Sorry, we could not find that! Jump to content

Sorry!

The page you requested does not exist

Error code: 1S160/2

×
×
  • Create New...

Everyone is Clueless.....Sometime
                                  by Ben Spinelli

Nobody likes to admit it, but everyone who ventures onto the sand in search of Striped Bass started out clueless at some point in time. Unless you have a savvy friend to show you the ropes, your only alternative is to put your time in and earn your stripes. I readily admit to, and fondly recall, that there was time when I was truly clueless. Although some of my friends might say that this has not changed, I know better. Even laboratory rats learn something after you shock them a couple of times. I still remember the day I became obsessed with catching a striped bass from the surf. This was during the late 80's when the 34" limit was still in effect. I went out and got myself a pair of size 13 Red Ball waders, an eight foot spinning combo and a couple of Bomber plugs and I hit the beach in search of stripers.

My prior surf fishing experience consisted of sitting next to a pole stuck in a sand spike while drowning a mullet or tossing a Hopkins into school of frenzied bluefish. I had no idea what I was doing. I had two poles, two sand spikes, a spackle bucket, a Coleman lantern, a household flashlight that used 4 "D" batteries and a knapsack filled with lead weights, hooks and mullet rigs. I think I made a loud clanking sound as I walked down the beach. I had managed to convince a friend of mine to join me in this folly. He was similarly equipped. We must have looked like a couple of nomads crossing the desert sands with all of their worldly possessions. I could have used a camel. On top of this, even though it was only mid-October, we were dressed for an arctic expedition. If I had fallen in my waders, I would probably still be laying on my back on the beach today trying to get back to my feet. Needless to say we flailed away at the water for hours without even a bump. Luckily, we were able to haul ourselves and our gear back to the car.

Obsession can be a powerful force. We returned night after night, fishing 3 or 4 nights a week for the next three weeks without so much as a bluefish to show for our efforts. I neglected to mention that it was an hour and forty-five minute drive each way from my house to the beach. By the time the first week of November arrived I was sleep deprived, my wife was ready to kill me and I was close to admitting defeat. My buddy Rich was still with me though. During these weeks I asked questions of every fisherman I came across and every bait & tackle proprietor I visited. When November arrived I had left behind the bucket, the lantern, the extra pole and everything else that was extraneous. I got myself a good headlamp and a better selection of plugs and I was sensibly dressed. Hitting the beach was no longer like a forced military march. I had learned about shock leaders and teasers, but still no fish. Taking literally thousands of casts without a bite was demoralizing. However, I am generally a persistent person and I was not going to give up.

It was Election Day. I was able to get away from the office a little early. I closed the door and changed from a suit into my fishing clothes. I picked Rich up at his office and we headed to Island Beach State Park. We arrived just at dusk and when I pulled up to the entrance gate the ranger informed me that Tuesdays were free admission days. Things were looking up! We were listening to Mike and the Mad Dog interview former Boston Celtic John Havlicek as we drove down the park access road. We were trying to figure out where to fish when Rich pointed out that Havlicek wore number 17 so we should try beach A-17. That was good enough logic for me. We pulled in, suited up and headed through the dunes for the beach. It was dark. It was foggy. It was raining. The wind was blowing lightly off the water and oh, did I mention it was dark? I was so stupid that I didn't know these were the kinds of conditions that the striper fisherman dreams about.

We started walking the beach and casting. We had the beach to ourselves, or at least it seemed that way since you couldn't see more than ten feet in any direction. I found that casting and retrieving on a dark foggy beach can be mesmerizing. In the preceding fishless weeks we had gotten excited every time the lure hit bottom, snagged some seaweed or picked up a plastic bag, mistaking these events for bites. After an hour of fruitless walking and casting without even a plastic bag for excitement, I was in a trance-like state. I was using a black needlefish. I had selected this lure based on some advice I had received from a friendly surf fisherman on my previous outing. On one cast I snagged a 5" sand eel on one of the treble hooks. At least it was something.

Once more I cast my needlefish into the surf and began a jerking retrieve. This cast would prove to be very different. After a few turns of the handle, the rod came alive in my hands. Line was pulled out against the drag briefly before going dead again. That was no plastic bag! My heart pounded and my hands shook. I resumed the retrieve and after a couple of more turns of the handle I was into a fish. Ten minutes later I pulled a beautiful 32" striper onto the sand. I yelled for Rich but he couldn't hear or see me. I slipped the fish back into the water and cast out again using the same retrieve. Three or four turns of the handle and I was into another fish. It would turn out to be a twin to the first. Rich came walking over while I was unhooking this fish and I explained to him that this was the SECOND fish that I had caught. What is it that you are doing, he asked? I released the fish, got up, cast again and told Rich, "reel in just like this". As if on cue, another fish hit hard on the third or fourth turn of the handle. This one would also turn out to be almost identical to the others, another beautiful 15-20lb fish.

Rich muttered some obscenities and then walked off to resume fishing. After landing and releasing this third striper, I cast for another half-hour without a hit. It was as if someone had turned off a switch. I then noticed that the wind had shifted to the southwest and the temperature had risen significantly since our arrival. A warm front had passed through the area. Rich was fishless and mad. I was pretty satisfied with the evening's catch. We were both pretty tired. We decided to call it a night and headed home.

Thirteen years have passed since that November evening. Many miles of beach have passed beneath my feet and I have beached many a striper during that time. However, I probably learned more important lessons in those first months than in all the years since. Lessons about equipment, lure selection and conditions. Lessons about asking questions and sharing information. The most important lesson was probably to have persistence. Catching stripers from the beach on a consistent basis involves a combination of skill, art, timing and luck. It isn't brain surgery. However, you need to be a student of the game. A good fisherman is always observant, always thinking and always learning. If you put in your time and learn your own lessons, you will be successful.

Sorry, we could not find that! Jump to content

Sorry!

The page you requested does not exist

Error code: 1S160/2

×
×
  • Create New...