Stripers in the Fog

I remember the excitement of being asked to go fishing, at night, with my dad.  In the steamy days of late August, Striped Bass haunt the rip-rapped breachways of southern Rhode Island.  Sometimes they are itinerants, moving their way ahead of the fall migration to winter homes in the Hudson, Delaware or Chesapeake.  Some have been there since early spring and have found the routine of predictably changing tides moving through a narrow channel to their benefit in feeding. 

My father had heard they were there and we had heard stories of him catching a big one in Newport long ago.  We were within a mile of the breachway on the edge of Ninigret Salt Pond in our small month-long rental.

I was twelve.  He was then and has always been a giant in my eyes.  A picture on my refrigerator now shows me at 2 looking up in awe at his young, weathered face as we sit before a massive pile of split wood.  When he asked if I wanted to go with him at 2 in the morning to the breachway by boat to fish for stripers I leapt at the opportunity. 

I remember a small dock and the beach next to it that we laid the boat on.  The boat was the classic 12 foot “tinboat”.  We had two gray wooden oars and a small outboard that pushed us across the glassy pond in the pitch dark.  A long, serpentine channel lead to the breach. I held a flashlight over the bow as we traveled and I imagine he told me at some point to turn it off to conserve the battery.  Looking into water like that at night with a light has always fascinated me.  The water was rich with life and mystery.   Our pullout was a sandy recess on the West side of the channel, across from the state parking area.  We could hear the crashing of the surf in Block Island sound, only 200 yards over the barrier dune from our landing.  As he fished, I continued to peer into the water. I remember great schools of Silversides and many green crabs roaming the openings between the breachway’s slippery rocks.  I remember Striped Killifish mating at the very edge of the water at the top of the moon tide.   I’m sure that he was a bit disappointed that I was more interested in looking in the water than I was casting the Rebel plugs into the middle on the incoming tide.  I can’t remember much about the fishing except that we didn’t catch any Stripers and that the trip was cut short by an envelope of fog as the dawn approached. 

We packed out our gear with some urgency and raced (as best the small engine could) through the turns of the channel to the pond.  Once in the pond the fog settled completely on us and we were lost.  A thick fog makes a mockery of sense of direction.  The mind’s imaginings become confusing.  Navigating is like walking through your house with your eyes closed. 

He seemed more concerned about me and how I felt.  He told me that the best thing to do in fog was to set the anchor and “hunker down” until the fog lifted, which it surely would.  Once we’d navigated back out into what we thought was well out into the open pond, we set anchor.  For three hours we tried to get sleep on the hard, damp aluminum hull with little success.  I spent some of the time peering through the water, with and without the now useless light as the foggy darkness led to foggy light. 

As the fog began to lift and we recognized where we were, we laughed together.  100 yards to our north was our dock and beach.  We had been within 300 yards of our beds the whole time.  I remember sleeping well and him telling me that he didn’t mind being stuck in the fog with me, or something to that effect. 

Looking back, like all sons of good fathers I suppose, I would love to be lost out there, alone with him for another three hours.  Its not that bad being lost with your dad in a boat.  It sure as hell beats being lost by yourself. 

We haven’t fished for a while lately.  Now, more often than not, I’m the one carting sons out for adventure.  He had Lyme so bad last year we thought we were going to lose him.  He’s feeling better now and I’m hoping to get out a few more times with him on any water, with or without fish or fog. 

Sacred Sidewalk

A slab of broken rock isn’t usually sacred ground.  I suppose flagstone steps leading up to the Dalai Lama’s prayer station or a makeshift Civil War battlefield alter would qualify, but the one I’m thinking of is made of 1950’s-era concrete sidewalk, buckled in the middle by years of heat, wind and waves.

It lies next to the bridge from a once vibrant shorefront inn, not far from Westerly, RI.   The inn has been in a state of reconstruction for the several years.   It is a beautiful structure but its current dormancy has at least one benefit:  increased fishing and crabbing access at the little bridge that leads to the inn.  The culvert underneath the bridge is 5 feet wide and at full tide is about 4 feet deep.   It allows water from the salt pond to pass into a small shallow basin. In late summer the passage fills with clouds of small peanut bunker, mullet and silversides that are pushed and pulled by the tides and wind. The abundance of prey attracts Blue Crabs, small Bluefish and, on occasion, Striped Bass. 

My son was seven. He is fascinated catching and eating his own food.  I think it’s a tribal and evolutionary thing.   The week before he had been standing in the shallows of the salt pond, not far from the bridge, absent-mindedly reeling in a live mullet on a hook, catching snapper bluefish happily.  From shore, I watched him while sharing dinner of fried chicken and beer with friends as the Labor Day weekend closed in soft yellow-orange sunlight on the marsh.  Our peace was shattered as he screamed for help and, as I turned, a huge whitewater plume erupted from the water not 10 yards from him. 

“What IS THIS!!??” He screamed, terrified. 

I ran quickly to him and took the rod from his hands, realizing that a big striper had taken the mullet.  The fisherman in me overtook the good father as I landed the keeper about 8 minutes later.  We killed it with a rock in front of our horrified, non-fishing guests and he beamed with pride and excitement at being the center of such a great catch.  In his words, it was the best day of his life. 

As the excitement of that hour waned, I began to realize that I should have done it differently.  Yes, he might have lost the fish, but I should have coached him through the catch rather than pull it from him.  I told him so.  The next time, I said, he would make the catch himself. 

In my mind, I wondered if and when that time would come again.  I considered that I might have taken the golden moment forever. 

The next weekend, we rushed back down to the area, as soon as school let out.   We had never fished the bridge.  We went with the intent to crab in the spot where the blue crabs were thick most Septembers.  As the tide hit its peak, we saw telltale signs that things at the bridge were about to get strange.  Great schools of silver mullet were being rushed out of the water by big fish as they entered the small basin next to the bridge.  We could track the movement of the big fish as the mullet schools approached.  Grabbing a castnet, we quickly gathered a dozen good mullet and rigged our rods with heavy leader, big hooks and bobbers.  As the stripers passed near the little bridge we began to cast from the sidewalk into the center with immediate results.  Great rushes and swirls chased our mullet to and fro.  One big fish cartwheeled in an unsuccessful effort to capture a bait.  Another snapped off a rig from the bobber down in an instantaneous hit.    I reminded him that this time, it was his job to do the reeling and to be ready.  He said he was.  

After several misses, his bobber went down and didn’t come up.  He struck at it and the rod doubled over.  A good fish.  The drag was well set and he started his battle.  His younger brother gathered with several other neighbors to watch as a small crowd of passersby stopped to wonder and look on.  After what seemed like an hour (but was only about 10 minutes), the fish came within 5 yards of the small rock wall abutting the sidewalk.  I extended the net and coached him to lead the fish headfirst slowly into it.  Finally, the front half of the keeper in the net, I scooped.  

We brought the fish and laid it on the sidewalk and measured it out.  Twenty-nine inches! High fives and claps on the back, shouts of joy of the capture that only 5 and 7 year olds can make, and pictures taken for the unbelievers.  I asked if he wanted to throw it back, adding that it might be good fishing karma for the future.

“Maybe the next one, I kind of want to eat this first one.”  Spoken like a true fisherman.

I’ve been back to the spot several times since.  Once, later that season on a cool October night, I left a dinner party we were hosting to the dismay of my spouse.  I knew the tide was perfect and couldn’t shake the visions of big stripers chasing the mullet under the moonlight and the glory of that day.  When I arrived, the conditions were perfect, still high tide in the basin, mullet schools tucking under the bridge and a quarter moon lighting a mackerel clouded sky brilliantly.  My breath formed light puffs in the night air as I stood on that cracked piece of sidewalk waiting and listening.  The stripers never came.  As I stood there, the memory of the warmth and joy of that day in my mind, I felt like I was at an altar of some universal chapel.  The depth of my appreciation for what I had been given flowed deeply and part of me never wanted to leave.  Its funny what a broken piece of sidewalk can be sometimes.  

A Day Like You Dream About

Why is it that some of the best fisherman I know are also some of the hardest working people I know?  There is a saying that with hard work, you make your own luck and fishing is sometimes a lot about luck.  My brother used to tell me that fishing luck was dependent on how much “time on water” you put in.  Sooner or later, if you are out there, your investment of time pays off. 

            A few weeks ago, a friend of my father called me.  Hal is one of a small group of men who consider my dad a close friend and a mentor of sorts.  Hal and my dad spent their careers working outdoors with their hands.  They appreciate the value of hard work. They like getting things done.  They also both love fishing.  Hal asked if I’d join him during a small neighborhood fishing tournament in September. The tournament is a friendly one but I know Hal was looking to defend his “title” from last year.  I said yes gladly, knowing that my 14-foot Whaler would be a rough ride in Block Island Sound chasing Stripers most days in September.  He said I could bring my 10 year-old son who was looking forward to the trip. 

            We met Hal at the small marina in the back of the salt pond.   I hadn’t been on this pond since my earliest days of fishing saltwater, more than 30 years ago. The day was expected to be clear and windy but we were met at the dock by a ribbon of thick fog holding back the sun’s first rays.  Hal’s 17-foot Key West moved quickly through the calm of the pond.  As we travelled, duckblinds and small marsh islands I remembered from boyhood appeared out of the mist.  We made our way up the snake-like breachway channel.  It was the same channel I remember rowing up as a boy with my brothers.  Looking into the clear water brought back a flood of memories about my first summers in Rhode Island.  As we approached the end of the breachway, Hal gave two blasts on the horn to give the shore fisherman on the end a heads up that we were coming through. 

            Block Island Sound was calm but not still.  Several bigger swells greeted the bow as we moved with the outgoing tide.  In the low morning light, we saw signs of fish immediately.  Terns and gulls were easy to spot moving back and forth and hitting the water after baitfish.  We rigged to troll an umbrella rig right away.  My son had never seen one and was full of questions.  As Hal guided the wire out of the spool we saw the first fish break water in front of the boat. 

            Its hard to describe to non-fishing people what it feels like in the minutes between when you realize that you are in “fishy” water and when you can get your first line in the water.  It feels a little like a mix between Christmas morning and a first date:  You don’t want to screw it up but you want to get things going so fast that your hands sometimes begin to shake. 

            That’s the situation we were in.  Once the line got down and my son was assigned to watch the pole for action, it took about 2 minutes before it doubled over and Hal began cranking back, showing the boy how to spool the reel correctly.  The fish was heavy.  When the rig got close to the boat, we all realized we had a keeper.  I pulled the net up and we slapped high fives immediately.  The 35-incher was a great way to start our day.  We had no idea how good it would get. 

            For the next hour, we picked up short stripers every few minutes.  My son had his turn cranking the wire and testing his “fish muscles” on a 9-pound “chopper” bluefish.   As we moved East following birds, the nature of the surface splashes changed.  The swirls and small splashes turned to loud “pops” and higher white plumes.  It seemed like fish of a different class were moving in. 

As we trolled into the next group of fish, I saw a big splash to port and threw a casting plug. As the plug gained momentum with the combined trolling and reeling speed, a good fish smashed it, nearly ripping the rod from my hands.  Line peeled off the reel and the rod tripled.  The fight was a good one and we landed a 37-incher.  For the next hour, we picked up several more keeper-sized fish.  My son landed the last one as big fish smashed the surface around the boat. 

            We were tired and due back for “weigh in” at the contest.  For the first time in my life, I broke my dad’s old fishing rule:  “Never leave biting fish”.  For us, on this day, enough was enough. 

“This is the kind of day you dream about”, Hal said as we headed in to port. 

We would regale my dad with the full story later.  I could envision him, sitting in his living room chair, with a fire burning, listening carefully to every piece of the story my son gave him.  It was good to have things come together like that.  Fishing with my son, in a tournament, on the boat of my dad’s good friend, the day was the kind you dream about.