Where were you fishing
on the morning of October 27th,
2012? I
was standing knee-deep before a crashing, white-water stretch of heavenly beach
blissfully being reminded how sweet and delicious the bountiful fruit from the Fishing
Gods’ cornucopia can taste. As luck had
it, the entire week leading-up to this particularly climactic day was nothing
short of fall-fishing at its finest along my local beaches. Like clockwork, southbound migratory stripers
and chopper bluefish corralled terrified pods of peanut bunker, driving them
through the breaking waves of the surf and onto the backwash of the sand at the
start of each morning. Before my
awestruck eyes and adrenaline-fueled casts, curling sets of waves, normally sea-green
and slightly-transparent in color during this time of the season, became
blackened as tightly-schooling masses of thousands of these helpless fish were faced
with an imminent doom; that of splashing, thrashing, and leaping bodies, slapping
tails, crushing jaws, and razor-sharp teeth bearing evidence to seemingly
insatiable voraciousness, gorging on a feast of peanuts, distending the bellies
of said predators in a frenzied, yet calculating, onslaught. I was made witness to what is characterized
as Nature, red in tooth and claw, or
in this case, seawater, awash in the
glistening scales of the devoured.
In typical autumn-fashion, the preceding week bestowed
anglers with overcast ceilings, the handiwork of a sitting low-pressure system,
suppressing and diffusing any direct penetration of sunlight through the
atmosphere and the ocean’s water column.
This cyclic weather pattern was to continue, repeating on the morning of
Saturday the twenty-seventh. The air
temperature was predicted to peak near sixty-degrees, as a ten-mph east wind
was blowing directly at my face, building the surf to no more than four-feet in
height, its aerated, white-water waves tumbled as set upon set broke and rolled
towards the awaiting shoreline. We
surfcasters like to imagine these “fishy looking
days” as “bonus time” on a beach
after sun-up, as the ordinarily light-sensitive Stripers will invariably forage
for more time in the shallower water of the surf-zone and even more
aggressively when conditions such as these allow them to utilize inherent
traits and habits as actively-feeding ambush predators, and especially while on
the hunt during their fall migration. If
the one-hundred-pound Striped Bass of the ocean were to pen a how-to book for
us entitled “The 7 Habits of Highly Effective
Stripers,” we would quickly learn that overcast skies hovering over a mild
chop generated by east winds during the fall are preferred by bass, the
unrivaled kings of white-water surf, and that such conditions have the tendency
to elicit bolder feeding behavior on their half (all things being equal). Needless to say, I felt confident that the
weather conditions would encourage yet another rainbow of opportunity for local
surfcasters to feast their pursuits on, having whet their appetites during the
days prior after waiting in anticipation all year for developments such as
these, days which finally relieve the hunger-pangs suffered by wader-clad shore-bound
hunters thirsting for an elusive and highly-coveted specie of fish, afforded
the welcomed company of feasting bass from the recent propitious influx of bait
and predators prowling our nearshore waters.
The rolling freight train that was the season’s fall-run was in
full-swing, barreling down the tracks of the coastline, bending the rods of fishermen
fortunate enough to be waiting along her path as she came rumbling through,
showcasing awe in her grandness, inspiring endless chatter and self-exaltation
on the internet report forums, and depriving a full-night’s sleep for enraptured,
die-hard anglers counties-over vying to capitalize on her ephemeral endowment
and capricious presence.
Be that as it may, deciding where to fish, specifically, is the indispensable keystone unifying
and supporting each angler’s towering arch of knowledge. Without this proficiency, one is simply
wetting a line, and worse yet, doing so at random, personifying the words of
Steven Wright, who reminds us “there's a fine line between fishing and just
standing on the shore like an idiot.” To outsmart our quarry and remain at the forefront as
triumphant anglers, we must become expert stalkers of our finned
ambitions. To do so, and do it well, we must
repeatedly intercept the movement of fish via a quasi-prophetic prognostication,
which for many, is akin to locating the Holy Grail or knowing winning lottery
numbers in advance, but serves to reason as to why there are hooks dangling
from our lures; our objective is to land fish!
Those seasoned in this sport we engage have covertly accrued coveted skillsets
garnished over many years of practice, payoff, pain, and perseverance. Rarely, if ever, will the specific location
or whereabouts of a “hot spot” be shared with soliciting strangers. However, a general heads-up from fellow
anglers while working a stretch of sand, catching the scoop in a beach parking
lot before or after a session in the wash, or somehow gaining the insight of
daily feeding patterns and movements of fish, are customary (especially with
the advent of online report forums), but there are no pro bono acts of kindness
or free meal tickets placing one on breaking fish from surfcasters in-the-know. Such divulgence of information is synonymous
to blasphemy, and it is widely considered cheating to invite oneself to
stand-in on productive locations where others have worked diligently to
discover the presence of biting fish.
Like most other things held to a high regard in life, one must exert
valuable time and effort to reach such achievement on their own. The only freebie I know of is to be ever
vigilant for any cluster of parked pick-up trucks equipped with rod racks,
coolers, and hordes of fishing-themed bumper stickers, showcasing brand-specific
fondness or names of popular east-coast meccas, veritable vehicular passport
book stamps, if you will. These types of
fishermen are nearly always in the
know, hot onto fish like bloodhounds. Consider
the conduct of their sometimes surreptitious, side-street congregations to be an
illuminated neon-sign which reads “something’s
probably going on here.” As hunters
of what is, for the most part, unseen to the observable eye, nothing is more
important than learning the habits of our quarry, the gratifying manifestation
of which is the fruition of reward and is the single-most determining element
as to whether or not the enigmatic jig-saw puzzle of options presented before
the surfcaster becomes successfully solved, arranged before the angler in the
form of a flopping, beached Striper.
In any case, the sometimes not-so-simple-to-find fish is all
that separates the haves from the have-nots, the smiles of joy from the
grimaces of exhaustion and unfound determination, the proud from the defeated,
and is the sole determining variable which differentiates the monotonous act of
casting from catching. We have all been
on the “wrong” beach throughout our seemingly
countless endeavors of fishing the various seasons, and even when on the “right” beach, there is never a guarantee
that fish will be landed by your hands.
Perhaps that’s where skill, technique, tackle, and experience play
offensive amongst fellow anglers. I have
stood beside fishermen who couldn’t stop
catching fish, while I couldn’t lure a single minnow to strike presentations for my life dependent! Perhaps those in-the-know would have said I
wasn’t “matching the hatch” or possibly
retrieving too fast or using the wrong colored lure or fishing the wrong side
of the tide or…. Thankfully, times have
changed and I’ve surmounted more knowledge of the sport than I imagined
possible, utilizing rewarding, hands-on experience and more importantly, foresight,
to become a better fisherman each year, but there is hardly anything more frustrating
and egotistically debasing than when the dreaded, rainy black cloud of bad luck
singles you out. I could have arrived on
a beach five-minutes too late, missing a passing school of fish, or a wind-knot
cluster the size of a golf ball develops on a pitch-black night atop a wet,
moss-laden jetty, sidelining my undertaking or worst of all, an entire rig is
lost due to mainline-fouling, wrapping around the rod tip, that resulting cast
costing me thirty-something dollars and unnecessary heartache as it snaps off
and rockets skyward out to sea, disappearing as fast as my optimistic outlook. I
always look before casting, so why didn’t I look then!, I may scream inside
my head. When it rains, it pours, but in
an equalizing manner, even the most highly-respected surfcasters of our time,
living-legends such as Alberto Knie or Tony Stetzko, have painfully admitted to
inadvertently falling victim to haste or carelessness, walking face-first into a
proverbial spider’s web, somehow jumbling their normally meticulous actions
under the distraction of jaw-dropping, energetic fish, consequently becoming robbed
of self-proclaimed prizes-of-a-lifetime.
Moments such as these divert me onto the perilous path of questioning my
nearly two decade-long skillset, are the bruising reminders that the slightest
lack of focus begets the best of us at times, but more importantly, forces me
to mentally take a step backwards, to learn from a mishap, and realize that at
times I am only casting a mere one-hundred feet from the edge of a
four-thousand-mile-wide Atlantic Ocean, from a single point somewhere along the
immediate twenty-mile sandy stretch of neighboring towns and their beaches I’ve
come to know as my comfort-zone, essentially heaving a plastic-prayer with
every cast that one of its inhabiting wild animals that I seek becomes tricked
at my offering in related time and space.
As scientifically-minded as I may approach and justify my passions for
this sport, I’m comforted and perennially humbled in that I am always in
pursuit of the unknown, wielding an intangible sword of faith, honing my craft
amid each encounter as I stand before the frontier of the sea.
When fortunate
strikes and one is in the right spot at the right time however, it immediately
becomes flagrantly apparent to the surfcaster.
Imagine the rather simple, but powerfully stirring, five-letter word “blitz.”
If you’ve logged enough time on the sand, I’m sure the linguistic
arrangement of these syllables trigger a series of Pavlovian-like knee-jerk
reactions, your mind becoming flooded with fond memories forever replayed at-will,
engaging episodes of total recall, those defiantly withstanding the tarnishing
hands of time. As fishermen, these
represent many of the exalted occasions we hold dear, the laurels of victory
worn proudly, moments in time when the stuff dreams are made of transcended
into reality. Whether fantasized in our
minds on a blustery winter day amid everyday routine or zealously viewed on a
computer screen among the universe of fishing videos waiting to be clicked on YouTube
and Vimeo, we all know that the wind-burned skin and saltwater-stained reality
of personal experience trumps any electronic comparison. How can anything compare than to have
actually been there? The sweetest tasting are always the extraordinary
cases where we are able to spark recollection of days past which unfolded
exceedingly well before our wave-splashed feet, stirring and eliciting a beaming
smile, inspiring a mighty, vociferous tale to share (or brag about) with
friends, reminding them that you were
a distinguished guest to glory and that they
were absent for this spontaneously exclusive, marauding carnival of madness, as
if we were actively invited to participate from the front-row seats of a boisterous,
combative Gladiator-like event, to spectate the up-close inner-workings of
Nature’s voracious predators-of-the-sea assiduously at work, a first-class
ticket to a surfcaster’s paradise presumably never to be experienced any time
soon.
It is the real-life experience of these pampering moments
revealed while wading the surf which resultantly become forever burned into
one’s memory, unremittingly serving as the unbridled spirit of hope cradled before
each of our encounters with the sea begins anew, the only remaining gift concealed
within each surfcaster’s figurative, yet personally authentic, Pandora’s
box. I cherish this gift of hope. Among all of the other fundamentals defining
this sport, it is the most
deeply-rooted, but easily overlooked seduction associated with fishing. Essentially, hope is the most productive lure
found within my surf bag. It could
always be my next cast which swims
this lure before a foraging, committing, crushing mouth, hooking the fish of a
lifetime in the process. The realistically
simple, yet insightful words of the late John Buchan condense my thoughts
exactly, reminding us that “the charm of
fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual
series of occasions for hope.”
Indeed, there exists nothing more than an optimistic promise for reward
with each cast we make, for what other purpose would we logically engage in the
acts of surfcasting?
Holding the reins on this continuum of hope, prior to
sinking a single foot onto wet sand, my mind feverishly submits the soma to the
bundled sensations of anticipation which I hail to on the inside, as the ocean
remains obstructed from sight, when my hopes of grandeur are still brightest,
and subliminal fantasies of striking a lottery of chosen locations are
greatest. Just as the discerning eye
knows that there is a naturally-prescribed individuality embodied in a solitary
snowflake, expressed as such in an infinitely variant uniqueness of combination
through crystalline lattice composition, that no two are ever identical, we
come to realize that in the snowstorm of a lifetime spent fishing the surf, every
outing experienced on a beach is positively unique from those antecedent,
possessing inherent beauty differentiating, for example, one sunrise, sunset,
tidal state, or weather pattern from the untold previous witnessed along our littoral
journey. These observable
characteristics aside, to understand the fish’s biologically-driven habits and
how those interface within its environment, to understand the seasonally
recurring, if not hourly, changes this seascape undergoes, perfecting when and how to fish, which
conditions and tides to choose from, and extrapolate where future success may be found, are the variables distinguishing
one fisherman’s chosen path from another, ordaining how a true course is
maintained at intersecting junctions of choice, determining success at fishing or
continued practice at casting. While striking
similarities exist all around us near the water, day-to-day redundancies do
not. We learn this, accepting the fact
that change is inherent. The fish we
seek, endowed with undulating caudal tails, move onward. The accumulations of these judgments we learn
however, are what we personally hold dear, becoming cohesively known as each of
our individual trials as surf fishermen.
As each awakening day in the surf begins anew, it is my hopeful
anticipation that thrives intolerably up until the very last second, the last
blinking of my eyes, where the fleeting, fine threshold of the unknown still
dwells in a blackened room, before the door which I crack open begins to flood
this seemingly devoid expanse with blinding light, specifically, as the sand
dune becomes crested, or the vegetative pathway fully walked through, will I finally
become relieved when these eyes make view of the water I will be working to
coax methodically like an alchemist, summoned to produce forth the finned, foraging
eyes of gold from aqueous unseen realms of the sea. Only then, will I know whether the box of
hope which I carry with me to the edge of the sea, honored by way of the
splashing splendor and swimming retrieval of my very-first cast, may awaken the
opportunity to wrangle with yet another declaration of distinction discovered on
the wave-pounded sands framing our shoreline.
These pensive thoughts of mine, realized, pondered, and
refined over years of solitude on the sand, personal lessons acquired as a
result of trial and error, are what compromise my values, hopes, and dreams as
a surfcaster. I deliberately stood within
a gently-breaking surf once again, more so for nostalgia’s sake on a particular
late-October day, realizing that it was exactly one year ago, on a Saturday
morning where I tracked a path through Monmouth County’s jetty country, when I
was engaged in battling a fat and frenzied thirty-five-inch Striped Bass, my tightly-grasped
graphite rod being tested as it was magnificently arched over, seemingly to
breaking-point, aimed eastward under a foaming white-water surf. I can vividly remember the remarkable
occurrences as though it were yesterday, when on that date I was fortunate
enough to be among the first hand-full of anglers enthusiastically inviting
ourselves to a magical free-for-all buffet materializing before our astonished eyes. A culmination of understanding, fortuitous
fall circumstances, and perhaps blind-luck were offering me a spectacular reward
in the form of blitzing keeper-sized bass, the sea at my feet teeming with tens
of thousands of terrorized, helpless peanut bunker pinned along a jetty and its
beach pocket. From where I stood, the
roaring and deafening powers of immortalization answered each heaving cast of
hope I launched into the deep, dark-blue-colored saltwater exposition of divinity.
In retrospect, I must admit that the experience was
bittersweet. Rapturously and obstinately
focused on the fish-fighting task at hand, Nature would painfully remind me
that good things can suddenly come to a crashing end. Within
thirty-hours from this point in time, I was packing my car with personal
affects and clothing, abandoning my defenseless, seaside hometown in accordance
to a mandatory coastal evacuation. It
was less than forty-eight hours from that delightful morning spent straining
arm muscles and feverishly reeling back in stripped-line from large, powerfully-running
fish in the surf, when the devastating fury of Hurricane Sandy made landfall
along the very beaches I had been standing upon that morning, permanently
disfiguring the face of the communities and their beachfronts I knew only days
before. The
coastal towns which we knew so intimately and enjoyed the pleasures of fishing
up until this point, were forever altered, devastated from near-category-two
wind speeds, a deluge of roiling, inescapable floodwater, exacerbated by the gravitational
effects of a full-moon, generating a twelve-foot tidal surge, while
tsunami-like waves carved-away at a vulnerable oceanfront, obliterating entire beaches
and annihilating accompanying properties.
Calamity struck overnight.
The ordinary-life taken for granted, which many thousands of people
recognized, was instantly swept from under their feet, turned upside-down, and
for some, never to regain normalcy.
Would it be oxymoronic for me to call this experience of an
outstanding morning in the surf my own calm
before the storm, how the peaceful and rewarding yield from one final
opportunity to battle southbound-swimming bass before years’ end was the
prelude to an all-out hell on land? Is
it apropos to consider this unfolding morning a foreboding, microcosmic
demonstration of the shear vicious potential which erupts about the playground
of the tempestuous sea, whereby one eating
results in another eaten? How in one moment, life may proceed in its
rhythms unscathed and uninhibited, until forces beyond any meaningful control
mercilessly assail existing circumstances, introducing chaos, permanently
altering fates believed to be ordained by free-will, savagely serving to remind
those that life is a process with an established beginning and an unwritten
ending. It was Joseph Conrad, who
prudently wrote that “the sea has never
been friendly to man. At most, it has
been the accomplice of human restlessness.”
From the perspective of mankind living idyllically by the sea, this is
certainly a truth, especially as the arrival of a powerful, Gulfstream-fueled hurricane
could just as well promise death by the sea.
As for the schooling fish I observed last October, a similar
interpretation of this statement may apply to their resulting struggles, since simply
living in the sea is an accomplice to
perpetual restlessness. The
ever-seeking, finned finality of death delivered by the gaping mouths and striped
bodies of larger kin maintains the circuitous struggle of life, literally
feeding upon itself in order to prevail as the resource, the stock of fish we
covet and admire, the contestants we yearn for and dare to engage, as fishermen
of the boundlessly churning surf.
Thankfully, many splendidly striped specimens have come
between then and now. I would be
out-of-my-mind if I said I had anything but
a spectacular year since the twenty-seventh, but I optimistically, if not
defiantly, stand in the surf again, thirteen months later, wading, waiting, and
wondering. With the season now ebbing to
a close, it will not be long before I sling my very-last cast, forcing myself
to confront and reluctantly accept the inevitable, unavoidable hollow-feeling
associated with every year’s completion, where the dotted period is struck to
the concluding sentence of my chapter symbolizing a year-long serial in the
surf, attentively watching for my lure to splash as it crashes atop the saltwater
mystery of the unknown, hoping for one familiar, startling tug to interrupt the
wobbling return representing my finality of effort. With each unanswered retrieval of my
presentation, cast with a burning desire, I cannot help but to ask myself why,
as humans, do we often note the passage of time elapsed with a celebration or relive
recollections, if only in our minds, in order to rejoice in such passing? Why, as surfcasters, do we instinctively
entrench ourselves for probable failure knowing the possibility of reliving the
excitement of an identical encounter is close to impossible? Why live in
retrospect at all when the singular promise of a brighter future, the greatest
gift of all, offers the potential to outshine any prior experience? Are fond memories all we have to justify an existence
as fishermen or is hope for a charitable future the grandest catch of all,
hooking every one of us deep from within, penetrating to the core of our souls,
beckoning for our participation, to appeal for our individual benefaction,
guiding the cursive movement of the pen’s tip, writing the script that is a new
day unfolding on the wave-soaked sands of a beach? Carry on and cast forth, say I!
When
action develops, suddenly everyone comes out of the woodwork for a shot at
rod-bending glory.
No comments:
Post a Comment