DZ
05-03-2017, 07:55 AM
Five years ago today, May 3, we lost one of the best surfcasting writers I have ever read. My friend Tim Coleman passed on this date in 2012 doing what he loved – surf fishing. In his honor I’ve retyped an article he wrote in 1983 and appeared in The Fisherman magazine in November of that year. This article was a catalyst for my interest in the Block Island surf. I find it a very appropriate tribute for this solemn anniversary of Tim’s passing.
A SPOT UNDER THE CLIFFS
BY Tim Coleman
Cliffs are a state of mind though they certainly exist on any number of beaches from Maine to Jersey. They are quiet locations, kept that way by folks who want bass and solitude. Not everyone smiles at the thought of being alone on a dark night in a spooky haunt. Others see them as relief…they are there.
Some “cliffs” need permission to enter. A kind word to a caretaker, perhaps a bottle on his birthday, or maybe just a fresh bluefish on his doorway come daybreak might be all that is needed. Those who took the time to cultivate the “little man” bore fruits of their doings. One such spot needed a call beforehand. If the master wasn’t home, no problem, just tell him when you’d arrive down the winding road even if it was two hours before light. Fishing by appointment it was called but the bass were around, out front the last couple hours of the flood. They too were there by appointment.
To get to the cut in the rocky point you had to walk through the courtyard of a castle. Real life; honest to goodness, just like you see on the tube between commercials for dog foods. On a full moon it was an eerie jaunt, especially a still night when stones crunched underfoot and every step poised the threat of something from a bad dream jumping out at you. That was only a secondary problem for you wanted just the right rock to present the bottle swimmer in the precise spot in the rip. Two places either side of the rock would be mediocre; any further and you could skip the trouble.
Other cliffs were large seawalls next to stately, state of the art houses. The God given beach had long since vanished. Seas under southeast winds were kept at bay by large stones buttressed with bulkheads. Bass come round to feed on calico crabs and others caught in the backwash of one wave falling from the wall to clash with another marching in. Not many walked the bulkhead for fear of a dunking but fish were there. Solitude usually has a price.
Just a little away, down in that Jersey town, were breakwalls built before the first nuclear blast. One of them stands underwater most of the time yet you could gain its reaches toward the end of the tide. Like a mountain goat on a dark night you could fish provided you brought a length of chain to keep the stripers from floating back where they came from. Very few fished the Humpback as it was nicknamed; very few bothered one another. The state of mind came once you arrived.
Closer to home you can still find places under the cliffs if you look. They will likely be unlike anything you’ve ever experienced; probably lonely if you descend one of the many paths by yourself. One such was shown me by an islander, a fellow who lives separated from the freeways by an expanse of water. His land is sadly changing I feel, but maybe it will take long enough to preserve it for awhile. In fifty years I wonder whether there will be any solitude for the average man to cast and search.
This particular place hit me one night on the new moon. Wind was ever so slight from the northeast as it touched my left shoulder. Down the way you could see lights from vehicles making their way west of Snake Hole. A lot of the cliff spots seem to have names to make you pause. In all the nights last October I met very few souls there once the sun slid away. Looking up at the darkened hills you could only ask they talk for a short while for what stories they must hold. They were silent and I knew they’d be around long after I’m gone. That tide, intermittent light, some green, some white flashed while before me was a quiet void saved for the swish of the easy surf. Not so much as a sniff from the location; what was needed was a trek to the north to yet another small indentation also shown to me in an act of kindness. There bass fed. When you switched on the tiny light it seemed too much, like an intrusion into a world where bass fattened since… How do you describe the feeling? At one point utter nothing except the stars and the lighthouse yet at the same moment you fished without prying eyes. Satisfaction at an eerie price; the sort of place that grabs hold and won’t let go.
This was written from the memory of the last couple seasons. By the time you read it we’ll be back over a few more trips. The thought of a possible record fish and the quiet retreat is too much. At 1AM that small section under the cliffs may be the most desolate on earth but I suspect I’ll be drawn there at least a couple times each year until the day I die.
Tim Coleman
A SPOT UNDER THE CLIFFS
BY Tim Coleman
Cliffs are a state of mind though they certainly exist on any number of beaches from Maine to Jersey. They are quiet locations, kept that way by folks who want bass and solitude. Not everyone smiles at the thought of being alone on a dark night in a spooky haunt. Others see them as relief…they are there.
Some “cliffs” need permission to enter. A kind word to a caretaker, perhaps a bottle on his birthday, or maybe just a fresh bluefish on his doorway come daybreak might be all that is needed. Those who took the time to cultivate the “little man” bore fruits of their doings. One such spot needed a call beforehand. If the master wasn’t home, no problem, just tell him when you’d arrive down the winding road even if it was two hours before light. Fishing by appointment it was called but the bass were around, out front the last couple hours of the flood. They too were there by appointment.
To get to the cut in the rocky point you had to walk through the courtyard of a castle. Real life; honest to goodness, just like you see on the tube between commercials for dog foods. On a full moon it was an eerie jaunt, especially a still night when stones crunched underfoot and every step poised the threat of something from a bad dream jumping out at you. That was only a secondary problem for you wanted just the right rock to present the bottle swimmer in the precise spot in the rip. Two places either side of the rock would be mediocre; any further and you could skip the trouble.
Other cliffs were large seawalls next to stately, state of the art houses. The God given beach had long since vanished. Seas under southeast winds were kept at bay by large stones buttressed with bulkheads. Bass come round to feed on calico crabs and others caught in the backwash of one wave falling from the wall to clash with another marching in. Not many walked the bulkhead for fear of a dunking but fish were there. Solitude usually has a price.
Just a little away, down in that Jersey town, were breakwalls built before the first nuclear blast. One of them stands underwater most of the time yet you could gain its reaches toward the end of the tide. Like a mountain goat on a dark night you could fish provided you brought a length of chain to keep the stripers from floating back where they came from. Very few fished the Humpback as it was nicknamed; very few bothered one another. The state of mind came once you arrived.
Closer to home you can still find places under the cliffs if you look. They will likely be unlike anything you’ve ever experienced; probably lonely if you descend one of the many paths by yourself. One such was shown me by an islander, a fellow who lives separated from the freeways by an expanse of water. His land is sadly changing I feel, but maybe it will take long enough to preserve it for awhile. In fifty years I wonder whether there will be any solitude for the average man to cast and search.
This particular place hit me one night on the new moon. Wind was ever so slight from the northeast as it touched my left shoulder. Down the way you could see lights from vehicles making their way west of Snake Hole. A lot of the cliff spots seem to have names to make you pause. In all the nights last October I met very few souls there once the sun slid away. Looking up at the darkened hills you could only ask they talk for a short while for what stories they must hold. They were silent and I knew they’d be around long after I’m gone. That tide, intermittent light, some green, some white flashed while before me was a quiet void saved for the swish of the easy surf. Not so much as a sniff from the location; what was needed was a trek to the north to yet another small indentation also shown to me in an act of kindness. There bass fed. When you switched on the tiny light it seemed too much, like an intrusion into a world where bass fattened since… How do you describe the feeling? At one point utter nothing except the stars and the lighthouse yet at the same moment you fished without prying eyes. Satisfaction at an eerie price; the sort of place that grabs hold and won’t let go.
This was written from the memory of the last couple seasons. By the time you read it we’ll be back over a few more trips. The thought of a possible record fish and the quiet retreat is too much. At 1AM that small section under the cliffs may be the most desolate on earth but I suspect I’ll be drawn there at least a couple times each year until the day I die.
Tim Coleman