I Am The Walrus...
By Paul Melnyk
Mankind, as a whole, has a tendancy to set boundaries. These self confining notions have stagnated much of what could be considered as innovative. Quite often, fanciful ideas seem quite eccentric to these "practical" thinkers. Then again, there are times when a new point of view will bear fruit.
My flirtation with "limits" began a number of years ago when I chose to swim past the beach perches and claw my way onto a rock located seventy five yards past the shoreline. There was a full moon tide for a few days and the sea was exceptionally shallow at low water. Being the impetuous type, out I went. I was somewhat dismayed however, when I had been swept from this rock by a particularly large swell while wrestling with a large striper. Instead of panicking, I composed myself and continued to reel. My wetsuit had floated me easily. Landing the fish, I swam back to my rock. I had an excellent afternoon of fishing and, quite by accident, discovered that I could fight a fish from the water.
Later in the fall I had heard of waves full of bass and bluefish migrating to Montauk's southern coast. I left the confines of the north side which to this point, had been getting rather crowded. I walked into the rocky coves and reefs southwest of the Montauk lighthouse and found the fish foraging among acres of mullet in the Camp Hero area. The scenery was quite dramatic. The autumn sun was highlighting the bluffs and dazzling off the wet stones of the shoreline. A warm September breeze brought with it the fragrances of wild grapes and sea spray. This spot was also producing some memorable catches for me while I drifted eels among the rocks. I used a simple 6-0 circle hook rig, snelled to a thirty inch leader. Hooked through the eye, the eel would be cast and allowed to drift in the deeper waters behind the boulders with a slow retrieve. The eels were deadly to any stray bass. My fishing continued to improve until the word had spread. This brought gluttonous hordes of casters to my quiet haven and the rocks. The reef had become over-crowded. The skill level of these new arrivals seemed rather modest. It was obvious that the sight of fish tails were more than many of these fishermen could calmly accept. Men were staggering headlong into the surf in droves, with hopes of culling a bass or two from the schools that quite often lay just too far off.
Most hard core surfcasters have had the experience of waiting for a cloud of gulls to move another two hundred yards nearer, so he could make a cast for the fish beneath. This sight seems like a beacon to us, signaling, "here we are! Just a little closer and we fishies will be within your grasp!" But often is the case that the massed fish move out and away. At my special grounds, frantic casters were chasing the birds up and down the beach. These new arrivals were dragging along every conceivable device. They took beach chairs, coolers, tackle boxes and sand spikes into my quiet cove. Believe it or not, some even brought their wives along with them. I couldn't stand it anymore. I would have to try something drastic if I were to regain my hold on the fish. What had started out as an accident a few weeks earlier quickly became the genesis of a new method. Fighting that fish from the water had been quite engaging. Couldn't I combine my abilities as a surfcaster and a skindiver? After all, I was accustomed to diving on these rocks. In the springtime I would often snorkel here, searching out any new spots that might be harboring fish. I realized that I could use my heavy winter wetsuit as a floatation device and simply fish from the deeper waters while swimming. Diving equipment could close the gap between myself and the blitz.
While preparing the gear, I formed my plan of action. The six millimeter thick wetsuit, neoprene gloves, booties and flippers were packed into the truck. My ten foot spinning rig and tackle bag filled with eels would be included. A utility belt with a knife, pliers and de-hooker added to the hardware. As a late addition, a whistle and brightly colored hat would help scare away any boaters.
It was another beautiful sunny day as I pulled the truck into the upper parking lot at the Montauk lighthouse. The wooded path to Turtle cove was dark and tunnel like with shad and bittersweet vines crowding the light, overhead. The walk to the water was a bit cumbersome while carrying everything. I began to feel very much at home with the cooler and tackle box crowd. When I reached the beach I saw the ever present surf had a medium roll to it. Walking to my lucky grounds I watched several fishermen receive a dunking as waves swept them from the rocks. Many of these fellows leered at me as I stumbled along the water's edge with all my gear, as if to say, Don't come near me fool. One half mile west of the lighthouse I found a promising spot. Several pods of fish could be seen off in the distance. Birds diving at the sea. The tide would draw them in.
Donning my wetsuit and other paraphernalia, I carefully stepped onto the reef. When I was in the water about knee deep, I used a large rock as a platform for fastening my flippers. I dove into the swell, the cool waters shocking at first. Kicking rapidly improved my circulation and in a few moments I was toasty. Swimming on my back to simplify breathing, my flippers churned as the waves broke over my head. The sky changed from deep blue to white as this wash enveloped me. These waves threatened to push me back into the rocks, but persistence propelled me on. I quickly bridged the gap between the rollers and the sea. I felt like a walrus, sleek and black in my wetsuit, moving through the cool surf. Onlookers reacted as though they were watching a madman...
"Your gonna get yourself killed, pal!"
The sea churned all around me, trying to rip my rod from my side. Determined not to loose it, I pressed the stick along my leg, leaving little in the way of drag. I swam with the tide until I was passed the breakers two hundred yards off the beach. I had reached water about 10 feet deep, now quite sure I was in over my head....
I took several minutes to catch my breath, during which time I hooked an eel and took my first cast. This brought on an immediate pickup! The striper took the bait and swam straight for me. I reeled quickly to take up the slack. She swam beneath my legs as the line came taut, turning me upside-down and dragging me below the water in a wet somersault. I righted myself and blew the salty water from my sinuses. Line ran from the reel. Fighting for stability, I kicked at the sea. The fish moved off again, pulling me around as if I was leashed to a Bulldog. Working with the right combination of balance and drag allowed me to remain stable and in command. Several more thwarted runs caused the fish to loose her enthusiasm. My first linesider was within reach. The beast swam around me in a shallow circle below, striking at me with her extended dorsal fin as she broke the surface. With a few more splashes and runs we were both exhausted. Grabbing the bass by the lower lip calmed her down. With a hook puller, I reached into her gaping mouth and released the barb. I gave her a kiss for good luck and tossed the fish away. With a splash my first catch swam off. I had taken a bass of over thirty pounds, while swimming! The act of subduing a fish while bobbing in the swells was incredible. I reset myself to make another drift. It was quite easy, casting overhead while using a few kicks to clear my shoulders from the water. The wetsuit floated me nicely with my head above the sea. I curled into a fetal position, learning to relax while keeping my balance with a light flip of a fin. No longer being thrashed about by the waves at the shoreline made the whole process amazingly comfortable.
I noticed I had drifted quite a distance down the beach with the current. Care would have to be taken to regulate my distance from shore. This would be kept to a point where I felt confident not being too far out to swim back. The feeling of weightlessness was exhilarating! It was as though I was back in the womb. Only twenty years of being battered in the rocks had passed before realizing how effortless such a technique could be. Swimming with the fishes.
I was hooking a fish with almost every cast now as I drifted along with the current. There were quite a few bluefish in the area and they tore apart my mono rigs. I was running low on tackle as a result. Landing a blue was quite a challenge. Holding the fish out of the water by the leader and grabbing him behind the gills worked best. The toothy beast would thrash himself senseless and soon tire. Remembering to bring the pliers had been a good idea when it came time to pull a hook from those chops.
Looking around at the top of a swell brought a shocking sight. The sea ahead was full of tails! I was drifting into a great pod of bait solid with Bluefish. Having heard the old myth of bathers loosing fingers and toes to hoards of angry choppers had me somewhat concerned. My course would take me directly towards the center of waters full of the critters! Like Piranha, they seemed intent on swallowing everything in their path. I stayed calm and hoped the little monsters would be content with the mullet being served up by the bushel full. Seagulls careened overhead. In their haste to feed, I was all but ignored. The birds dove at the water all around me, screaming their hungry laments. Fish lunged at their prey.
I expected at any moment to feel the sharp bite of teeth. Instead, strange sensations overwhelmed me in the middle of a churning mass of life. Being immersed within this tremendous wall of action and sound was like swimming through a torrential downpour. It was fantastic! Thousands of tails pummeled the surface of the rolling sea, creating pure white noise. Fish jumped and rolled as they gorged on corralled bait. I made a weak cast. As soon as my lure hit the water a fish was hooked! A short fight would end in a cut off. Through this crescendo of action, I watched mullet jump clear out of the water, only to land within the jaws of a demon. The school eventually passed and once again the waters were still. The bite was over. Happily, I had possession of all my fingers and toes, but the eels were totally gone. What a trip this had been! Time passed by so quickly. Looking at my watch told me I had been floating for two hours! The sun was getting lower and my long swim back towards the beach was begun.
As I reached a point about one hundred yards from the surf, I watched another blitz move in my direction. This one seemed quite different. The birds were lying back from the surface, following the school close from behind. Gulls only picked at a few choice morsels here and there. They did not seem as frantic as before. With their approach, I could see arching forms of silver and black breaking the surface tension of the water. These were the dorsal fins of huge stripers humping in the dimming light. A thousand square feet of bass churning in a fluid cascade. The massed fish neared. Huge tails slapped at the water all around me. This school was awesome and I had no more hooks to throw. Deep furrows opened in the sea as fish circled to strike at cornered bait, making a startling sound. These stripers were enormous! Looking down, I saw great dark forms silhouetted against the deep green of the sea floor. Some appeared over four feet long! A strange sensation coursed along the length of my body. Little blows. I had the impression of small children play fighting- their rabbit punches prodding me, up and down my side. The school was so thick, the bass were bumping into me! I broke into delirious laughter, it tickled! The stripers surrounded me. In an instant, I was physically moved several feet by some blunt object pressed to my side. A shiver ran through me as a scene from "Jaws" played in my mind. Turning to see what had the momentum to move me revealed a great wet fan sweeping along the surface. I took a blow to the face. Astounded, I wiped the slime away. A monstrous striper had just dissed me! Smacking me in the mouth like some irate female. Only a fifty pounder could have a tail like that! People watching from the rocks took notice and shouted to me, asking if I was okay.
"I'm fine! This is a unreal!"
They jeered and made cat calls as they pointed in my direction. In a rash moment, I tucked my fishing rod under my arm and lunged at the cow bass slowly swimming past. The fish were so tightly packed that I managed to clutch one between my arms and chest! This "bear hug" had me howling joyfully, as the fish thrashed about!
I heard a caster in the rocks shout to his buddies, "Look at that! He caught one with his hands!"
Never truly in my control, the fish easily slipped free and drove into the deep. Totally unbelievable. Not only was I fishing the blitz, I was part of it.
At last, these fish also moved away and I found myself about a mile down the beach from my point of entry. I headed for the shoreline and eventually staggered from the surf- exhausted both physically and mentally from the experience. Beachcombers surrounded me as I slumped to the sand. They all thought that I had been drowning! Many were the questions;
"What in the world were you doin' out there?"
"Did you see any fish"
"Did you catch anything?"
"Were there any sharks?"
I knew I was onto something...
This was how my compulsion with the form of surfcasting we call "swim fishing" or "skishing" had begun. I had literally been smacked senseless that afternoon by that which I covet. It was so close.
Skishing has become quite a phenomenon out here in Montauk. Since my first experience, I have taken and released more large striped bass than ever before. On any given day you may see me, or my cohorts in the act. Among myself and my small group of advocates, we have bagged stripers well into the forty pound class. We harbor dreams of bigger fish. I have even seen bluefin tuna breaching the waves out there. What a thrill it would be to hook up to one of those.....