I was the lone fly fisher. Having just received my fly rod from the repair shop I eagerly wanted to use it. On a dark new moon earlier in the fall, at this very same spot, it snapped in two with a striper on. It is not so simple to evaluate how much line is out when fighting a fish under the cover of new moon darkness. I thought the striper was 40 feet out and running to my right. To counter its direction I moved the rod tip with authority to the left and quickly found out that the fish was near my boots. Snap! Now I get to test ride my newly mended magic wand in wind that was accelerating from 15 knots to 20 with gusts on top of that making casting difficult and wind knots easy. Did I mention a downpour?

My spinning pals, who did not have to manage lines, were getting short stripers but it was hard for all of us to get a decent drift or even feel our lines in this onslaught by the elements. Regardless of the conditions, passionate northeast fishermen know that this time of the year is special and short lived. To avoid any regrets that may be had in the deep of winter about not spending enough time on the water chasing stripers in the fall is being remedied—right now—in this sloppy weather. Nobody could say we weren't trying.

Incredibly, filtering through the scrim of all shades of gray clouds, the near full moon struggled to reveal an encouraging glimpse of an approaching clear sky. The end of the front was fortunately veering to the north to leave the sky above partly cloudy, turning to clear, with no wind and a big bulbous moon on maximum. "Where did this come from?" Steve said ironically. "How long have we been here...is it morning?" he continued. By this time three of the fishermen had already been driven out by the weather leaving Steve, Pete and myself to a completely different fishing situation including a turned tide.

For whatever the reason, there was much less water in the bay than usual. A recent nor'easter had dumped and shifted tons of sand around the point to create in my mind's eye and informed by my fly a bottom that I imagined looked like a very lumpy dunes. Now there was hope. I can cast, control and feel the taught connection to my streamer at the end of my line like a kite high above on a breezy day. To my left was Steve who caught another short. The fish actually took both his Chicken Scratch Bomber and the red hackle teaser above it into its gaping mouth. Taking a cue from his success with the Bomber I changed my point fly from a blue back herring pattern to my 6-inch Chicken Scratch flatwing streamer (click on inset for pattern) that I tie to imitate this very productive plug. Earlier on in the evening someone had snagged a peanut bunker, strengthening my decision to change flies. Steve recently had stitches removed from his hand and was tiring and with that fish he decided to call it quits. Pete, who was fishing to Steve's left, felt a few bumps but had no takes too decided to walk out. Just as Pete and Steve reached shore I connected with a small striper. Over the din of the roaring breakers out front I shouted to them that the late show was just about to begin—I could feel it. Pete and Steve stopped walking and began to turn towards me. As Pete turned he wearily raised his arm as a substitute for yelling back good luck. Then they turned around to continue on their way out.

Earlier we had left the point for an area that is about 200 feet to the west and locally known as the "honey hole." It is a patch of beach with a sudden drop off and if the current is moving, will provide good action. Behind the beach there is a marsh under thick reeds. The marsh floods on the incoming and drains on the ebb to form a cut that resembles a miniature delta. The cut runs though the beach and widens as it approaches the drop off. This drainage invites killies, silversides and whatever else is around for a dangerous ride in striper patrolled mud flats. Ten minutes after catching the small striper, I decided to return to the point and see how the rip was developing with the dropping tide. As I neared the point I could begin to see the turbulent flow and it looked encouraging.

Alone, I stood at this familiar spot where I have pulled up many good sized fish. The hits almost always come on the swing. This particular location works well when a floating line is cast out to the correct distance to allow the fly to swing and rise over a sandbar. I made four increasingly longer casts straight across the flow. Following each cast a few mends are made to keep the streamer both moving at the same speed as the current and deep. This is traditional Atlantic Salmon fly fishing for striped bass. During the drift I interject a couple of pulls—tiny, like picking blueberries—to titillate the striper's appetite. As the line swings again over the sandbar I anticipate the feel of a take in my muscles. My arm is now fully extended and pointing the rod tip at the streamer like a skilled fencer. As it hangs in the current I let the flatwing tail of the streamer do its seductive veil dance. On the fourth cast the streamer never made it over the sandbar. The flatwing's movements brought a heavy tug and with a smart sweep set the fish was on and running hard into my backing. After a few runs and strong head shakes I brought her in. I removed the Chicken Scratch streamer, told the fish what a great fish she was and released her into the dark fast moving water. After that fish there were some smaller ones, all caught on the same streamer as well as a few hefty herring taking Ray's Fly on a dropper.