Greetings, folks. I've been lurking here for a while, and Ken suggested that I post this here for your viewing pleasure. It originally appeared on flyaddict.com.
Early Summer Stripers — A Block Island Diary
By Steve Culton
© 2007
There’s nothing much to do on Block Island, RI, other than eat, drink, sleep, read, go to the beach, bike, walk, surf — and of course, fish. I had fished for years on the Block, mostly on the bottom for fluke. After a time, though, I yearned for something bigger. Better. Different. And I knew exactly what it was that I wanted: Morone saxatilis — the striped bass. Elegant, but in a brutish sort of way. Powerful, but painfully shy. Best of all, ready, willing and able in these waters.
It took me three years to catch my first striper on a fly rod — not due to sloth, horrendous bad luck, or lack of fish — but rather because of the circuitous route I took to get there. The first year, I was spin casting with big soft baits. All I ever managed to due was attract bluefish. The next year I had graduated to various hard plugs, and again, failed to hook a striper. By this time, though, I had noticed that there were anglers who were catching bass; what set them apart from me was the fact that they were fly fishing. So, armed with this intel and a new sense of purpose, I borrowed a 10-weight for the third year, and this proved to be the difference maker.
My first fly rod striper was a 34” beast that took a small olive and white baitfish pattern. I remember being excited and scared at the same time — I had never landed a fish this big before, let alone on a fly rod, and I could almost feel the adrenaline course through my body as the line screamed off the reel. The bass took me way down into the backing before I realized the drag was set too lightly. Upon beaching him I let out a whoop that echoed across the harbor and back past the dunes. I had only known the pull of trout and char, and this new species had me addicted from the first titanic whack it put on the fly.
Our yearly, early summer family vacation to the Block is tailor made for striper fishing. This time of year, the waters around the island are usually choked with spearing and sand eels, and striped bass are notorious nocturnal feeders. So, with the boys in bed by 8:30 or so, and Mrs. Fisherman loving the quite solace of reading before falling asleep, I’m in the water most nights by 9:00PM.
Imagine being able to fish for stripers several hours every night for a whole week. Here’s what happened when I did.
Friday, June 28: All he wants to do is fish
When you have a few days or a week of fishing planned, the first night out is always the most exciting — or at least, you greet it with the most anticipation. You’re starting with a clean slate. Hope springs eternal. Masses of fish surely await you, and you picture them licking their chops as you make your way down the beach toward the water.
I arrive at the parking lot at 9:20. To my dismay, it is mobbed. But there is an open spot, and after quickly kitting up and lighting the mandatory cigar, I begin the short walk to the channel. Tonight, I’m rigged for depth charge with my full sinking line and an epoxy-head/green flashabou body sand eel. It turns out to be a lethal combination…for fluke. After landing two of them on four casts, I decide it’s time for the intermediate line. I keep the sand eel on, and as time passes the crowds thin down to me and one other angler.
So where’s all the striper action? Not here, that’s for sure: I manage to hook and land only one bass, a nice, fat, 24” schoolie. You can forget about hand stripping these fish. They are thickly flanked and immensely displeased about having a hook in their lip, especially when you interrupt their dinner. This one gives me a good fight, with two powerful, line stripping bursts before I land him.
There’s a bar down in New Harbor with a live band, and from here you can hear the thump of drums, the long-wave bass notes, and the occasional squeal from that girl in the bikini top and miniskirt who probably shouldn’t have had those last two tequila shots the guy in the backwards baseball hat, cargo shorts and flip-flops bought for her. Sometimes, you can even make out the song. Right now, I can hear they’re covering Don Henley’s “All She Wants To Do Is Dance.” I sing along with my own lyrics:
“A ten-weight fly rod,
And a sand eel pattern,
And all he wants to do is fish…”
Yes. Vacations make me a little stupid.
Saturday, June 30: “Sorry about that, but my dog has to go pee.”
Weekends can be tough going, crowd-wise, but it’s not that bad tonight. I make friends with John K. from New Jersey, who’s out here for the week, and for a little while we’re the only two on the water. John ties his own flies, and both he and I are having luck on sand eel patterns: John with one of his design, me with a short white mesh tube-body. Then the guys from Colorado show up (three hard-core fly addicts who travel out here every year to catch stripers) and we’ve got a proper convention going.
Clouds cover the full moon, so even though it’s two hours after moonrise we’re fishing in inky darkness. This is great for the bass, but bad for my health. We’ll get to that in a minute.
Suddenly, it happens: My rod tip jerks violently in rapid succession, and the line is unceremoniously ripped from my hands. Even at hook set, I can tell this is no schoolie. I feed him the slack, putting him on the reel, and he’s off to the races. Crrrrriiiiink! Crrriiiiiiiiiiiiiink! My drag sings out in the night as I press the fighting butt of the 10-weight into my abdomen and point the rod skyward. Some 300 seconds after he took the fly, I have him on the beach. John measures my first keeper of the year at 30 inches. We take a photo, revive him, and watch him sulk back through the shallows to the main channel. Four bass so far tonight, one keeper. Little do I know that my fishing days may soon be over.
I had moved upstream in the channel to fish near John when we hear the drone of an approaching boat engine. This guy is coming in, and coming in fast — with no spotlights on. I had just made a crack to John about this being a no wake zone when the boat makes a hard starboard and heads straight for me. My first thought is, “He sees me, right?” followed by “He’s just messing with me,” and, as the boat bears down on me, “Yikes, he has no idea I’m here!” As everyone begins yelling at the boater, my flight instincts kick in, and I backpedal and sidestep across the sandy bottom to avoid the vessel. A sheepish voice floats out from the console, “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. My dog’s gotta go pee.”
Ah, well, that forgives everything.
The dog does his business, and Mr. Boater Safety 2007 heads back out to sea. The guys from Colorado give him an appropriate verbal sendoff, and then minutes later, to my delight, the Coast Guard launch roars out after him, blue lights flashing in the cool summer night.
Today’s lesson: never perform stupid boating tricks within 100 yards of a United States Coast Guard Station.
Sunday, July 1: Those darn knots
It’s windy tonight, but that doesn’t keep the fish from busting on the surface. So while casting is a challenge, we are assured by the sound of fish feeding close by. After my success last night with the mesh tube sand eel, I tie one on again, and it turns out to be the right choice. I hook seven fish, all of them over 22” — well, the five I landed were over 22”.
I have been using good old clinch knot for my saltwater exploits for a year now without fail, including every keeper I’ve landed. But tonight I have a good fish on and he’s running me into my backing. And then he’s gone. My glum retrieval reveals the sad sight of a pigtail at the end of my 16lb test tippet. He simply pulled the knot loose. I silently curse my stupidity and resolve to use the improved clinch knot or the non-slip loop going forward.
Oh, but it gets worse. Another fish is on, and he too feels good and strong. But I never find out because as the slack line shoots from my hands, it momentarily hangs up on my drag knob, just long enough to pop the tippet.
They say that bad things come in threes. Unbeknownst to me, I’ll have to wait until Tuesday night to complete the triad.
Monday, July 2: Begging for bug spray
When you’re a cigar smoker and a fisherman, you have a certain disdain for insect repellant. You light up, smoke wafts around you, and bugs generally want nothing to do with you. But when your evening’s supply is a couple of sticks that might last you two of the four hours you’re planning to fish, and this is the night the no see-ums have chosen to invade, you, my friend, are in for a world of annoyance.
The air on the island famous for its western summer breezes is dead calmed, and the water as still as a mill pond. There will be a price for these easy casting conditions, though. My first clue is the two guys who come running, flailing their arms, and jump into their vehicle. As I walk to the beach, another angler stumbles past me, spitting oaths. Upon arrival, another strides purposefully toward me, and with a half-crazed look in his eye, pleads for bug spray.
By this time, I too am surrounded by hundreds of these loathsome creatures. Perhaps wading into the sea will bring respite? Not a chance. In fact, it’s worse. How long can I go without lighting up? An hour? I grimly clinch my hood around my face. My hands are covered with bugs. That’s it. Arturo Fuente, here I come.
Magically, the bugs disappear.
On this cloudless night, the nearly full moon rises majestically over the boats in New Harbor. And, like the bugs fleeing my smoke, the bass skedaddle as well. Tonight’s tally: One million no see-ums. One striper.
Tuesday, July 3: So much depends upon a red channel buoy
When I was in junior high school, our jazz band played this little funk number called “Scorpio.” I always liked it, both the tune and also because I’m a Scorpio. Now, whenever I see Scorpius in the southern sky (and this is a perfect place to view it) I can’t help but hum the melody. I’m doing just that as I start to strip out line.
The stars are brilliant, the sea is flat, and bass are rising in the channel. Picky bass, as I am plagued by short strikes tonight. I switch to a smaller pattern, which proves ideal for catching fluke. The moon comes up, and the risers are gone. I persevere.
Bump-BUMP!!! The keeper bass inhales the fly and bolts for the channel. I’m down nearly to the backing when he tires, and I begin reeling as fast as I can. He’ll have none of that, and he’s off to the races again. This one feels bigger than my first keeper. This one feels huge. This one feels…stuck.
Stuck?
Remember that feeling you got when you studied as hard as you could, and thought that maybe, just maybe you might have passed your algebra exam? The moment arrived when your teacher handed back your test, face down on your desk, and when you turned it over, there, in big red ink was the letter F glaring back at you. Your face flushed, your skin turned hot, and there was nowhere for you to run and hide.
I am hung up on the red channel buoy at the harbor entrance, my tippet hopelessly wrapped around its chain. Once again, the letter F takes a prominent role — only this time it’s in my vocabulary.
Wednesday, July 4: Sou’wester
There are some nights not fit for man nor beast nor angler, and this is surely one of them. A full Sou’wester is blowing at 20 knots with higher gusts, turning a normally placid harbor into a maelstrom of wind, wave, and foam. Rain comes and goes, but mostly stays, with big, heavy drops that fall sideways in punishing sheets. Casting as we know it is a near impossibility; thankfully the gale is blowing in the direction I want to cast, so all I have to do is splay out line until I can shoot the head and let Mother Nature do the rest. And the fishing? Believe it or not, bass are busting bait on the surface, and I am quickly into fish.
It’s an eerie feeling, being out here alone in the dark, pummeled by rain and bashed by waves. Visibility is next to nothing, and I wonder what I would do if I hooked into something big. And then I get the creepy feeling that something’s crawling on my left shoulder. I swat it away…but it’s still there….it’s long…it’s thin…it’s…monofilament? Someone else crazy enough to be out here tonight is fishing from the beach has cast their plug right over me. Before I can get treble hooked, I whirl and shout a warning. The sheepish angler confesses he never saw me. What it is it with me this week that I’m attracting all the crazies?
In the end, I land four bass, two fluke, and one horseshoe crab. I lose my best fish of the night when he bolts for the channel, taking me down nearly to the backing, and spits the hook. As I’m reeling the line in, though, I hook a 22” bass.
Perhaps I am not so unlucky after all.
Thursday, July 5: One more cast
Last nights of enjoyable fishing trips stink. As I drive from the cottage to my spot, I take in the sight of well-known landmarks, the familiar sounds of bustling restaurants, and the comforting view of the mast lights on vessels moored in New Harbor. This has been my nightly ritual for a week, and now it’s about to end. Couples stroll on the sidewalk holding hands. Are they out here for a few more days? A week? Whatever. I hate them. For I am faced with an immutable 51-week wait for another 7 straight days of fishing. Curses! This is a grave injustice no man should have to bear. Perhaps hooking some predatory fish will lift my spirits.
Although there is no rain, the Sou’wester continues to blow, albeit in a more toned-down manner than last night. Despite the chop, there are bass busting on the surface again on this dark, dreary night. This offers some comfort to balance my nearly mortally depression.
When your first cast of the evening produces a fish, you are inclined to think that this might be an epic night. A father and his three sons are fishing from shore, and as dad hasn’t had much luck, they are delighted that the new guy has immediately hooked a bass — although not nearly as delighted as the new guy is. I beach the fish, a good, thick striper, and the boys eagerly gather round for a look-see. Turns out one of them is a budding fly fisherman, and for the next 15 minutes he peppers me with questions from shore as I stand out in the channel. I’m here to fish, but how can you say no to such an enthusiastic pupil? Then it’s time for them to go, and they pile into their dinghy for the choppy ride across the harbor.
This turns out to be menagerie night: I land four bass, two fluke, and a creature that produced my oddest fight of the year. BANG! I set the hook, and the fish starts its run. Twice I nearly get down to my backing. Twice I get most of it in. I am excited at the prospect of landing this fish, when all of a sudden my line snags. I mean, it is dead stuck. The buoy chain again? Not likely, as I’m 100 feet away from it and pointing the other way. I can’t figure this out, so I decide my best course of action is to grab the line and back out of the water. It stretches…stretches…it’s loose. And the fish is still on! Now I see the answer. I have foul-hooked a massive skate in its tail. It must have found cover on the bottom and buried itself, hence the faux snag. What an alien being, true ugliness manifested in a fish. Skates have no stingers, so a quick flick of my barbless hook and the bottom dweller is free. And as the clock is ticking, I begin my pantomime of one more cast...one more cast…one more cast.
Until next summer, when I will have the magnificent luxury of thousands of more casts.
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