THE FINAL CHAPTER
I had arrived at
Joan’s home with my usual quiver of fishing rods and every intention of
spending each morning until lunchtime casting for blues and stripers during my
stay. My mother, who always nurtured my somewhat obsessive preoccupation with
fishing, took me out to the back porch and pointed to the pond out back. A thin
ribbon of beach separates the pond from the Atlantic Ocean and on that day as I
looked out with her, we could see a small canal that breached the sand,
allowing water to flow out of the pond and into the sea. This was a regular springtime event on Sagg
Pond. The Town of Southampton would bring a big backhoe onto the beach and cut
through the beach to allow the stale water out of the pond, to be replenished
by seawater.
“The Town opened the
pond about four days ago,” she informed me. “People have been surfcasting there
every night.” Of course, I took in this
piece of information and misinterpreted it completely. I saw it as a not-too-subtle attempt by my
dear mother to keep me from visiting the somewhat more remote fishing spots
that I liked to frequent when I visited my aunt and my uncle. “Keep
the boy close to home” was all I heard from her polite insistence that I fish
at the site of the newly dug canal. I smiled indulgently and went into the house,
under the pretense of looking for a beer, which I did indeed crave at that
moment. But what I really needed to do
was to get away from the woman I just knew was trying to sabotage my fishing
expedition.
The next morning, I
left for North Sea at about 5:30. I
spent a delightful two hours casting to absolutely nothing. I moved to the Shinnecock Canal, where I had
always found good fish in the past and finally caught a schoolie striped bass,
but essentially the morning was a washout. That evening, I looked out at Sagg
Pond and again my mother asked me if I planned on fishing there. Once more, I smiled and set about ransacking
the refrigerator for beer. The next
morning, I drove back to the Shinnecock Canal and with the exception of the
small fact that I didn’t even see a fish anywhere; I repeated my
somewhat fruitless experience of the previous day. I
decided to pack it in early. As I drove back to my aunt’s house, I began to
think about what my mother had had told me. Was it possible that she was just
trying to make sure that her son might enjoy himself during his visit? She
likely only meant well. How could I ignore her?
The answer was
obvious. I was an idiot and I never paid attention to what anybody told me.
But on that morning,
I broke with tradition and chose to listen.
I drove past the road where my aunt lived and headed to Sagg Beach. It
was before nine o’clock, so the parking lot only held a few cars. I drove in,
parked, and hauled out a rod and my tackle bag. I still wasn’t convinced, but I
figured that another hour or so of casting there wasn’t going to hurt anything.
I trudged across the beach to the water’s edge. The first thing I noticed was the enormous
quantity of bait in the water. There was a very light offshore breeze and so
there was literally no surf breaking that day. I could see thousands and
thousands of silverside minnows massed together, only 10 or 12 feet from shore.
As I stared, I saw larger flashes of silver beneath them, indicating that
something was feeding on the bait.
My very first cast
resulted in a solid hit, which I botched completely, as is my habit when
dealing with success where I don’t necessarily expect to find it. I cursed
myself silently and made another cast. Oddly, I didn’t get any action on that
offering, or from any of the subsequent efforts over the next 15 minutes. I
decided to give a little careful study to the situation before continuing any
further. I reasoned
that maybe I might do better with a smaller lure, fished a bit slower and
deeper, so that it met the spot where all of the carnage seemed to be taking
place. Sometimes I’m good at that: observing the obvious and adjusting my
previously inappropriate strategy accordingly.
I swapped out the three quarter ounce Kastmaster I’d been using for a
two-fifths of an ounce Cleo. It turned
out to be a very good idea and I got a second strike. What was bizarre though
was that I discovered I’d hooked into a menhaden, a fish I normally think of as
being bait, not as a game fish. I released the menhaden and kept making
casts. A few minutes later, I pulled in a bluefish. That was more like it! It
appeared as though while the menhaden were feeding on the minnows, the blues
were chomping on the menhaden as well as the smaller baitfish. I’d stumbled
upon a veritable food chain!
But the morning wasn’t over yet and perhaps a
half hour after I’d released the bluefish, I got another strike. I felt that hit all the way into my right
shoulder and was delighted to see line zip off the reel as the fish ran. In
spite of my predilection for giving every fish a more than even opportunity for
escape by doing something fairly spastic, I managed to hold onto this one and
after another five minutes, I saw a striped bass come to the surface off to my
right, exhausted and ready to be beached.
I knelt by the shore, cradling the fish.
I had to take extra time after removing the
hook from its mouth to revive it before letting it go. As I held it, I was able to take stock of its
heft. The fish looked to be more than
two feet long, but probably just shy of the legal keeper size of 28 inches. The movement of its tail grew increasingly
agitated, and it broke free of my grasp.
I stood up and looked
at the water. The sight of the predators and prey flashing beneath the surface was mesmerizing.
That's all folks!
Thanks for reading!
All material on this blog copyright 2013 by Peter Cammann
SlipNot is an ebook, available for sale on amazon.com
