timers.

"You gotta be kiddin'! You interrupt my nap, walk in here and want me to give away my secrets! Well..... I need my tackle box. You gonna make me go out to the truck to get my gear too?"

"Na, gimme the key and I'll get the stuff."

"Here", He threw the ring at me over his shoulder, "the stuff is in the big green one."

In the back of Georgie's truck it is like the interior of a fully stocked tackle store. Every plug, jig, rod and reel in the inventory are situated in row upon row of wooden boxes. There are three green boxes. I grab the first one, hoping that I have chosen wisely. George is in one of his moods...

"So, you wanna learn about drails, Hugh? Well tonight is your lucky night, cause I'm in a talkin' mood. Here." George hands me a glass with three fingers of brandy in it. "Drink up, I hate to drink alone..."

"Look", George continues, "I been tellin' yah for days that you gotta get the eel to the bottom where the cows feed. You just ain't gonna get 'em down in that rip if you don't have any weight on 'em."

The old man sat at the table of his motel room using his cigarette like a pointer. The dim light from the table lamp accentuates the life lines on his face. He eyes smile up at me, even through his frown and false bravado. I love these talks with the old pro's. Once you get them started, it is hard to stop them. The drink makes Georgie's tongue loosen up even more. I'm gonna learn a few things tonight...

"You gotta figure on how much sweep your gonna get during the first few hours of droppin' water. You should rig up three hooks with different weight. This way you can choose to suit."

George digs into his box and pulls out three torpedo sinkers, one, two and two and a half ounces. The sinkers are teardrop shaped, with a brass ring at each end. He grabs a ready made bait rig. This is a thirty inch leader with a 6/0 Mustad hook snelled to one end and a #50 barrel swivel at the other.

"Now you use the regular fifty pound mono leader only you cut it at the last third, leaving about two inches for the hook. Then you tie up each end to the drail using a cinch knot, and there you are!"

George rigs the hooks up and puts them on the table in front of us.

"Simple hugh? It is the simple stuff that gets the big one. Just be sure to use these hooks on a sandy bottom or you're gonna loose a lot of rigs. And it don't make sense to fish a drail if there ain't no tide, so don't waist your time if there is no sweep in the water." George pushes the rigs over to me. "Here, you owe me a beer!"

George pours another finger of brandy in my glass. He pushes it over to me and offers me a smoke.

"So, where are we goin' with your new drails?", He says.

"Shagwong seems like the spot", I reply.

"Good choice. The tide will be honkin' in about two hours. We'll take my truck."

Shagwong point is an exceptional piece of real estate on Montauk's Northern shoreline. It is the main promontory on the way up the coast to the Montauk Lighthouse. Big stripers are known to swim the rip that forms there during the dropping tide. A Nor-west wind will help to bring these slobs into the sandy beach. Some of the biggest catches of the century had come from this parcel of sand. There are rumors that Kenny Kassan took a seventy pounder there and released it way back during the bass moratorium, when keeping stripers was illegal. All the sharpies know that a cow or two will fall to hook and line during the late October nights on Shagwong point. This makes it a Mecca to the surf rats of the North East fishery. On a good night, there will be fifty buggies and a hundred casters plying these waters. Big bass will be stranded on the beach as flashes of cameras shatter the darkness.

The ride from the motel takes about a half hour. We climb into George's Isuzu Trooper and head out. Darkness surrounds us as we turn onto route 27. The wind is indeed blowing out of the North. Fallen leaves seem to scamper across Montauk Highway like living creatures. Crabs. I have a hard time seeing over the hugh 148 quart cooler George has strapped into a rack at his front grill. The lights from the SUV barely glint through this conglomeration of gear and paraphernalia. Deer roam the shoulders of East Lake Drive. We pass a ten pointer that looks up at us with little interest.

"Damn the fishin', I should'a brought my gun!", George whispers as we pass the beast.

We turn onto the dirt road and shift into four wheel drive. The beach to Shagwong passes around a large cove for a mile or so. Wind drifts sand past the high beams and a gust rattles the windows. There is a good swell of three or so feet. Lots of white water.

"Oh man, there is gonna be a fish for us tonight!" George is excited. It is contagious.

We shut down the lights and coast onto the point. Buggies are lined up in neat rows. The club guys are out in force tonight.

"Now put on your wetsuit, Paulie, and wade out to the dropoff at the end of the bar. Don't be chicken! The bar goes way out over here. You gotta get the eel out to the fish! I'll stay on the beach and cast a bottle plug. I'll give you the high sign If I am doin' any bass. Don't come back without a fish!"

George looks in his cab and pulls out a Musso Darter. I hear him giggle.

"Heh, heh, I got this one loaded up! I can cast it out farther than those yocks over there!"

George walks down the beach to where the cut begins and the deep water returns to the beach. I am amazed to see how far the old timer can cast. One fluid motion, over and back and the darter sails out into the foaming surf. George works the darter with short little jerks, just barely moving the tip of his rod.

"What you waitin' for, an invitation! Get movin! They're out there!"

I make my way up the beach to the bar. I can see the whiteness of the water in the moonless night as the surf rolls over the shallows. About 20 feet out the wind and waves are smacking me in the chest. The bottom here is mostly sand and I manage to wade out about 75 feet before I reach the drop off. I step over the edge and get a face full of cold water for my carelessness. I make my first cast into a good sweep. I can feel the eel bumping along the bottom as it travels down tide.

On the beach, I see Georgie's flashlight blink on for a short burst. He's in! I can just see him landing a fish in the dark. Nobody is near us. They are all transfixed on the water around 200 yards down the beach. Another blink of George's light signals that he has a second fish. Now I am jealous! Maybe I should have stuck to him, but I wanted to try the drails, and I couldn't do that next to George without pissin' him off.

I watch as a Jeep pulls up next to Georgie's truck. Out of it come Steve and Windknot Richie. Richie says hello to the old man and makes a few casts. The light has stopped blinking.

An hour has passed and I have not seen a fish. I am trying to keep from dozing off as I shake the sleep from my head. The wind and waves have let up some even though the rip has picked up. I switch to the heavier drail. As soon as it hits the water I get my first bump! Now I am wide awake! As I make another cast, I see Richie wading out to me.

"Hay Paulie!", he shouts. "The old man had a fish about an hour ago but since then I ain't seen a thing. There are no fish here, I'm goin' back to the cabin."

"Richie.... I just had a big bump. You better give it a few casts.."

"Aw, you're full of it!"

The tip of my rod takes a dip. My eel stops movin and I wait to see if it is a rock of a fish.

"Richie......" I set the hook on a rock and almost fall as the rod stops short in the air. Then the rock starts to move.... and take line!

"Richie! I'm in!"

"Your kiddin' me, right?"

But I'm not. With the bend of a slammer in my rod, I struggle to get back to the beach as the fish drags me downstream. As I pass the old man, he gets a dig in.

"What you got there Paulie, an old tire?"

"Georgie.....I got a good fish on here!"

"Well keep his head up, stupid!", George says as I pass him in the night.

The fish is firmly imbedded in the rip and has taken me for a run down the beach. I am dragged into a group of casters and I excitedly ask them to please give me some room to fight this fish. Thank god that they were all experienced surf men. They retrieve their gear and let me through without incident. After about fifteen minutes and about 200 yards, I feel the fish coming. One of George's first lessons to me rings in my head. Now when you get her in close, open your drag some, 'cause when a big fish feels the bottom, she's gonna run! Sure enough, the bass takes a good sprint as I get her over the lip of the drop off. In a few cranks I have the striper in the wash and I let a wave send her up towards the tide line. Holy cow! She is a whopper! Dragging that fish down the beach was the best walk I had ever had!

"What you got there, Paulie..." George smiles as he shines his light on the fish. "You see! I told you they were out there."

We put the fish on the old man's hand scale and it dips to 45 pounds. Nice fish. Richie comes up to the truck with Steve as we slip it into the cooler. The last half of the tail sticks out.

"Holy shit!", Richie says.

"Know tell me Paulie, who caught that fish for you", says George with a big smile on his face.

"You did, Georgie... You did....."