At 4:30, my alarm rattled in the empty saucepan and drove me to the coffee pot. I was only at it a few minutes with my spinner. It was still dark. The plug had an extra load; the original model was intended to float. This one, however, had the nasty habit of hanging a lip in the bottom just outside the surf line. Every cast was a "Pergo hit" that irritated me. I had grown conditioned to the lip and persisted in my retrieve at every dig-in. Suddenly the lip moved east and accelerated, not out but down--down the beach. I had to chase. Should I lift my rod over the line that led to the soaking squid?

I went over. If I was wrong, I would be tangled with myself. Again the sound of chimes unnerved me. The drag buzzed in a monotone that caused me to chase left, looking over my shoulder for a hint of the wisdom of my decision. I was apparently clear. He dogged and drummed the line, his progress always to the left. It took some jogging to get near him, reeling as I went. When it was time, I applied that little strain it takes to get him riding in on a breaker. He came, but my choice was bad and he lay on the wet sand in that limbo where the next wave could take him from me, and it did. I let him out, and my next selection planed him nicely. I slid him higher with my hand, and the plug tinkled in the gravel at my feet. I wasn't any good the rest of the morning and Andy came by about eight.

"How did you do?" he asked. I pointed at my fish, trying to make it seem like a nightly occurrence. Andy beamed and called his soldiers.

"You see, I told you," he scolded. We drank coffee in the October sun, while his boys pumped the popping plugs.

The plug was retired and for three years remained a showpiece---always accompanied by the remark: "See what a 51-pounder can do to your hooks."

I was toying with some 27-pound Dacron and wanted to see it throw a loaded swimmer. I fitted an old friend out with a mackerel paint job. Mackerel was a fashionable flavor last year. Around midnight the water was big, with the wind southwest about 20. I was looking for my plug, for it seemed about time for it to slide up the wash when he hit---a hit too close for a sensible fish; a hit that stuck in my memory, because it was close. Or perhaps it was the fish. He thrashed and slapped the surface like....

{ --- MISSING PAGE --- }

...clad lady, with curlers, stood up to her knees in the October surf, fast to something good that had tried to steal hubby's worm rod. He was almost out of sight, chasing as we were. The real fireworks came at the old harbor Coast Guard Station, for a comparable school was traveling north. It also had attracted beach buggies from the other end of the beach. There was a sight to behold when the collision came---a collision of fish, that is. There, sitting it out, was Charley Cinto (who later went on to tie the world record). What horrified us were the 49 and 51-pounders he caught 20 minutes apart, with worms, in this traffic jam at high noon.

In considering time, the warmer waters west of Monomoy call for night work in the surf. It seems that chances improve as the season ages. Rarely is a giant gaffed before the 30th of May, and lunkers above Monomoy scurry for warmer water in October. A full 20 degrees more warmth greets them in Nantucket and Rhode Island Sounds, which holds some until early November. There are those stripers that maintain summer residence in these waters. The point I'm straining to make is that this is where they live, all summer. Profits of doom have burdened otherwise enthusiastic anglers into accepting the "Summer Doldrum" concept. Fish between May and November, and you are in season.

It is strange that the very things that turn us off when fishing should have us telling our employer of the sudden loss of a dear aunt. I have seen many anglers sack out because of six foot waves whipped by what seemed an impossible wind. That big water turns them on has been a frequent source of suspicion. Case in point:

A hurricane was passing offshore. The watch was up. That day, the Weather Bureau was busy, and the second triangle was hoisted at Point Jude. I was standing on one leg after a hard night of nothing--well, nothing for me. Butch, fagged, stood in front of his machine contemplating the dawn with his hands wrapped around the warmth of his coffee cup, gloating, for he had taken three over 20, and I had been his gaff boy. The others were all placed like characters in some divine comedy--in the sack. The water slid up to the base of the dunes. A husky tried to make off with my wares---a hit that jarred me to both legs. The spool tumbled as the line lifted out. I cracked open the star, then irritated his progress with my thumbs. Butch spilled the coffee. When it was time, he went down the bank only to dodge the 52 pounds that slid by him. "Step on him!" I urged. That was the fourth 50-pounder which fortune had granted me.

Were some Mystic of the sea to make the evening scene to ask how I want the deck stacked, I would say: the kind of water that sets the kids to waxing their surfboards, a plug or bait no less than a foot in length, a revolving spool reel loaded with new braided line. I'd want P-Town on my left and Montauk on my right. I would urge he permit me my beach buggy, with its ready-to-serve coffee pot.

And--as if I have not given this madness enough of my life---I would then ask for more time.

Previous |  1 | 2