Last night
was one of those magical nights fishermen have every now and again. Yet
by the way the night began the word "magical" would not have come to
mind. High tide was to arrive at about nine and I appeared an hour
earlier. Five fellow anglers who I often fish with were already wading
around the point. The temperature was 45 degrees with a southwesterly
blowing at 15 knots. It was raining. Not too bad for the middle of
November on Moriches Bay on the south shore of Long Island.
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.