Nothing quite compares to that feeling of finally arriving at the beach to go striper fishing after a long call shift in the hospital, tired and partly delusional, and seeing those beloved Northern Gannets dive-bombing en masse into the water. The bliss I find myself in during those moments when it all comes together is hard to adequately express to those around me, although I can ramble on for hours if given the chance. The anxious responsibility of treating patients with various conditions and injuries, from simple things like small dental abscesses to complex infections and gunshot wounds—often for over twenty four hours at a time—are suddenly replaced by the peace and excitement of the open ocean and blitzing fish. Those moments when sun, swell, wind, tide, bait, and body of striped bass all come together in perfect harmony keep me returning for more, even if it means foregoing sleep.
I am training to be an Oral and Maxillofacial Surgeon (OMFS), a career path that has luckily taken me to several prominent locations along the Northeast striper coast. While obtaining my dental degree in Boston, MA, I was reintroduced to my love of fishing that was instilled in me when I was a child. I remember my parents sending me to sleepaway camp in upstate New York and returning with only stories of the largemouth bass and chain pickerel I caught in the lake. During my four years in Boston, I was fortunate to fish well known locations including Newburyport aboard the Captain’s Lady II (at the mouth of the Merrimack River), Boston Harbor, and the Cape Cod Canal. However, at that time my obsession was still relatively in the early stages. It wasn’t until I was in my Oral and Maxillofacial Surgery residency program in NYC where I had the chance to become much more in tune with the Northeast fishing world and the ample opportunities that are present in our waters.
I was fortunate to be in the medical school year of my residency training when the COVID pandemic hit NYC hard. While I was technically a medical student during the week, I was still on call as an OMFS resident on the weekends, treating patients during the height of the pandemic. Fishing, at that time, was as important as ever to me to remain balanced and in good mental health. Leaving the hospital post call after witnessing nothing but disease and death, getting into my car and making a bee line for the beach to fish the morning tide was my escape. I credit fishing for keeping me grounded during that time. I guess the reality is that fishing, for many of us, isn’t really a hobby that we simply do in our free time for enjoyment, but a part of our life that is inseparable from who we are and how we behave. Just like family is at the core of who we are, fishing takes a close second for many of us and is an essential part of our core being.
Two of the most important and memorable fishing days of my life were October 23rd and November 15th of this past year. October, in particular, was one of the most difficult months of my life. Experiencing October 2023 as an Orthodox Jewish person in the wake of the attack overseas was downright scary and depressing. The joy of daily life was replaced with sadness and uncertainty and this unfortunately continues to this day. Fishing was (and is) one of the most important things in my life, and again, it offered an escape where I could be free momentarily and just focus on nature, the ocean, and the fish.
As difficult as the month of October was, the 23rd was a special day for me. I had the daytime off and would be starting an overnight shift at eight o’clock that night. I made sure to get as much sleep as possible prior to that day, as I knew the fishing conditions were scheduled to be prime. The moment I walked up that dune and got a look at the mass of striped bass blitzing just a few hundred feet off the beach—with a National Geographic amount of gannets diving—I knew I needed to get out there quickly.
Instead of making the two mile trek around Jones inlet from the harbor, which is not something I frequently do given the risk of changing conditions, I decided to launch my Old Town BigWater 132 PDL straight off the beach. There was essentially no swell and the buoy reading was less than one foot. I pedaled as hard as I could to reach the blitzing fish only to have them go down as I got closer. The classic, unmistakable boils from blitzing striped bass were piercingly broken by a humpback whale lunge-feeding through a huge school of bunker. That moment will be ingrained in my mind for the rest of my life. While not the first time seeing whales in my kayak, this was by far my closest encounter with these beautiful creatures. I was lucky to be positioned where I was, because had I been located just a few feet in either direction, I likely would’ve had a much different story to share if any story at all.
After aggressively pedaling for five minutes away from where the humpback breached out of fear of getting swamped, I was interrupted by the slapping and thrashing of two ten foot thresher sharks ramming through another school of bunker at lightning speed. My adrenaline was now pumping and pulsating through my body with every heartbeat. While I have been in many precarious situations in big waves while surfing, I had never experienced such close encounters with marine life. I felt more vulnerable in the ocean than ever before, while only being a few hundred feet off the beach. Seeing these massive creatures feed all around you while floating on a large piece of plastic is hard to describe. At that moment, I realized that I must let nature do her thing and decided to stay put and start fishing.
I snagged a bunker and quickly switched it to my second rod on a circle hook. Within seconds, I had a forty-pound striper on the end of my line screaming drag off my Shimano Stradic 5000. I went on to catch around twenty more bass up to forty nine inches (or around forty five pounds) that afternoon until it seemed all action had subsided. At around 4:30 p.m. I decided to head in and get back to Manhattan for my eight o’clock shift.
Just when I thought I would pedal back to the beach, a huge school of large to massive striped bass started going airborne while tearing through the bunker pods. The sight of a fifty-pound striped bass going fully airborne is not something I had seen before in person. What made these moments all the more special is that I had it all to myself. There was not one boat nearby. The whole fleet had convened far off in the distance. There I was, alone with a school of beautiful, massive bass, the sun beginning to set, and a school of dolphins swinging by to get in on the action. It was a moment of perfection, a moment I will chase again and again, and is a prime example of why I enjoy kayak fishing.
Eventually, I had to set a hard stop for myself as my shift was rapidly approaching. I was not able to wipe the smile off my face for the rest of the day and night. So I went to work and did what I always do; I treated people in their most vulnerable moments, remembering the vulnerability I felt alone in the ocean, surrounded by beautiful creatures of another world. Life is all about balance, and I like to believe that fishing makes me a better physician. In many instances, it gives me something to bond with patients over.
Two days later and the bliss of October 23rd was replaced with sadness and reality of how the ocean gives and takes. Long story short, I decided to try and repeat the magic I experienced in less than ideal conditions. With a lack of bass and a growing swell, I unfortunately mistimed my way back in with the waves and tipped my kayak, snapping two rods, losing my iPhone and around five hundred dollars’ worth of tackle that was in my open tackle box. Lesson learned. I made a new rule for myself that if I had not slept at least two hours on call, I would only go out on a head boat for safety purposes. I had several successful trips after that ill-fated kayak flip, but none of them replicated the magic of all the elements coming together in perfect harmony… until November 15th, which was the true redemption day for me.
Leaving the hospital from a twenty-four hour shift on November 15th, I made my classic beeline to the beach to check out the action, which I had feared was beginning to fade. We were getting later into what many of us consider the peak of our fall run on Long Island. As I clambered over the dune, I was greeted by gannets diving in the distance and acres of schoolie to over slot bass pushing bunker up onto the beach. My post-call exhaustion evaporated. I ran back to my car to grab my surf setup—a Van Staal VR 151 with a Dark Matter 9’2” surf rod—as if my life depended on it. I tied on the closest popper I saw in my trunk, a brand new Yo-Zuri Mag Popper, and didn’t even have the patience to put on my waders. After sprinting full speed back to the surf, almost falling straight onto my face, I immediately hooked up on my first cast. With several nice sized striped bass under my belt in a few short minutes, and my scrubs and shoes now soaked, the mass of fish pushed off the beach. It was go time for the kayak.
Again, I ran back again to my car and assembled my kayak in record time, launching it off the beach with all abandon to catch up to the blitz. What made this day so special, aside from the beautiful conditions, is that every single fish I caught was on topwater—a dream come true for many of us anglers. In all the excitement, I never had a chance to crush the barbs on my popper, and I paid for it. While rushing to release a fish, it made an ill-fated head turn and sunk one of the barbs half-way through my right pinky. I somehow managed to release the fish with the barb through my finger, and luckily for the adrenaline, I was able to push the hook through so it exited the other side of my finger. I flagged down a nearby boat and began calling for their assistance. As they approached I realized the captain was none other than John McMurray of One More Cast Charters—a local legend amongst our fishing community—and being the well-prepared captain he is, had wire cutters. I was fortunate he also had rubbing alcohol and a dressing for my bleeding finger. Another lesson learned on this trip: always keep wire cutters on board. Luckily, the hook missed all important structures in my finger such as the arteries, nerve, and tendons that I rely upon to be a surgeon.
After that mishap, the action died off for around two hours. Just when I thought I’d head back in and get some rest after being awake for more than thirty-five hours, the largest blitz I have ever experienced developed before me. Several acres of bunker suddenly pushed up on the surface, with a massive school of striped bass hot on their tails. Trying to keep to the outside of the bunker school and avoid any potential humpback whale close encounters was futile. I was simply surrounded by bunker with nowhere to go. Many of the boats around me were in the same situation, where the sheer number of bunker and blitzing fish were impossible to avoid. Another fifteen or so fish caught on topwater, this time with crushed barbs, and I was back in the zone of bliss.
These are the moments I live for. This time around, I was able to share the excitement I felt on October 23rd with several anglers in nearby boats instead of experiencing the complete solitude I did nearly a month prior. I am extremely grateful for the opportunities to chase these beautiful fish from my kayak, or from the surf, and it’s these memories that carry me through the often harsh Northeast winters until the bass return again on their northbound migration.
Until next Spring.
