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. 

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. 

The Pier

It was good to watch that God-damned pier crash into the sea.

Hurricane Sandy was racing up the East Coast toward New Jersey.  As it did, CNN was showing footage of the fishing pier at Moorhead City, NC as it took the force of a last few massive waves before collapsing into the ocean.  I had forgotten that pier (maybe intentionally) for about 35 years.  Now, seeing it break down and lean into the Atlantic brought back once painful memories that seem both trivial and funny. 

I was about 10 at the time.  My family had chosen the April break to drive to the Outer Banks of North Carolina to visit with our Grand Aunt and Uncle.  The beaches of North Carolina were foreign to us, but they weren’t that different from the beaches of Charlestown and New Jersey.  The waves rolled in like they do at Narragansett and Misquamicut but the water seemed a lighter green with more sand mixed in.  It was warmer and people we met on the beach suggested we shuffle our feet as we walked to kick up any skates that might be straying in for feeding.  An added attraction that we stumbled on the first day was a long wooden pier that jutted out hundreds of yards into the Atlantic.  Fisherman lined the edges of it and bought frozen shrimp to fish off its high planks for flounder, spot, skate and the occasional shark. 

My brothers (9 and 7) and I were allowed the freedom of walking the ½ mile down the beach from the condominium our relatives were in to fish.  More importantly, I was given the privilege and responsibility of using my dad’s favorite Abu-Garcia spinning reel and the dull yellow rod connected to it.  We had a few 1.5 oz. sinkers and some hooks and after visiting the pier with us, my dad showed us how to rig and walked back home.  He was leaving my brothers and, more importantly, his beloved spinning rod in my care.  I felt good.  For a 10 year-old, a father’s confidence is strong magic. 

The first two days of fishing were great.  My brothers and I rotated through using the rod with good effect.  The small spot and occasional “windowpane” flounder were sport for us.  The energy on the pier in the early evening was full of laughter and hope.  I can still smell the tar from the pilings.  Families came up to watch the fisherman (including us) and older, wiser anglers would move toward the end of the pier for bigger fish as the tide rose and the light lowered.  The second night, we watched in amazement as a man two spotlights down the pier battled a 6-foot shark before snapping the fish off as it thrashed 20 feet below.  As it slowly swam away, we glanced nervously at each other considering the next day’s beach swim. 

The third night started much the same as the first two.  We had eased into a familiar routine and the fishing became more playful and casual.  We began “talking” to the fish nibbling at our bait.  Our comfort was about to become my grief.  When it came to be my turn to cast again, I went through the second nature routine of the cast.  When I shifted my weight to fire the sinker as far out from the pier as I could, the bail clicked back with my movement.  In a fraction of a second, physics and gravity took charge.  The momentum of my cast and the weight of the sinker lifted the rod from my relaxed grip.  As the several seconds passed, my disbelieving eyes watched as the rod fell through space toward the green Atlantic below.  As the rod splashed and slowly sank, I instantly considered jumping off of the pier after it.   Common sense and fear ruled the day and I stayed, head in hands against the rail.  My brothers were wide-eyed behind me, mouths agape.  “Big Brother” had messed up, big-time.  Tears began to well up as I imagined my father’s disappointment, shock and anger.  A neighboring fisherman tried to cast for a while to dredge it up, temporarily boosting my feeble hopes.  Finally I resigned to defeat and reality.  I had messed up, big-time, and it was time to walk back and face the music.  My brothers walked beside me trying to console me as the tears rolled down on the long walk back.  Strangers walking by surely wondered what terrible thing had befallen me.

In the distance, I saw my father and mother walking toward us down the beach and my sorrow and fear deepened.  I could feel my throat dry and tighten.  As they came closer I could see the concern for me on their faces. 

“What’s wrong?” my father asked.

“I lost your rod.” I choked out, starting to cry again.

“Where?” he wondered.

“I dropped it off the pier by accident” I managed, breathless.

“Is that all?” he laughed.

His laughter caught me off guard. Is that all?  I’d just dumped what I assumed was the man’s most prized possession on Earth into the depths of the shark-infested Atlantic and all he had to say was “Is that all?”. 

He grabbed my by the shoulders, pulled me in and tussled my hair. 

“It’s just a piece of plastic and fiberglass that we can replace tomorrow.” he chuckled. “I thought you guys had been hurt or something.”

A feeling of relief flooded my soul.  We turned back toward the hotel.  Someone suggested ice cream and mini-golf.  I wondered if I could try swimming out to retrieve the rod tomorrow.  I remembered that shark and mini-golf sounded good. 

I hope that I’m able to treat my sons with the same degree of understanding when they “screw up” in their formative years.  I’m grateful he had the perspective that he did about the rod.  I’m also sort of happy that pier has disappeared into the Atlantic.