THE HUNT
FOR BIG STRIPERS
ZENO HROMIN
Copyright 2012 SURFCASTING LLC
Smashwords Edition
Distributed by SURFCASTING
LLC
All Rights Reserved by Zeno Hromin
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
Design and Layout: Stacey Kruk
Cover Design: Alberto
Knie
Illustrations and Artwork: Tommy Corrigan
SURFCASTING LLC
PO BOX 10665
WESTBURY, NY 11590
contact email - zhromin@verizon.net
Other publications by SURFCASTING LLC
The Art of Surfcasting with Lures, by Zeno Hromin
Surfcaster, by William Muller
Secrets of Surf Fishing at Night, by William Muller
Fishing the Bucktail, by John Skinner
DEDICATION
For Jennie,
My Best Catch
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Putting this book together has been an eye-opening experience. Not because of the work involved but because I have already benefited from reading the chapters written by some of the most successful surfcasters that ply the suds today. I have used their suggestions, strategies and techniques to catch bigger fish only a few days after reading their chapters. I strongly believe that you will experience similar results.
With that in mind, I have to express a great deal of appreciation to John Skinner, Steve McKenna, William “Doc” Muller, “Crazy” Alberto Knie, Jimmy D’Amico and Manny Moreno for helping me bring this project to fruition.
Special thanks goes to Howard Marshall, Jim Criscione and Richard Giovelli who helped out with some editing and my friends, Tommy Corrigan and Robert Maina who always pick up the phone when I call with questions, even when they know they shouldn’t.
Appreciation also goes to Al Bentsen for his advice and guidance and also to Lenny Ferro who was seemingly always in the right place at the right time this season. Thankfully, I always had a camera on me to capture his triumphs.
My eternal gratitude goes to Ed Messina and the dynamic duo of Roger Martin and his wife Marie, who labored through my writing, trying to make some sense of it all.
I also want to express my sincerest appreciation to all of my friends who allowed me to use their pictures in this book. For that I will be eternally grateful. Thanks to Steve McKenna, Manny Moreno, John Skinner, William “ Doc” Muller, “Crazy” Alberto Knie, Jimmy D’Amico, Tommy Corrigan, Dennis Wolf, Al Bentsen, Lenny Ferro, Patricia Hewlett, Peter Hewlett, Al Albano, Nick Colabro, Robert Maina, Pete Peresh, David Ryan, Terence Kirby, Ryan Smith, Louis DeRicco, John Marc Basile, James Sylvester, Josh Clogston, Mike Ludlow, Jim Faulkner, Joe Martins, John Rich, David Ryng, James Sylvester, Al Pellini and Mike Didyk.
— Zeno Hromin
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
ZENO HROMIN is a veteran surfcaster whose previous book “The Art of Surfcasting with Lures” has received rave reviews from surfcasters along the striper coast. Called a “surfcasting bible”, this book has become the new reference guide for any surfcaster looking to improve his success when fishing with lures. He is a frequent contributor to northeast fishing publications in print and on the Internet and he is a frequent speaker at fishing shows in the Northeast. Zeno is a member of the New York State Outdoor Writers Association and the High Hill Striper Club of Long Island, New York.
JIMMY D’AMICO is the driving force behind the Hunter Surfcasting Gear Company. As a designer, tester, manufacturer and, most importantly, an end user, Jimmy’s designs are often inspired by his own relentless pursuit of perfection. An extremely aggressive wetsuiter, Jimmy can often be found bobbing in the dark waters off Montauk Point looking for a rock he can cast from.
STEVE MCKENNA is one of today’s most successful New England surfcasters. Although he lives in Rhode Island, Steve has traveled extensively in search of large fish. He is equality adept at pulling big stripers from the jagged rocks of Block Island as he is at dragging cows onto the sandy beaches of Cape Cod. In recent years, Steve’s approach to rigging plastic baits, particularly Slug-go’s, has revolutionized the way surfcasters fish with plastics. His success with large fish has resulted in the increased availability of many different types of eel alternatives on store shelves today. Steve has written for local and regional publications in New England and is a frequent speaker on the fishing show circuit.
JOHN SKINNER is the long-time surf fishing columnist of Nor’east Saltwater Magazine. He has written articles for many publications in the Northeast and is a frequent speaker at outdoor shows. His recent book “A Season on the Edge” has received rave reviews in the surf fishing community. John is considered to be one of the most successful big fish hunters of the current generation. Quiet and unassuming, he prefers anonymity to fame. If you ever get lucky enough to fish alongside him, watch his every move.
MANNY MORENO is the type of angler who is often talked about, but seldom seen. Preferring late night tides and less crowded locations, you might run into Manny at Block Island, RI one day while a few days later, you might cross paths with him at Cuttyhunk, MA. Always in search of big bass, Manny travels to remote locations along the east coast looking to tangle with big stripers. Considered one of the most aggressive surfcasters today, you will rarely see his light flicker. He’ll put it on only if it’s really necessary. You will often find him in locations that are better suited for boats then surfcasters. If there is a rock out there that can be mounted, I am convinced that Manny will get on it.
WILLIAM A. MULLER or “Doc” as he is affectionately known, is one of the most prolific saltwater fishing writers and photographers of our generation. He has been an outdoor writer for over 30 years and has contributed countless articles to national, regional, and local publications. He has authored, either in whole or in part, 8 books including his most recent book Fishing With Bucktails. In addition to all the praise and awards for his writing skills, the fact remains that “Doc” is one of the most astute students of the sport of surf fishing. He is also one of the most successful surf anglers and has beached many trophy stripers and won 73 first place awards in surf fishing competition. “Doc” has caught three stripers of 50 pounds or more and all were caught on artificial lures, a fact “Doc” uses to encourage new surfcasters to learn to be better anglers by perfecting their skills with lures.
“CRAZY” ALBERTO KNIE is one of the most respected big fish hunters walking the beaches today. Comfortable with a twelve-foot rod in the booming surf as he is with a fly rod or a boat stick, Alberto travels the globe, searching for opportunities to tangle with big fish. You might find him in Canada tossing flies at salmon or teasing marlin off the coast of Costa Rica but he always returns to his true love, the beaches of Long Island, New York. An accomplished seminar speaker and writer, Alberto is also a talented artist and photographer.
BILL WETZEL has been a surf guide for more than a decade. Although you might find him plugging the mud flats on the north shore of Long Island in the spring, or casting along the marshes in Long Island’s south shore back bays, Bill’s true love is casting from moss-covered rocks found at Montauk Point, New York. A fixture on Montauk beaches for the last twenty years, Bill has introduced many novices and seasoned anglers to the beauty of Montauk’s rocky shoreline through his guiding service. Often called “The Hardest Working Guide in the Business”, he is relentless in his search for fish for himself and his clients. Bill has penned articles for local fishing magazines and is very active on the fishing seminar circuit. He hosts an Internet forum at www.longislandsurffishing.com on which he shares his knowledge, offers advice and discuses many strategies and techniques that he learned over his long career in the surf.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER
ONE
THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
By Zeno
Hromin
CHAPTER
TWO
BECOMING A BIG FISH HUNTER
By
Zeno Hromin
CHAPTER
THREE
BAIT, MOONS & TIDES
By
Zeno Hromin
CHAPTER
FOUR
WATER CONDITIONS
By Zeno
Hromin
CHAPTER
FIVE
IMPORTANCE OF GEAR
By Jimmy
D’Amico
CHAPTER
SIX
ANGLER’S ETHICS IN THE MODERN WORLD
By
William “Doc” Muller
CHAPTER
SEVEN
LIVE EELS
By John Skinner
CHAPTER
EIGHT
RIGGED EELS
By Manny Moreno
CHAPTER
NINE
SLUG-GO: A LIVE EEL ALTERNATIVE
By
Steve McKenna
CHAPTER
TEN
EEL SKIN LURES
By Zeno Hromin
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
BAIT FISHING
By “Crazy”
Alberto Knie
CHAPTER
TWELVE
BUCKTAILS
By John Skinner
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
ARTIFICIALS
By Bill Wetzel
INTRODUCTION
Zeno Hromin’s new book takes a quantum leap forward, and puts the reader in touch with expert surf fishermen who share with the reader methods of fishing that you may know little or nothing about. As beginners, when we first took up the sport, our goal was to catch a striper. Many of us labored for months, or years, before we caught our first bass. Our next goal was to catch lots of stripers. In this book, Zeno Hromin brings us to the next step. He challenges us to join the hunt for big stripers.
Today, there are more people enjoying surfcasting than ever before in the history of the sport. Many have only recently taken up surf fishing and want to learn everything they can about it. I have gone to seminars and workshops on surf fishing and have been amazed at the crowds in attendance. They come to hear the experts and hang on their every word. This book brings the experts into your home where you can read and re-read each chapter and get something new with each reading. The experts share methods and techniques that some of you have only heard of and did not know how to pursue. All of the writers fish hard and know what they are talking about. Many cut their teeth fishing from the boulders that dot the shore at Montauk. Believe me when I say, if you can fish the surf at Montauk, you can fish anywhere on the coast.
Not only is this a great “how to” book, but it has some entertaining stories that will hold your attention throughout the read. This is Zeno’s second book and it’s another home run. Never has an angler put so much between the covers of two books. Whether you are an experienced angler or a novice this is a great read for you. If you’re an old timer as I am, you can look back to your early days when this book would have been an enormous source of information. It would have put me years ahead of where I was, and it will put you years ahead of where you are today. I am certain that this book will help you put that “bass of your dreams” on the sand.
Tight Lines,
Al Bentsen
CHAPTER ONE
THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
Memories of the “one that got away” haunt many surfcasters. In some ways, this is what makes us intensify our efforts and increase our determination. We seek redemption and validation as fishermen and most of all, “one more shot” at that dream striper.
You will find few who will admit to losing a big fish as a direct result of “operator error.” We usually chalk it up to the strength and power of the striped bass rather than blaming it on ourselves. What follows may sound like blasphemy to you since we are supposed to be experts at all things fishing. Most times it is our fault! Bad knots are primary culprits, along with dull hooks, improperly set drags and frayed leaders. When hooked up to a good fish, hooting, hollering and adopting the general posture of “look at me”, is rarely a recipe for success. Neither is wasting precious moments when you should be concentrating on the task at hand. I have done some remarkably dumb things over the years so I should know. Many years ago, when I was full of piss and vinegar, and I thought I knew it all, I received a lesson that I will never forget as long as I live. In my youthful exuberance, I was not content with fishing just one rod. Looking for an edge over my friends I talked myself into plugging with one rod while setting another one in a sand spike with a chunk. I figured I was increasing my chances by using this approach. Little did I know that instead of doing one thing, and doing it well, I wasn’t doing either one right.
One fateful night after casting a bunker chunk into the surf, I placed the rod in an open-faced aluminum spike. I then walked back to my truck, which was parked about twenty yards away and grabbed a plugging rod from the roof rack. Fearful of crossing over the line on my chunking rod, I moved twenty yards away, and started casting into the night. Small blues were running in the surf, and they made my bait rod shake with numerous and frequent jerks. Of course, by the time I would run to my rod the fish would be gone and so would the bait. After about an hour of this silliness, the tide had reached the slack period, and the blues moved off in search of more fertile hunting grounds. I was relieved, as I got tired of replacing bait. I impaled a large bunker head with about two inches of meat attached to it, and lobbed it into the water. I was hoping that the head would discourage the small bluefish hits, which it did. Now I could plug with less distraction, and at least some sense of concentration.
What snapped me out of it was the sound of my rod banging against the aluminum spike. By the time I realized what was happening, my rod was doubled over like a pretzel. It appeared that it would explode at any minute from extreme pressure. I rushed towards my rod, when suddenly the rod lost its bend. I knew from experience, that once a rod loses its bend after a hit, the chances of a fish being attached to the hook are almost nonexistent. I slowed from a run to a walk, and was about 10 yards away from my sand spike. My rod, which was now leaning away from the water, suddenly catapulted from the sand spike and fell onto the sand. I watched in horror, almost frozen in my steps, as the rod was dragged into the water. Within seconds, it disappeared in the surf, while I frantically tried to find it. With tears running down my face, I cast a bucktail where I thought the rod might be. I let the bucktail sink to the bottom and then dragged it through the sand. Suddenly I felt weight on the other end! My moment of exuberance was quickly replaced with a sense of disappointment, as I pulled a large, croaking sea robin into the wash. He was attached to the bucktail not my missing rod. I never did find that rod, and this is one of the reasons why you’ll never find me on the beach with a spiked rod. This experience left a bad taste in my mouth, and taught me a valuable, and very expensive lesson about the ability and strength of big fish. However, it wasn’t the most painful lesson in my life.
Hooking a big bass is only half the battle. Landing it can often be just as challenging.
Leaving a rod unattended can have disastrous consequences. Most seasoned anglers hold their rods at all times when fishing bait.
My greatest failure, something that haunts me to this day, happened many years ago, while I was still living in a small port in Croatia on the Adriatic Sea. One of the benefits of growing up on a small island off the coast of Croatia was that every household was either on the water or within a view of it. Boats were the primary means of transportation for even mundane tasks such as shopping or a doctor visit. As a result, most of the towns on Croatian islands were built within a few hundred yards of the shoreline.
Catching fish on my own, however enthralling, paled in comparison to the excitement I felt when my grandpa would return from one of his fishing trips. His two brothers would often join him on these three or four-day excursions. Neither men were particularly crazy about fishing but they would go because it meant money in their pockets and some fresh filets for their families. I would be shaking with excitement and would jump on the bow of the boat, as soon as it got close, while my grandfather was tying off the boat to the dock. Then, I would make a beeline for the stern to see what was in the homemade cooler. There might be giant sea rays with long poisonous tails, ugly but delicious scorpion fish, large red snappers, giant eels and massive sand sharks. How I yearned to accompany them on their journeys to far away locations, where giant fish roamed and dolphins swam playfully around the boat. I would soon find out that these trips were hard work and very little fun.
My late grandfather Vinko weighing the fish for sale after the trip.
One day when my grandfather had loaded the boat with ice and bait, both of my uncles cancelled at the last minute, and my grandmother suggested he take me with him. He just grunted something under his breath, and before I knew it, I was sitting on the bow of the boat, on the way to the fishing grounds.
The first day was uneventful. My grandfather stood on the stern under a canopy, while I stood in the anchor hatch on the bow, baking in the sun. By the time we finished up in the evening, you could fry an egg on my back, I was burnt that badly. At dusk we anchored in a small, uninhabited harbor. Dinner consisted of fried Spam, fresh salted tomatoes and a bowl of homegrown salad with mixed vegetables. Of course, this was floating in a generous mix of homemade vinegar and olive oil.
After dinner, he would cut large chunks of squid, and sardine, while I impaled them on the hooks of a long-line. Our long-line was a crude contraption compared to modern long-lines that are used with winches and clips. It was made out of heavy rope, tied to a long leader with hooks every few yards. A square box with hundreds of little grooves, made by a hacksaw on the top of the box, held the long line. As you would pull the long-line, the rope would go into the box, while the monofilament leaders would be jammed into the narrow grooves on the top of the box. This kept the long-line untangled and ready to use. After we finished tending to the baited hooks we retreated to our bunks for some shuteye.
To give you a better understanding of what was about to transpire, I feel a need to put this event in the context in which it happened. Unlike modern long-lines, which are pulled in by a winch, my grandfather pulled his in by hand. At the same time, he would place the rope back into the box, remove any bait from the hook, and reinsert the leaders back into the grooves on the box. This meant that my job was to run the boat without cutting across the long-line, as he couldn’t do both things. That part I could handle, but since my uncles weren’t there, I also inherited the job as a gaff man. I prayed hard that my services wouldn’t be needed, as I had never handled a gaff before.
We came up on the buoy around 9 A.M. On the first few hundred feet of long-line, we found a few small red snappers and some strange bottom dwellers. Suddenly, I noticed my grandfather tense up, and slow down his rhythm to a steadier and more gradual retrieve. He could feel something banging against the rope but it was still too far down the long-line to see. I knew he was hoping for a large sand shark or a sea ray. Instead, the crystal clear water revealed a giant silvery shape. At first I thought we were pulling up a refrigerator door, but then I realized it was a fish as it started to circle around the rope. “Darn it,” my grandfather said, “it’s not spent yet. Put the engine in neutral, and grab the gaff.” I struggled with shaky hands trying to budge the large clutch, but the big plastic ball that was attached to a steel rod kept slipping in my sweaty hand. Finally I managed to budge it, threw it in reverse, and then quickly into a neutral to slow down the boat’s forward progress. I grabbed a homemade gaff, which was made out of three large shark hooks attached to a broom handle.
For the first time in my life I saw fear in my grandfather’s eyes. His “can-do” attitude, which was a big part of his personality, evaporated and was replaced by beads of sweat running down his forehead. I knew he wanted to hand off the long-line to me and grab the gaff, but he knew that I did not have the strength to hold onto it. Not with a big fish attached to it! Without uttering a word, we both knew what was at stake. The firm white flesh of this monster was much sought after fare by the restaurants my grandfather supplied. It was easily worth two months of his small pension.
His strokes got shorter as he was trying not to spook the fish, which was now only ten feet under the boat. The fish either sensed the presence of the boat or did not care for the bright sunlight glistening above. Suddenly, it started to act very agitated. Sensing impending doom, I moved closer to my grandfather, leaning over the side of the boat. The fish was now circling the long line, and it was heading right for me. I lunged at it with the gaff, and firmly impaled it in the fish’s broad shoulders. Mayhem ensued, as the fish’s large tail began to beat the water to a froth.
The frayed leader was the first to go, and now I was holding this brute with no margin for error. My grandfather quickly tied the long line to the boat, and rushed to help. The massive weight of the fish was pulling me over the side and in order to get some leverage I stuck my bare legs under the wooden bench that was running along the side of the boat. I felt a sharp pain in my shin. My leg was pressed against a red-hot exhaust pipe, and soon the smell of burning flesh filled the air. In unbearable pain, I dropped the gaff in the water. The fish floated on its side beside the boat. My grandfather lunged at it and grabbed it by its tail. The size of the fish, gravity and slime did their thing and I watched the broom like tail slip through my grandfather’s clenched fists. The fish was motionless for a moment. Then it slowly disappeared into the ocean depths with the gaff still attached to its side.
I sat down in disbelief and started to cry. Partly from the pain in my now blistered leg, but more because of what I had done. My grandfather said nothing. He sat next to me, put his arm around my shoulder and began to sob along with me. He never could hold back his tears when he saw me cry. We never caught anything close to that size in the following years, and when my grandfather passed suddenly years later, he left a big void in my life.
I never did tell him how sorry I was. Grandfather, if you are reading this in St. Peter’s library in Heaven, I promise you I’ll hang onto the gaff the next time we meet.
Loosing a big fish is always a traumatic experience, regardless of your age.
As you can see, losing a big fish is a traumatic experience, regardless of your age. If you haven’t experienced the pain of losing a big fish, you probably haven’t fished long enough. I don’t consider it a failure, I think of it more as a right of passage for any budding surfcaster. Hey, the fish has to win the battle sometimes; otherwise the moment we hooked into a fish would be the end of our quest. The fight, the sound of a singing drag, battling rough surf or steering the fish away from obstructions are all an integral part of surfcasting. For surfcasters, the hook-up is just the beginning of a battle of wills with a powerful and crafty adversary. Will she run towards that big boulder and try to cut you off? Will she bury her nose into the bottom trying to dislodge the hook or will she just smoke the drag, while you hold on for dear life?
Surfcasters are the epitome of fishing warriors. Like soldiers ready for combat, we stand in the pounding surf or perched on a slimy rock, casting our offering into the darkness. Our reward is not measured in the size or number of the fish we catch! We rejoice in the beauty that is in every wave that folds onto itself. We are thrilled by the sight of a striper gliding gracefully through a cresting wave. And yes, the fish will win the battle sometimes, but as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, we will come back to the scene of the heartbreak and ask the fishing gods for a chance at redemption.
CHAPTER TWO
BECOMING A BIG FISH HUNTER
Catching large striped bass while your feet are firmly planted on the shore, might be one of the most difficult tasks to accomplish for any type of saltwater angler. So many variables are working against us. The inability to cover a lot of different spots quickly is one. Unlike boat anglers who rarely give much thought to getting a line snagged on an obstruction, barnacle covered rocks have shredded many surfcaster’s dreams of hoisting up a trophy striper. Surfcasters are constantly challenged by the conditions that surround them, from man-made obstacles like slippery jetties to rough surf, courtesy of King Neptune. From the moment they bury a hook in a striper’s jaw, the battle of wills ensues. The fish immediately tries to wrap a line around any obstruction where a decent amount of pressure will part the line. The surfcaster does his or her best to prevent this from occurring, by using a properly set drag, and by keeping tension on the fish with the rod. Even if the angler succeeds in keeping a large bass away from boulders, bridge abutments, mussel beds or any other place where a bass might head for safety, he or she still has to deal with landing the fish.
Landing a big fish on a jetty can be a difficult experience, even under optimal conditions.
Rough surf conditions can be our worst enemy when landing a big bass.
I am convinced that more fish are lost during the landing process than they are during the initial fight. If you are a jetty jock, you know what dangers await you, as you bring that big fish close to the rocks. You know that you might get one shot at landing the fish before your line is scuffed up by the jagged rocks and easily parts.
Even the angler standing on a sandy beach, with no visible obstructions in his way, has a strong adversary to contend with and its name does not have stripes on it. Its name is “Last Wave”, although I would argue that “Heartbreaker” is much more fitting. Play your large fish the wrong way and you will experience that last wave exerting tension on your tackle. This is the result of thousands of gallons of rushing water attempting to recede from the beach, back towards the ocean. Many lines have parted right here due to many factors, including line and or knot failure. That last receding wave, with all the pressure it generates, will test your skill and equipment as well as whether or not you have set your drag properly. This is true for days when the surf is calm, and especially true when rough water prevails. Memories of large tails slapping on the dry sand haunt many anglers, who watched a receding wave carry their fish back into the surf. Occurrences such as these happen regularly in the surf, but they do very little to deter us from our quest. I look at them as part of the learning experience, regardless of how painful and heartbreaking it can be. If you are like me, I doubt that you will make the same mistake twice. Any failure which occurred that resulted in the loss of a big fish, has been noted permanently in my brain, hopefully never to be repeated again.
BECOMING A BIG FISH HUNTER
Hunting large stripers from the surf requires a different mindset, on the part of a surfcaster, than just wanting to catch “a fish”. It requires attention to detail, frequent references to a logbook carefully kept over the years. It requires a good knowledge of the tides, current and winds. Most importantly, an understanding of how these three natural occurrences will influence water movement in your targeted area. It also requires that you forsake the pleasure of catching many smaller fish for that one shot at the bigger one. You will notice a common thread running through the chapters of this book, written by some of today’s most respected surfcasters. They will all gladly spend hours without a bump, in return for that one hit from a large striper. I will not mislead you, this is a lot harder to accomplish than it seems. Most surfcasters have what it takes to target large fish: good tackle, the ability to select great lures, and the knowledge of locations that are known to produce big fish. But most of them will give up on their quest for big stripers after a few hours of fruitless casting, sometimes even much sooner. The call of “saving the night”, with fish of any size, becomes too strong to ignore, and they will downsize their lure in order to get that familiar bump.
CAN YOU WALK AWAY?
Another thing to ask yourself is, are you willing to walk away from small fish? Do you have enough strength to walk away from acres of blitzing teen size bass? It sounds very easy to do, but let me assure you, it is not! Seeing every surfcaster with a bend in a rod, even those that have taken up the sport recently, is a hard thing to pass up. You will have to, if you are looking to cull a bigger fish. We all know that smaller fish are much more aggressive than larger ones. The chance of a big fish getting to your lure before their smaller siblings are very slim. If you think you will entice a larger fish, with an above average size lure when fish are feeding actively, you will probably be very disappointed. This seemingly good strategy rarely ever works during a feeding frenzy. Actively feeding fish will hit any lure, regardless of the shape or size. The only way, in my humble opinion, is to walk away from the mayhem, and work the areas the feeding fish have already passed through. Why? Big stripers have a well-documented preference of feeding on scraps left behind by a feeding frenzy whipped up by their smaller siblings, instead of joining in the fray. Methodically and stealthily, they cruise the quiet waters that seem void of life, especially in comparison to the actively feeding fish moving down the beach. They are looking for scraps, half eaten fish chopped by blues, or baitfish that have been wounded by stripers. You’d never know they are there…unless you walk away from the blitz. Many cows have fallen to large metal lip swimmers worked slowly in the areas that blitz fish have abandoned in search of more productive feeding grounds. I often stay in the area well after most surfcasters have jumped in their buggies, and taken off down the beach, following the fish. Often I am rewarded with my biggest fish of the day. I won’t lie to you, it is very hard to cast into a seemingly barren ocean while you watch blitz madness a quarter mile down the beach.
RIGHT FRAME OF MIND
That brings me to another requirement for hunting big stripers: determination. I know, we are all determined to catch a big fish. This is why we fish, isn’t it? Unfortunately, determination to target large fish greatly differs from willingness to catch fish. You think I am exaggerating? Look around you, and you’ll see that many marriages have broken up over fishing. How many surfcasters parted ways with their spouses because they were obsessed about catching school stripers? Not many. Determination means that you will forsake sleep, meals and family time in order to give yourself a fighting chance of catching that cow bass. Extremely rare, are occurrences of large fish charging the surf in broad daylight. They are much more comfortable in deep water rips when the sun is above the horizon. To add insult to injury, they find the hours from midnight to dawn, much more to their liking than any other time period. When everything settles down and the boat traffic has abated, the bass move in under the cover of darkness to feed.
Late night tides are often the best time to tangle with quality stripers.
This obviously presents a huge problem to all those sane people among us, who have to hold down a job in addition to fulfilling our family duties. Too many nights of chasing after these brutes will leave your body hurting, and your mind spinning. Some among us have even more difficulty with these hours than others. Having a desk job is great after a long night. At least you get to plop down in a cushy chair and pretend to be awake. For guys like me that are in construction, where accidents are the norm rather then exception, fishing these types of hours is difficult. Working on a construction site, or operating a motor vehicle in a zombie-like state because of lack of sleep, is a disaster waiting to happen. Not just for you, but also for those people around you, so pick your battles carefully. No fish is worth your life, or the anguish you might cause to another family because you were too tired to function properly. Determination also means sticking with a plan you carefully laid out prior to your trip. It means sticking with that large rigged eel, knowing that you are forsaking the chance of landing many smaller fish. If those around you are all hooked up with school bass on bucktails, are you willing to stay with your nine-inch shad, in order for you to get a shot at the biggest fish in the area? You know as well as I do, that the largest fish in that pod has as much chance of getting to your bucktail ahead of its smaller cousins, as you have of getting a date with a movie starlet. Yeah, it could happen. You could walk out of a Broadway Theater after seeing a show with your girlfriend, and bump into a movie star while crossing the street. You could pick her up off the street, and she could gaze into your eyes, which will cause you to forget you ever had a girlfriend. You’ll fly to Las Vegas, get married, move to Malibu, and become a celebrity. It could happen, but it probably won’t. In fact, you have a slimmer chance of that large fish getting to your bucktail first, then you becoming George Clooney’s neighbor.
Another requirement of being a big fish hunter is willingness to travel. If you think that the big fish will populate the spots that are convenient for you, you’ll be sorely disappointed. Yes, there are many well-known locations, which have a tendency to attract large fish year after year. The shores of the Cape Cod Canal come to mind, as do the rocky shorelines of Block Island, Cuttyhunk and Montauk Point. Breachways or inlets along the striper coast are notorious big fish producers, and attract their share of big fish hunters, as do bridges and their adjoining shorelines. The first thing you will notice, is that all of these spots are strategically located where massive amounts of water, baitfish, and game fish must wrap around them on their migration. All these places share common characteristics. They are all places where a lot of water is being forced through a narrow opening between two points of land. This in turn creates faster current speeds than you will find along the open beach. But these spots, although consistently more productive than open sand beaches, are not guaranteed to provide you with that fish of your dreams.
My frequent traveling partner, Rob, was rewarded with this mid 30’s fish on our recent trip to Cuttyhunk, MA.
I don’t suggest you become a report chaser, but you will have to tap into your network of friends and acquaintances, along with other sources of reliable information in order to predict where your best chances are to tangle with big stripers. I am a big believer that these fish move in pods. I am not alone in this belief, as underwater research by well-known experts has come to similar conclusions. They are creatures of habit, and will return to their haunts year after year, but they are also constantly on the move, especially during migration. You can more or less accurately predict when a body of fish in Staten Island, New York this week will reach the confines of Jones or Fire Island inlet on Long Island the following week. This is when a meticulously kept log becomes an invaluable tool for looking up past patterns and occurrences. There are many things from weather patterns to bait availability that will influence their movement and behavior. Your logged entries from the past should give you a pretty good indication as to when your chances of hooking a cow striper might be above average.
Hunting for a big fish often requires traveling on a moments notice.
It’s like a game of chess, you need to plan and think ahead. A good chess player doesn’t just make a move. He takes into consideration future moves as well. Big fish don’t stop at certain locations and call it home. They will be available for a short period of time and it’s absolutely imperative for a surfcaster to find out when this period will present itself in his area. Sometimes, the big fish will show up at the “wrong place and wrong time”. Feeding in the daytime sun, or in a warm August surf are exceptions, but they do happen. They don’t however happen for no apparent reason. This is a story about determination, readiness, and willingness to travel to catch a big fish. Of course, like all things that happen to me, the tale that follows is full of stupidity, humility, and above all willingness to learn new things. Throw in the mix, the company of a trusted friend, and some nice size linesiders, and I had a night to remember.
DRIVING MR. DAISY
A few years ago, on a scorching hot August morning, I was resting at home, and ingesting painkillers like they were going out of style. I was lying sideways on my couch watching TV, not able to do much more than that. I couldn’t do much else, as I had about a dozen stitches in my behind, courtesy of a friendly surgeon who a day earlier, removed a cyst that formed on top of my coccyx bone. Although I was able to sit on cushions, it was very uncomfortable, and I found some relief by lying on my side. My phone rang, and although I really wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, I took the call after I saw that it was Alberto. For those of you who might not know, Alberto Knie is one of the premier big fish hunters of our generation. The man will travel to the ends of the earth to find what he is after and he never stops fishing. Not for a day! He earns his well-deserved nickname, “Crazy Al”. I answered the phone with a “Hello”, and Al replied in his signature line, “So?” “So what?” I said, “You called me.” I knew Al’s playful nature, but today was not the day to be coy with me as I reached for the Vioxx again. “Bubba, I found big fish” he said, “You want to come and play?”
Now big fish and August are not mutually exclusive in my mind. Not that my brain functions on such a high level to begin with, as you will soon find out. After all, Bill Wetzel’s big fish strategy, which he outlines in an upcoming chapter, relies heavily on August cow hunting. For me however, August always meant a 7-foot St Croix, Van Staal 150, half-ounce bubblegum jelly worms, and summer weakfish. I knew full well that there was no way in hell that my wife was going to let me go hop the inlet jetties in my current condition. Of course, Montauk was out of the question, as fishing there is more physically demanding than any place I’ve ever fished.
I started to quiz Al about his statement, kind of working in the issue that hopping like a goat on Montauk rocks wasn’t an option, but he was predictably closed mouthed. He wanted commitment before he divulged any more information. I had no choice but to come clean about the shape I was in, to which he replied “Don’t worry, we’ll fish sand”. “Huh?” I replied, puzzled by what I heard. “You want to fish sand beaches, in the middle of August, in piss warm water?” He filled me in on what he had been doing. My mind wandered off as he was talking. I knew a few guys had posted some big fish pictures on the Internet boards the last few days, which was unusual for August. He informed me that he took those guys out with him, but they turned around and spilled the beans. To add insult to injury, one guy showed up with a hand held GPS; recording the location they were fishing! I put two and two together, and now he had me hooked, and that evening I was driving east to Al’s house.
I sat on four thick cushions during this short half hour ride, which seemed much longer this particular day. I had not given much thought to driving for another hour and a half to Montauk, assuming Al was going to do it in his truck. I buzzed his bell, and he came out with his chunking stick. He put it on my rack, threw his gear in the back, sat on the passenger side, and said “Lets go”. Before I even had a chance to protest about my sore butt, he passed out and was snoring. I knew he had put in all-nighters the last few nights, but this was something I wasn’t planning on.
The ride was uneventful with Al soundly asleep, and me fidgeting on the seat in discomfort. Finally, we arrived in Montauk, and I parked at the 4-wheel drive entrance. As soon as the engine shut off, Al awoke and looked at his watch.” Good” he said, “we have plenty of time before the fish show up”. At this point it was around 9 P.M., and the sun had dipped beyond the western horizon. I grabbed my flashlight and tire gauge, and started to release the air out of the tires, getting them ready for soft, summer sand. As I bent down to the front tire and unscrewed the cap, I looked at the back of my truck with puzzlement. The truck was leaning to one side. Walking towards the back, I spotted the problem immediately. The back tire was emptied out naturally, courtesy of a long nail! Al suggested we drive a few hundred yards to a gas station for better lighting. Although the station was closed, the lights were usually left on during the night. We wobbled slowly on the main road, and pulled into the station only to find that the lighting left a lot to be desired.
To understand what was about to transpire I feel I need to make you aware of a few things. First, I’ve changed plenty of flat tires on trucks and cars over the years. However, I never had a spare tire mounted under the chassis, as I did now on my old Ford Explorer. Neither one of us had a clue how to release the tire to the ground. I placed a towel on the ground, and crawled under the truck. With a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, I hammered at the butterfly clamp that held the tire. The clamp was spinning all right, but the tire wasn’t descending. At this point I felt blood gushing through my stitches, as I hammered at the clamp. Al stood above me with a flashlight, with a big grin on his face. My painful predicament was not what he was worried about. Instead, he feared he was going to drain his batteries in the flashlight. Oh yeah, and the fact we might miss out on some fish. I have never come closer to wanting to choke another human being! First, he makes me drive for two hours with a dozen stitches in my butt, and now this! Finally, the small part of my brain, which occasionally needs a reboot to function properly kicked in. I got up and searched the truck for a owner’s manual. After consulting a diagram in the manual, I realized that behind the back seat there was a rod, which was used to lower the spare tire from underneath the truck. You had to stick the rod into the small hole, located in the rear above the tire. A few cranks of that rod and the tire started to descend. At this point I would have been happy to just change the tire and go back home. I didn’t care about fishing any more; I was tired, in pain, and out of painkillers and patience.
Making slight adjustments to your terminal tackle can be the difference between success and failure.
After I got the tire loose, we replaced the flat one quickly, and got onto the beach. Al had me driving close to the cliffs, instead of close to the water, as I am accustomed to. I soon realized he was looking for land markings. Due to the flat-water conditions, and pitch-black darkness, most of the shoreline looked the same. As we drove, he occasionally would point his flashlight into the vegetation that we were passing. “Stop” he said.” Go back five feet, I think we are there,” he added. I slowly backed up the truck, and low and behold, Al found his land marking.
We got out of the truck and he asked me “Did you bring bank sinkers like I told you?” “Yes” I replied, not telling him I brought them with me only because he asked. I had no intention of actually using them. Let’s get real! Whom do you know that uses bank sinkers in the surf! In some ways I was hoping that the fish would be a no-show. This way, we could cut the trip short. I was in no mood for chatting. I attached a 6-ounce pyramid sinker, away from Al’s prying eyes, and impaled a big chunk of bunker onto the hook. I walked into the water, loaded up my conventional stick, and lobbed the bait. To be honest, there really was no reason to expect anything extraordinary on this particular location. Maybe Al had different wind conditions and higher surf the last few nights but this night, there was gentle, calm surf present. As I looked down the beach on both sides, nothing about this particular location seemed that fishy to me. Calm surf, very high water temperatures, and no distinctive structure had me cursing under my breath, and longing for my warm bed. Al was still setting up his rig as I was walking out of the water. I was holding my rod on my shoulder, and before I had a chance to turn towards the water the rod was almost yanked out of my hands. Performing a pirouette, although much less gracefully than a figure skater, I turned around quickly and set the hook. My rod bent in an arc and I knew I had a good fish on. When I toss bait I use a Lamiglas rod made out of the 136 1MH blank. It’s a wonderful rod that will handle a 12-ounce sinker, and bunker head without a problem, but it does take a decent fish to put a nice bend in it. Al walked up with a big smile on his face and said, “I told you they are here”. The problem was, although I could feel this fish pump, I could not move it. The fish was stuck behind something and although I could feel it, I could not budge it. Al walked over and asked, “You used bank sinkers, right?” I put my head down, and replied in a sheepishly quiet voice.” No”. He smirked and said “What?” I told you to bring bank sinkers. Do you think I did that to bust your chops? There is a small mussel bed that has been covered by sand for years. A recent storm moved the sand off the bed, and unearthed boulders and mussels. This brought in porgy’s that are feeding on mussels. On their tails are large stripers, and they are feasting on them. They are smart, and they will take you in the rocks almost immediately.”
I felt my feet sinking in the sand even further as I listened for more words of wisdom of how to get out of this situation. Al took a minute to make sure the stuff he was saying was sinking in. He said, “Tighten up the drag and pull. The fish finder that holds the sinker is the weakest link, and hopefully it will break before your line does”. I did as he said, and started walking backwards while holding a thumb on my spool to prevent slippage. I felt something give but I wasn’t sure if it was the line or the sinker. I was relieved to find that the fish was still attached to the line, but I was also surprised by lack of effort on its part.
A few moments later a fish in the high 20’s lay on the sand motionless, spent from fighting to get out of the rock pile. It took a long time to revive it, but I was committed to the task, as I felt bad that my own ignorance led to this. After a few minutes, I was encouraged when I felt its strength coming back to its body, and after some gentle cradling in the water, the striper slowly glided away. I stood over it and watched it weave through the calm surf. I re-rigged with a bank sinker this time, and made another lob. It must have hit a fish in the head, because I did not even make a single step towards the shore, and I was already hooked up. I felt the sinker banging amongst the rocks, but it didn’t get stuck. This fish was slightly smaller than the previous one but still well over 20 lbs. For August, when any weakfish over five pounds will get my adrenaline pumping, this was an incredible occurrence considering the scenery, time of the year, water temps and gentle surf. It proves the point that bigger fish will not necessarily be put off by conditions, if there is an ample supply of bigger bait in the area.
In the next hour, I landed another eight fish, all between 20 and 30 lbs. In the meantime, Alberto, who was only about ten yards away, had only a single fish. He told me that the same thing happened during the last few nights and this is why he had me back up my truck five feet. He said that if your bait were only a few feet away from the mussel beds, your score would decrease dramatically. I suggested that he move closer to me, but he said something that made me question his sanity. “I am going for a power nap,” he declared, adding, “Big cows will be here at 2:30 A.M.” Considering it was about midnight, and I was having one of the best August nights in a long time, I wasn’t moving. In fact, I doubt you could have moved me with a crane. Long forgotten was the pain in my behind, or the disastrous tire changing experience.
Having a thorough knowledge of the location you are targeting is a prerequisite for success.
While Al napped, I managed to catch a fish or get a hit, on just about every cast. He woke up at 2:15 A.M., and asked what was happening. I told him I stopped counting fish after a dozen, but in the last hour, the size of the fish got noticeably smaller. Instead of 20 to 30 pound fish, now I was catching 12 to 17 pound fish. Not bad but hey, even an incompetent googan like me gets greedy once in awhile.
Al said nothing, and walked to the back of the truck. He stripped all the line off his reel, and replaced it with fresh monofilament from a large spool. Once the rigging was completed, he spiked the rod and said “Ten minutes to show time”. “Yeah, right”, I said to myself. Not wanting to admit, I was kind of glad he slept through this great bite. Otherwise, I’d have to share the fish with him. Hey, I love him like a brother, but I want to catch every fish that swims in the ocean! A few minutes later, he cut a big chunk of fresh bunker, and put it on the hook. He walked to the water, this time a little closer to me than where he was originally before his nap. He tossed the bait out, engaged the reel and remained motionless. I chalked it up to him not being fully awake. In the split second that it took me to kneel down, and get another piece of bait, everything changed. Al’s body was now leaning backwards, almost diagonally to the sand, and his rod was bent in a huge arc. “Son of a gun” I said to myself, in disbelief. Al slid his bass onto the sand, and I immediately realized that it was bigger than anything I caught all night. Sure enough, after a quick scale measurement, it weighed around 34 pounds; I made a cast with my chunk, and cursed under my breath. A guy sleeps most of the night; wakes up, and on a first cast, nails the biggest fish of the night! A good thump on my rod brought me back to reality. I followed the fish by lowering my rod tip, and as the line came tight, I set the hook hard, then one more time for good measure. It was evident almost immediately that this fish was larger than any I had caught all night. It peeled the drag in three different sequences, but it eventually succumbed to the pressure of my bent graphite rod. Once I got it in the wash, I grabbed it by the gills and dragged it onto dry sand. My Boga Grip showed 33 pounds, just a shade smaller than Al’s fish. At this point Al was back into the water, but now nervously fidgeting. He asked for the size of my fish, but said nothing more. Ten minutes later, he walks up to me with his hook attached to the guide and declared the bite to be over.