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  1. Just my setup and point of view. Enjoy my unsolicited opinions and shoddy video skills.
  2. I've gone to dive lights exclusively. Too many headlights lost in big surf hits or when swimming out. I run a pair. One bright white and one with a red painted lense.
  3. I had not glued it in yet and took it out to get a quick measurement with a cloth tape. The outside of the ring is 34 1/2". I think this is optimal +- a 1/4" depending on how deep you want the ring to sit inside the bucket
  4. I've bought custom wood because it had an action or profile I wanted and then spray painted it to my own needs. That said a well built, beautifully painted plug is a joy to catch on. It just isn't my primary motivation.
  5. In my opinion a dive style neck light is a superior option. Opinions will differ.
  6. Part of the experience. Chasing the end. The memory of a tide. A cold spring morning, an early April sun creeping over the Sound, washing the misted surf in a purple haze. Standing somewhere alone along the water mark, the caster again felt for the first time that heralding thump at the end of the line. The fish wasn't big, all of twenty inches, covered in telltale lice and skinny from its long migration but it carried with it the promise of a season to come. May, as is the way of New England she came in a tumult. A roiling season of fresh life, filling the shallow warming waters with the return of bait and birds and the lurking presence of bucket mouthed silver predators. And with a new season the old obsession of years past again set in earnest. Long marches in the solitude of midnight sands and recklessly hopeful exploratory trips to the boulders began to take an uncommon precedent in the minds and lives of a select few diehards and dreamers. Under the warm June moon the rip rolled and eddied a path through the exposed boulders and sunken holes. A thin band of moving water fading into the dark expanse of a glass black Atlantic. Perched on a rock, in an odd limbo between shore and sea the caster made his presentation. A whistling line leaving the spool and the muffled splash as the plug found ground somewhere in the dark rip momentarily broke the night. A monotonous, crawling retrieve, punctuated only by an occasional, almost imperceptible twitch of the rod and the faint dart of the plug lost somewhere in the sweep. An instant of shattered serenity, drag screaming and the deep thumping resonance of a broom tail. A chaotic run into the heart of the water, seemingly over before it had begun. Pondering consideration of torqued steel, victim of a monster's jaw. July and August. A humid blend of long and hazy nights that seemed to stretch into forever, punctuated by restless, exhausted summer days. A steamy cacophony of bioluminescence filled the night tides, glowing phantoms of life swarming through warm inshore waters. The fish settled into their summer haunts and secretive patterns and the surf seemed more often than not unwilling to relinquish its secrets to the prying caster. Plug bags were filled and emptied and then filled again. The subtle shift. The first of the heavy blows and a hint of cooler nights to come. Waves of inshore bait pursued by crashing hardtailed visitors under the fading daylight, the scraps and stragglers picked off by opportunist bass in the witching hours of the fall night. The promise of a cow rested in every ripline and whitewater washed boulderfield. Migrating fish, hungry and charged in the surf, red gills flaring, mouths open. September's tide charts and the blustery wind forecasts of October, daily obsessions, necessary preparations for the inevitable pilgrimage to the midnight boulders. Life’s responsibilities, common sense and reason supplanted by the hunt. Each unfished tide weighed heavier. Missed opportunities in the crescendo of the season. The end was gradual, almost imperceptible at first, marked only by an extra thermal under the waders, a slow tide where only a week before the bite had carried through the dark hours. Fewer whisper conversations were held in the boulders each night, fewer fish preyed along the sand beaches and over the oyster bars and eelgrass beds of the cape. Without fanfare the schools turned south, bound in a primal migration down the coast. The life of the season slipped by with each passing tide. Still a select few, the New England fanatics, the hardy and the foolhardy, refused to let a chance at one last fish fade into nothing but a winter daydream. In the corner of an exhausted mind a linesided ghost still lurked. Casting into inky nights, tensed in anticipation of a strike that might never come. The windblown daylight beaches are now deserted save for the lonely gulls braced against the gusts. Under a November moon the boulder which a caster had perched on night after night a mere month ago juts unoccupied and frosty from the foamy surf. There's a North Wind tonight, spitting weather to follow. Under the cover of darkness the thermometer reads somewhere in the low thirties. In the back of the surfcasters car a jumbled mess, an entanglement of hooks and bucktail, cut off leaders, plastics and wood. Tucked to one side sits a salt and sand encrusted bag still packed from the last fruitless trip. The conditions were right, but the bass had moved on. In this cold twilight of the season, the lone caster slowly picks a familiar way to the water's edge. Surface laid flat by a stiff tailwind, cloud cover concealing the hanging stars. Cold numbed fingers fumble to free the nights first offering from a crammed bag. Wading into the surf, across the bar and along the lip of the trough, only the crunch of gravel and the quiet rush of the ripline disturb the otherwise silent expanse of ocean. The caster pauses scanning the waters, taking in the lonely solitude of the night, wondering if this last trip was worth the effort. A moment of reflection, the absurdity of the experience becoming a seeming reality if only for a breath. The nights of lost sleep and cutting winds, cold waters and an ever growing number of fishless tides seem to beckon the caster back to shore, to the promise of warmth and rest and an escape from the ragged seasons end. A cast. The plug darts and pauses, cutting a crawling course through the chilled waters. Unknown, a lone fish eyes the offering from below. For a moment it follows behind, gills flared, bucket mouth parting in apparent interest. With a single noncommittal swirl the bass turns away, disappearing into the depth of the night, a final silvery actor exiting the season's stage.
  7. Speaking as someone who was issued a K-bar style knife and instructed to treat and maintain it as a dive/swimming blade you'll likely encounter some issues with constant exposure to salt water. I would coat the exposed steel of the bevel/grind in a thin layer of marine grease, that helps with corrosion to some extent. It's also worth considering that the blade profile makes for a good "get off me" for people/animals and general utility work but isn't ideal for self rescue in a marine environment. I look for a blade with a serrated edge for heavier cord/line which the K- bar has but with a blunted "self rescue" or pry style tip. This makes it somewhat safer to work close to or towards your body should the need arise. A blade with a line hook is also worth looking into. These are features more commonly found on true dive style knives. I've been in a position where I had to cut my own braid off of myself in white water conditions and the little details matter in that kind of circumstance. Of course it's going to depend on your exact use case and I'm just some guy throwing my 2 cents in on a bass forum. Take my advice for what it is. Rockhopper surfcasting as well as other bag builders make dedicated water bottle holders. You could also look into a budget, folding mesh dump pouch like those designed to retain spent magazines on a gun belt.
  8. I don't want to speak for @Gokubut the D ring is typically used as a hands free rod holder.
  9. I've considered it pretty seriously, just haven't pulled the trigger on good saltwater resistant one yet. I carry two passive forms of light signaling on my belt. A water activated Firefly strobe and a chem light configured into a "buzzsaw" signal with 550 cord. The firefly is simply a pulsing strobe, not a PLB like backcountry hikers, skiers and kayakers use. Any solid recommendations?
  10. I'll put up a better discription this weekend. Short answer, I like to keep my belt adaptable to suit my approch, the conditions and whatever presentations i'll be carrying on any given trip. My general philosophy, tools should remain in the same orientation on the belt regardless of how you configure your bags and pouches. For me this means pliers, a knife and whichever grip I decide to carry. This helps builds up muscle memory and allows for quick/fluid work at night. My bags shift as necessary. As a wetsuiter I like to streamline down to a single tube and bucktail pouch most of the time. I can always switch out to a two or three tube bag night to night or spot to spot.
  11. Recent trouting before they stocked my section of the cape.
  12. The end user needs to determine what's right or wrong for their particular use case. My exact gear requirements as a wetsuiter and rockhopper might vary significantly to a beach or back bay surfcaster. Take away what you can from others and how they run their gear but don't be afraid to build out your system in a very personal way. I know some thing's I carry might raise an eyebrow or two but I run them for a reason. Experience based through time on the water and trial and error are the only justifications that matter.
  13. Big bass are typically opportunistic ambush predators. Expending as little energy as possible in the effort of feeding. Often times the smaller bass are the most competitive and aggressive class of fish and will attempt to out compete each other for a large bait. I've taken 20" fish on a 9" pikie and had multiple groups of smaller fish in the 14"-18" range chase and strike at similarly sized plugs.
  14. And the view/silhouette from the perspective of a bass sitting in ambush has to be considered. A sluggo might not resemble a broad bodied bait like a bunker or Herring from the side but the profile certainly could be mistaken for the tapered belly of those baits as they cruise through a rip or over structure.
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