The sea was angry that day, my friends. As in Sunday and Monday as I write this. But this is not just a story about snotty weather; it's also about hours of frustration (for me) that ends in magnificent reward.
Spent most of Saturday and part of Sunday fretting about the conditions for our BIAN IV: Winds out of the north 20-30 knots. Rain/showers. Small craft advisory. Who would go fishing in that mess? Well, this trip had been planned for months, and we had a car reservation for the 7pm boat. So off we went.
When we (flyrodder and Farmy Joe) got to the ferry dock, the Harbor of Refuge was an angry maelstrom of whitecaps, waves, and froth. Surely a horrific ferry ride awaited us. Naturally, we headed to a restaurant to load up on fried oysters and french fries. At least it would feel good going down.
The ferry ride wasn't really that bad at all. What was godawful was the wind. We were limited to the spots we could fish, and the spot we ended up in had us casting into the teeth of this northern banshee all night. I should say "casting" because I was lucky to make 30 feet. Still, Bob got into a fish after about five minutes, so we at least knew they were there. I soon hooked up but dropped the fish. That was the start of a long dry spell for me.
Took a little walk to try the outgoing tide in a channel, fishing a full sink tip line and a tandem rig of a small sand eel/3.5" L&L Special. Wet fly swing through a hole, and bump-WHACK! My first Block Island striper of 2009 was a keeper at 28". He took the L&L. This was about 11pm, and what followed was hours of frustration for me. Just didn't have the mojo, and I am not a good wind caster.
We took an hour and fifteen minute break at 1:30am, and headed back out. Bob at this point was high hook by far (although I STILL am the Block Island Skate King, with two to my credit), Joe had taken three, including a keeper on a Black Ghost sand eel pattern I had tied up (I tie a fly for everyone who comes on the trip) and another on an RLS bucktail aptly named Stormy Sea. (Bob had donated his Black Ghost sand eel to the International Bluefish Guild earlier.)
So. It's 4:45am, the sky is light (shortest night of the year), and my casting muscles have just about had it. Strung up my rod, and was ready to call it.
But then I decided to take a walk down a road and along the beach. My destination was a beach front that has held fish in the past, and with a deep trough close to shore and a westerly facing, it wouldn't be ridiculous casting.
Still using the full sink line and now just the L&L. First cast, fish on, a fat 24" football. Second cast, 26" football. This fish was so feisty and so fat, he took me into my backing. Third cast through sixth cast, repeat. They were sitting in the trough, just a few yards from shore. By now birds were diving on bait, and big fish (I mean keeper+ size) were crashing bait and rolling in the surf. I hadn't just found fish. I had stumbled upon the striper mother lode.
At this point, Bob and Joe showed up and began hooking up in earnest. I took fish on my next two casts, and then it was wildest-dreams-fly-fishing-for-stripers-in-the-surf time. For two hours, we caught -- well, it was so stoopid good, we have no idea how many we caught. It was even stoopid gooder -- we have no idea how many keepers we caught. I'm saying this not to brag, because if you were there you would have caught a million keepers, too. Picture the spring run on everyone's favorite tidal river, only the fish are all 24-40" (that's right: Farmy Joe hooked and beach a freaking COW of a striped bass that got away as we were wrangling it for a photograph. Easily the biggest striper I've ever seen in person) and loaded for bear, and you're fighting them in 4-foot surf with crystal-clear, weed-free water pounding and surging all around you, birds diving on bait, and bass with the feed bags on.
At some point I switched over to a floating line and a 3" chartruese and white soft-hackle I tied over the winter, and once I lengthened the leader from 4 to 8 feet I was good to go. The takes of the fish near the surface were amazing: I would spot a boil, cast, dead-drift or quick twitch, the water would boil or flash, and then it would be off to the races.
My last fish was at 32". When I was backing up the beach to land it, tripped and feel ass-over-teakettle on a big drift log. Kept the line tight though, and the beasty was landed.
Bob took the last fish, a piggy three-footer, and, with our 8:15 boat beckoning, we reluctantly called it day at 7am as the action began to wind down.
That was easily the best two hours of striper fishing I've ever experienced.
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