I’d just married the woman of my dreams surrounded by all our people. Life seemed like it couldn’t get any better until a few days later, when every surfman’s dream came true for me in a way I never imagined.
Jessica and I were set to mini-moon in Nantucket the week following our wedding, but the weather wasn’t on our side. Instead, we stayed at the beach where I grew up on eastern Long Island. We had a full week to do nothing but relax, fish, and spend quality time together. That Thursday, my friend Tim Regan tells me he had been seeing a massive school of fish feeding right off the beach, but he wasn’t sure of the species. Based on the size, he suspected sharks or tuna. Without question, Jessica and I set out in search of whatever it may be.
It’s mid-afternoon when we arrive, and because the beach isn’t open for driving until 6 p.m., we walk out. The surf is flat as could be, and as soon as we approach the water’s edge, the ocean erupts with adult bunker spraying every which way, trying to escape the predators hunting them.I run back to the truck, grab my 9-foot rod, and fly down the beach with a chartreuse Guppy Jobo Jr pencil popper already clipped on. The fish are furiously moving east, and I am barely able to keep up while casting to them. I run ahead to intercept, launch a cast beyond the carnage, and wait for the fish to reach me before I begin my retrieve. Within a few cranks, I’m into a fish. My initial thought is that this is definitely not a tuna. There were no blistering runs, just slow, powerful headshakes. Given Tim’s report, I wonder if it could it be a shark. I hope not.
As I fight the fish, Jessica is filming me and a crowd is gathering to watch. As I get it closer to the beach, I realize the “shark” is in fact a striped bass. A 24-pounder, taken in the middle of summer, off the beach, and in broad daylight—not a textbook scenario for hooking a big striper. As I pull it up, an Argentinian family wearing World Cup jerseys cheers me on as they snap photos. I return the fish to the water, and I watch as she swims away to continue her great migration.
I take a few more casts, and the fish move off. Tim arrives and I confirm that the fish were all decent bass on bunker. They come close once more. We try for another 30 minutes until my rod snaps and I almost lose my lure. Fortunately, Tim snags it back for me. We head for dinner with family, but I return immediately after in hopes of finding the fish again. The fog had rolled in as the air cooled. In the distance, I make out a massive blitz. I think, Is this for real? How are they’re still here? I try to no avail. I consider pulling an all-nighter, but with a friend’s wedding at the Jersey Shore the following day, it’s not an option.
With morning comes my last chance to try for those fish. I’m out the door at 5 a.m. with my Van Staal VSB200 and 10-foot rod built by my friend Jeff Lomonaco. The fog is just lifting as I walk past the dunes and take in a scene that I imagine Stan Gibbs, Jerry Ferron, or Frank Woolner might have experienced during the golden era of surfcasting. In front of me, an acre of giant striped bass blitzes just off the beach lip in crystal-clear, calm water, feasting on adult bunker—and there isn’t another angler in sight.
On my first cast, I throw the same chartreuse Guppy Jobo Jr that I nearly lost the day before. I hook into a fish that peels line off so fast that I can’t even set the hook in time and I lose her. My hands are trembling, and I’m talking to myself (Keep it together man, it’s just a fish!). I am completely losing it. I gather myself, take a few breaths, and land another cast on the outside of the school. I begin to slowly work the pencil around the edge, and a fish grabs it. This time I’m locked in. My drag is comfortably set, there are no obstacles, I’m wearing a bathing suit, and I’m ready to run after it if I have to. But this fish has other plans—it goes deep.
The violent head shakes and blistering runs are reminiscent of a tarpon. All I can do is hold tight in a Tekken tag battle stance, which has me so bent out of shape I think for sure I’ll lose it the fish. I reel fast to store line when I can and get a few pulls in. Then the fish runs again. I’m exhausted and starting to fatigue. This can’t be a bass, I’m thinking. I never fought anything like this before, and I begin to panic. The line is continuously being thumped by the passing bunker and other bass, making my heart jump into my throat every single time.
The five-minute fight feels like an eternity. Finally, I see the fish approaching in defeat. I have to go in to get her to pull her up on the beach. As I grab the lip, I realize this fish is the fish—the one I have dreamed of since I was a little boy fishing with my father and uncle.
It’s a dinosaur, battle-scarred and painted in dark and dull tones. It almost looks like an amberjack with stripes, and there it is — right in my own childhood backyard.
I measure her out at 53 inches and well over 50 pounds. I scramble to get my cellphone out of my jacket to take a photo before getting her back in. With my hands soaked in slime, sand, and water, I can’t get the camera open. Ultimately, I decide that the fish’s survival is more important than photo evidence. I decide I don’t care if anyone believes me, so I return the fish to the water and revive her until she swims off under her own power.
I sit down on the beach, shaken, out of breath, in awe. My mission is accomplished, but the fish are still feasting. What else is out there? My arms feel like noodles, but it’s only 6 a.m, so I continue to fish and continue catching. The fish range from the high 20s to 45 pounds and all take the same Guppy pencil popper.
At 7:30, a truck rolls up. It’s my friend Nico starting off his morning. He walks his dog as I’m casting into the epic blitz. I look back at him and yell, “Are you nuts? Grab a damn rod!”
In nonchalant Nico-fashion he replies, “What are those blues?”
“Thirty to fifty-pound bass! Put on a pencil and let it fly!”
With his dog roaming free, Nico hooks up on his first cast. It’s a high-20s fish. The next cast brings his personal best at 35 pounds, a mark he would top a few more times before the morning is over.
At 8:00 a.m., a couple of beach-walkers pass by on their morning stroll. I ask one gentleman if he can clean off my phone, and he kindly agrees and takes a few photos. He asks me, “What is happening out there?”
I call my friend Adam Flax several times until he finally picks up. I tell him what’s going on, and in ten minutes, Adam is on the beach mouth agape as I land a 44 pounder. He takes a picture and puts on a pencil. His first cast lands a 36. The three of us are grinning ear to ear, completely fired up. More beach-walkers are out, and a couple more fishermen arrive and wade into the surf in jeans and boots. We tell them to use a popper of any kind. In no time, they’re into fish too.
We consistently catch fish, all in the 20- to 40-pound range, for the next hour. Hands and gear are battered and bruised. Our friend Dan, who also goes by “Jesus,” comes for his share, leaving his job to get in on the action. There are seven of us in total.
A humpback whale breaches beyond the bunker school and everyone stops. All of us watch as the whale makes its way into the surf zone, blasting bunker and bass out of the water. The whale is so close that if we’d had a line out, he would have swallowed it. “We’re in National Geographic!” we yell to each other. After the whale passes, the school breaks up and disperses.
I take my final cast behind the scattered bunker and dance the pencil halfway in.
Suddenly, a monster comes clear out of the water moving right to left and inhales the plug. Jesus is next to me, also fighting a fish. We look at each other and know this is big. The fish locks down and takes a sprint straight out to sea, just like that first fish. It all happens exactly the same way. I’m back in my Tekken tag pose, hoping that my exhausted self and gear can keep it together.
Finally, the fish turns in my favor. Everyone stops fishing and gathers around to either watch or help. One fisherman, who I had helped land a few fish for earlier, runs in and lands her. We all look in disbelief. Could I have really landed another 50-pound fish?
As I pick up the fish, I turn around to see my wife with my mother and cousin, David. My mom yells, “Put it back!”
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. I plan to release this fish, as I had all the others that morning. We measure her at 51.5 inches and weigh her at 52 pounds. Everyone takes all the photos they can, and I walk her back in. I sit down to revive her for a few seconds, and then she kicks off. In my mind, I thank her. For her beauty, her strength, and her challenge.
As much as we battle the striped bass, it is also our duty to protect them. I urge all of you to practice catch and release. Like so many other surfmen, I hope to one day share the beauty that lies right off our shores with kids of my own—whether it’s a giant striped bass, a humpback whale, or both in one spectacular morning. If we do our part now, our children will have the opportunity to share in this incredible sport for generations to come.
