The thing got so crazy and we got so haggard that we started to ease off from the frantic pace of the fishing. The wind had dropped off enough, in three hours, for us to remove the sinkers from ahead of the Red Gills and use plugs for casting weight. Well into our third box of fish, Joyce had a double going -- one on the popper and another on the teaser. Her pair of stripers in the low thirties appeared to being fighting each other as Paulie and I heckled her while she strained to subdue them both in the surf. With the tide turning around 4:00 p.m., I started cleaning up because I didn't want to be caught loading fish while trying to move the buggy up from the water. It's important that the buggy be as close as possible for tools, rod changes, and fish boxing because every second and every step counts in a blitz like this. When the tide is dropping, you can leave a trail of fish and tools following the water down; but, with a coming tide, you have to watch the relationship of the water more closely. Moreover, the rise in water is not linear with time. Once the tide is two hours in, the rise in water is more dramatic so that it covers and sweeps things away. You can hook a good fish, line leaving against the drag, and before you know it the water is breaking against your wheels. After that, one bad splash and your ignition is doused. Of course, you don't have to take such chances, but your production will go down.

We hadn't eaten for seven hours, my waders were full of water, and my hands were getting like hamburger and burning from all the little cuts aggravated by the salt. Joyce drove the Scout back to the big buggy and got us some Twinkies and cold beer while the girls unloaded the boxes. Coming back she swung in a little too close to the surf and a wave washed the passenger door, hissing on the exhaust system; because of that she scooted farther up the bank than I would have liked. Nearly eating the cellophane on the first goodie, I offered Paulie a Twinkie if he promised to move downwind 1000 feet. And he, putting his arm around my Joyce warmly, offered her a better life with a "real fisherman".

The wind was pansying out by now and the Race had a good 50 casters spread, tonging. Roughly another box of fish and things had slowed because the rising water had moved us too far back. Fearing that some of our catch might spoil, we decided to load everything and head for the dock. Back at the buggy, the girls were gutting bluefish in their bathing suits.

"Yuck," Sandra blurted, as she pulled on a handful of bluefish entrails. Then Susan heaved a bloody organ at her twin and the guts war was on. Each of them had a bluefish by the tail and was reaching inside for more offal to throw at the other.

"This is the liver, this is the heart, here is the part that makes him ..."

And she threw a mushy, reddish organ that splatted in the knee deep wash beside Carol, who was the only one of them doing anything.

Pulling up beside them, I warned that they had better have the fish ready because the dock would be locked up within the hour. Then I slid another box onto the sand and ran the knife from vent to gill covers on what remained.

Our drop for the afternoon, including the box plus of blues, taken before the storm, was just under 600 pounds; cull on the bass was 290 of jumbo. We didn't know the prices but the total value had to be close to $500.

Joyce had prepared pasta for dinner but pointed out that no buggies had come down from the Race, not even those she had seen drive past while I was at the dock. Shutting the stove down, she hopped into the Scout with me and we hurried west. Now the tide was really humping past the Race, with most of the rigs moved to the high water mark. Others were picking up gear and fish, their exhaust drifting from their buggies, for a last move. Nobody was standing around and quite a few of them were fighting fish -- all bass. Paulie was panting on the hood of his Jeep, lamenting the high percentage of bluefish:

"Should have stayed, Nutbag, we been mohawking them."

Within three casts I had a bass on and turned to see Joyce carrying her rod with mono trailing back to the bumber spikes for another. Then she hooked up.

Compared to the pace of early afternoon, things were a little slower but still productive. The wind seemed to stay on a steady 20 knots sou'west, which were perfect conditions. But Joyce was pale from the continuous action and I could tell that she was worried about the girls. She went back in the chase and I stayed with Paulie for another hour but it was over.

Race City was back to its old self, fish boxes, boat trailers. Those who were staying had taken their boats off. Nobody was around, however, probably eating or sleeping. Broken clouds still hurried over the dunes, the sun lowering. My stomach was gnawing on my backbone, especially once I smelled the gravy heating.

"The girls ate all the Fritos," Joyce lamented. "They did," I said, trying to sound like a concerned father. "How about the Ring Dings?" Rolling her eyes she motioned to the hamburger and I swept my arm telling her to cook it all. "Ever see such fish?" I said. "I wish they would move out. This is too much."

God, I love spaghetti and hamburger. I was dragging Portuguese bread through the rich, red gravy, saving the last patty for one final assault when Carol bounded in:

"MrHoercherisonandIgotathirtyfivepounderatmaxistruck...and"...pant, pant. "Carol, for crying out loud, slow down!" "Mister Hoercher is on and I got a 35 pounder at Mr ..." Joyce was adamant: "I'm through fishing."

Sliding into hippers, it was full dark when I came out. Paulie was tearing through everything in his buggy, a sure sign that things were moving. I felt a turn on my plug, clear sign that something had passed near it. I paused, rolled a few cranks on the squidder, then hauled back on the take. I heard Paulie's billy thump on a fish and the twins were running toward me from down the beach, but they slowed down once they realized that I was in the water. Not that it was heavy, every-cast-blitz, but we had stripers in the 30s for about two hours until after high water. Once the Second Rip died out, the linesides were gone and the bluefish moved in.

This caused most of the others to rack their surfrods. They were tired, as well as conscious of how unprofitable the choppers can be. But I couldn't shake the notion that these blues might be the best priced ones that we had ever seen. If it turned out the P-Town fish were all that came in at Fulton Street, bids would skyrocket. I bent wire leaders to every rod on the Scout for some easy money. Dropping the tailgate, I opened a case of Gibbs Swimmers and armed every stick.

Sandra came by first but she couldn't reach them. I cast her rod passed it to her and she hooked up. Susan saw this and went after Carol before she joined us. Mom was 20 feet behind Carol. In spite of a favorable wind, none of them could reach the concentration and all casts made by them went dry. Now all four of them waited with rods for me to cast and them to hook up. It was the first time that we had ever done the fish this way, but when something is working and you have the space...

After midnight our bluefish left and all the girls went to bed. Joyce was haggard, but I couldn't come down. It is a thing that I hate about blitz. You would think that with all the action we had that I would fall into my bag and lapse into unconsciousness. But just the opposite happens. Somehow, I need the reassurance that there is nothing happening somewhere without me. You won't get it from Paulie.

"Hey Nutbag," Paulie said, sliding gear to the inside so that he could close his tailgate, "the Race is down enough."

"I'm not going to be a pig about it." using as matter of fact a voice as I could muster, "we just want a few fish for the freezer. Enough is enough."

I was going to the Race and Paulie knew it.

Right after the Traps there was enough light from the lighthouse to illuminate Paulie's buggy, the only buggy, on the flats. Each time it made a rotation, I could see how his rig was low on the springs from the weight of what he had. Then we both dropped below the crest of the beach and slid softly the 400 feet to the water without lights. Joyce's head rolled forward in a bow causing her to react for an instant before sagging into a heap against her door. Some women just don't have any balls.

Blankets of sand eels sprinkled in the gentle surf and a thing moved among them. Paulie saw it. Paulie was into them right away because I had to remove the wire and clip on swimmers and Red Gills. Joyce got up on the third bang on her door, but she moved in a way that seemed to be hoping that they would be gone by the time she got there. Still, she beached a 41 pounder and a few others in the mid-20s. Paulie was loaded, all bass. The Scout was bottomed out on its springs and we had more fish at the big truck. The bluefish poundage was slightly higher than we had in bass, but they went off at 28 cents per pound. My mental cash register was saturated. I couldn't figure out what we had but we were pushing a ton in all and the check was close to a thousand dollars.

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