Through experience, experimentation, and emulation, surfcasters learn how to read the beach for “tells” that greatly improve the odds. Many of these tells, and how to effectively leverage them, are widely covered in literature and discussed among fishermen. For instance, the anticipation of a topwater explosion when throwing a popper in the direction of seabirds that are plunge-diving or surface-snatching baitfish is driven by conventional wisdom indicating that whatever the birds are fervently gorging on from above are likewise being engulfed enthusiastically and often indiscriminately by large predatory fish from below. The gamefish are so indiscriminate and frenzied that whatever you are throwing will invoke a ferocious strike so long as it mimics the movements and actions of frantic and nervous bait.
Another well-known tell is the presence of underlying structure, such as bars, troughs, and submerged boulders where predatory fish lay in wait for bait to pass. When seasoned surfcasters happen upon waves cresting close to the shore’s edge, they know a long cast is likely wasted. The force of the waves breaking on the shoreline serves to dislodge and disorient burrowing crustaceans and break up mollusks, making for easy pickings for hungry bass, bluefish, and fluke. Short lob casts into the suds often result in quick hooksets.
Yet another well-established tell, and one not unique to surfcasting, is the profile of bait currently visible in the surf, or better still, spewing from the mouth of a freshly caught game fish. A surfcaster uses this information to fine-tune his selection of artificial bait.
In fly-fishing parlance, this last tell is commonly referred to as “matching the hatch.” I serendipitously stumbled upon a variant of hatch-matching that I now actively pursue on days immediately following turbulent and disruptive surfs (or when the bite is nonexistent). The hatch being matched is that of lost plugs and lures found washed up on the beach. My father was fond of saying that “We learn from hardship and misfortune,” and then, with a wink, he’d add, “It’s even better when it’s someone else’s.”
Most lost lures have a story to tell and an underlying lesson to teach those who find them, whether it’s a new color or pattern or an entirely new class of artificial bait to try. As a bonus, finding one provides a sense of childhood excitement akin to the discovery of a cool prize buried in a box of Cracker Jack. Often, with little to no restorative work, a found lure adds something entirely new to the collection of shiny and colorful items I cast in the general direction of fish. Put succinctly and apologetically for the poor pun, finding lost lures is a pursuit that has a lot of al-lure to me.
While I was working a plug in the suds off New Jersey’s Island Beach State Park on a cold morning one late October day, a flock of seagulls approached from my left. I lowered my rod tip and sped up my retrieve, attempting to minimize the likelihood of having a bird unwittingly fly into my line. Unfortunately, I was not quick enough. A gull got caught up and clumsily dropped into the sea. The flock continued onward, paying little heed to one of its own abruptly falling out of the sky and flopping awkwardly in the surf. I patiently reeled the floundering bird ashore, removed my outermost layer of clothing, and used it to cloak the bird’s head, calming it down as well as protecting myself from its sharp talons and beak.
Once subdued, I got to work freeing the bird’s left wing from my braided line. I did this quickly and diligently as this was not my first such encounter. I discovered this was not the bird’s first rodeo either; attached to its other wing was a rat’s nest of line terminating in a floating 6-inch mother-of-pearl Daiwa Salt Pro Minnow. I removed this, too, then watched the bird fly off in the direction of its mates, hopefully none worse for the wear and perhaps better off since it was no longer carrying an additional 1.2-ounce payload of sleek plastic and 6 points of barbed metal.
What is in my surf bag at any instant is dictated by its limited real estate, my limited finances, and my limited ability to truly appreciate what fish “dig.” Based on some combination of all three of these metrics, up until that moment in time, I had never owned a lure of any kind in mother of pearl. I always thought the color/pattern had no appeal to the fish I’ve historically targeted. That twice-unlucky bird delivered to me, free of charge, the opportunity to prove this hunch right or wrong. Later in the day, after going about an hour without even a bump, I put that minnow to work and was rewarded almost immediately with three schoolie-sized bass in quick succession. It was on that cold October day that I first realized how relevant my father’s refrain about learning from the misfortune of others applied to Cracker Jack beach finds. To this day, most of my surf-fishing outings include space in my plug bag for at least one mother-of-pearl-patterned bait; it is often one of the first colors I put into play on any given day.
When out walking on the beaches or wading in the backwaters, I like to travel light. I favor a small three-tube hip bag for my artificials and a pair of general-purpose saltwater-grade pliers, along with a sling pack for terminal tackle, small tools, drinking water, sunscreen, and a few snacks. I don’t start an outing with empty space in my plug bag, so one of the tools I carry is a small pair of split-ring pliers. Having these on hand allows me to remove the hooks (I drop them into the bottom of one of the surf bag tubes) and then throw the body of a found plug into my sling pack for safekeeping. Being space conscious, my choice of split-ring pliers are dual-purpose ones that are also bladed for cutting mono, fluorocarbon, and braid.
The adoption of mother-of-pearl baits into my arsenal was based on a distant cousin of the fly fishermen’s tell of “matching the hatch.” I wondered if other such hatch matching could further my fishing success. The only way to learn for sure was to rinse and repeat the operation, but the problem was that I chanced upon only one or two wayfaring lures in a season, certainly not enough to robustly test out my theory. To do so required carving out time dedicated for scanning the shoreline behind me as opposed to fishing the ocean before me. Fortunately, the times for scavenging for lost lures are often at their best when circumstances for surf-fishing successes are at their worst.
One occasion is when the water is so rich and thick with marine algae that the practice of catch and release pertains solely to freeing seagrass and lasagna-noodle-shaped kelp and sending them back from whence they came. Floating-type lures, even metals and some sinking lures, separated from their original owners through miscues such as a failed knot, casting with a closed bail, poor choice of leader, or sharp understructure (or teeth) have the uncanny ability to find their way into seaweed clumps. When the water is overburdened with these tufts, the flood tide pushes them toward the beach and the ebb tide leaves them behind on its retreat.
The closest fishable shoreline to my home is, without traffic, an hour-and-a-half drive. I often embark on my journey not knowing the conditions, so I sometimes arrive only to discover the surf and beach blanketed in seaweed. Since I’ve already invested in the long drive, I often cut my losses by walking the beach, looking for lost lures. I hop from seaweed clump to seaweed clump, examining and turning over each with the aid of a stick.
In these clumps, I find a great variety of things, the bulk of which, unfortunately, are not lures. Therefore, it is advisable to exercise caution before thrusting your hand into a clump. I’ve come to learn the hard way that blurple, pink, and bone are not exclusive to products made by Daiwa, Rapala, Bomber, and Joe Baggs; companies with names ending in ‘-pax’ and ‘-tex’ use these colors too.
Another such scenario involves times when fishing conditions look “juicy” according to the traditional well-known tells, but the gamefish did not get the memo. As such, no fish are to be had no matter what I’m throwing. I often take advantage of these slow periods by holstering my rod and spending time searching for consolation prizes and local knowledge. I may not find lures every time, but I almost always find remnants of soft plastics. This is to be expected since, unfortunately, many soft plastics on the market are not biodegradable. I make a habit of picking up the bits of soft-plastic baits and disposing of them in trash bins at the end of the day. I take notice of the colors and styles, figuring that any variety or color of chewed-up bait I uncover is worth experimenting with on a future outing—clearly something thought enough of the plastic to give it a good chewing. In many cases, these experiments have paid off handsomely. Regarding biodegradability, some soft plastics do in fact biodegrade, albeit very slowly, and when given the choice, I lean toward using these (such as Berkeley’s Gulp-branded baits) over varieties that do not biodegrade at all.
These consolation excursions have resulted in seasonal average findings of roughly two-dozen artificial baits. Many are in fine working order, while others require just a bit of tender-loving rehab to be put back into active service. Some, like the seagull-delivered SP Minnow, are lures I have in my collection already, but afford me the opportunity to experiment with a different color pattern, while others are varieties I either discounted in favor of spending my lure dollar elsewhere or ones I’ve never come across before. Regarding the latter, I do enjoy the forensics of determining a lure’s origin, type, and usage. Sometimes, the company name and even the model are imprinted on or molded into the lure’s surface, and Mother Nature has not had a chance to obscure it. In this case, typing the manufacturer and model name into your favorite search engine will most likely point you in the right direction. I use a tape measure and a cheap but accurate digital kitchen scale to fine-tune my identification if a model come in a variety of lengths and weights. YouTube videos are useful resources for learning how to best work an unfamiliar find.
Often, the harsh saltwater environment, fish with sharp teeth, treble hooks rubbing against the lure’s flanks, or the fact that vendors don’t always stamp names/models on the lures they produce, leave me without suitable search terms. In these cases, I use two additional tools to assist, one of which accommodates a genetic shortcoming of mine—colorblindness. The first set of tools are free image-recognition applications like Google Lens. These use machine learning and artificial intelligence to analyze digital photographs to identify objects and return relevant information. It is surprising how well they work on fishing tackle. The second set of tools are photo-editing software packages with color-picker features that report on the color under the cursor. Adobe Photoshop has such a feature, but the application itself is pricey. Gimp is a free open-source and easy-to-use software application.
I mark my finds with a permanent marker so that I can easily identify which lures I found and what season I found them in. My taxonomy is simple: F for Found and ‘XY for the last two digits of the calendar year. During this past season, I scribbled F’23 on the side of over 30 lures/plugs/soft baits. Finding them have given this budget-minded and small surf-bag-carrying fisherman opportunities to experiment with lures I might not otherwise have tried. Likewise, because I’m playing with house money, I tend to fish more aggressively and adventurously, which I’d like to believe gets me more fish. When I do lose an artificial bait, my disappointment is often offset by the thought that another angler may learn from my misfortune.
It can be argued that it would be much more efficient to sneak peeks at, or just outright ask, what other fishermen are having success with. Similarly, it would be much easier to inquire at the local tackle shop about the current “hot” lures. Both sources generally provide honest and practical advice, particularly if a longstanding relationship exists. Don’t get me wrong … I’m all for asking others, but the active pursuit of finding lost lures, speculating how they were lost, and ascertaining the lessons they teach, embody a sense of charm, excitement, and fascination, at least for me, and I hope for you.
Classic Metal Lures for Stripers in the Surf
