Striper Talk Striped Bass Fishing, Surfcasting, Boating

It was a little later than I usually like to get out, but I truly enjoy taking a few pre-work casts in the local harbor or river. The glow of the sun behind the distant trees was my first indication that I had spent a few too many minutes on the couch this morning and that that big ball of flames was preparing to spoil the ideal conditions that existed as I drove down the long dirt road leading to the river.

I hopped out of my rusty Durango, scooted to open the hatch and hastily grabbed my rod and reel. I snapped on a white Ba-donk-a-donk spook and made my to the waters edge. The ebbing tide was still gliding out at a measured pace and blobs of seaweed and marsh grass were flowing along with it. A lone cormorant casually dove down and came up slurping a silvery baitfish. I thought to myself, “that’s a good sign”. It was cool enough to keep the mosquitos and no-see-ums away.

I took my first cast down river along the marsh bank that would soon become a mudflat. As I walked the spook slowly back to me I saw a slight swirl in its wake and then a more pronounced swoosh. The fish had missed both times and despite slowing the lure down to a near stop, I soon ran out of water . My next several casts were spread out both up and down river with a few similar swipes and swirls.

Despite my flexible schedule, I knew that I had to plan the inevitable “last cast” and make my way to work. I swung my plug bag off the back of my shoulder to my chest and peaked down into it to see what else might be a little more enticing. I grabbed a small white Smack-it popper with slightly rusted hooks and a frayed white tail feather. My cast went three times as far up river than any of the casts I had made with the spook, nearly landing on the opposite bank of the river. I worked the plug back erratically with short pops and pauses. The rattling sound was echoing in the river bed and each pop threw a spray of water both upward and outward. That oddly peaceful sound was then interrupted as a pickup truck slowly rolled down the dirt road behind me. As I stopped reeling to glance back at this peace-stealing intruder, a fish exploded on the popper as it sat bobbing idly no more than 5 yards from my feet.

This was one unhappy fish! The looser-than-it-needed-to-be drag on my VS 150 allowed my braided line to peel off smoothly as the fish made it initial run back up river. After another short run out into the channel and then an impromptu leap from the water, complete with an obvious head-shake in an attempt to throw the hook, I was able to gently guide the fish back to me. It was simply a feisty and plump schoolie, probably no more than 25 inches long. I plucked the hook from its maw and as I carefully slid it back into the water it made one final statement, first turning towards me before using her tail to throw a healthy amount of river-water back at me soaking my business casual attire from pant leg up to my sunglasses!

“Any luck?”, asked the pickup truck guy as I walked past him back to the Durango. “A little”, I replied as I dried off my glasses with my shirt sleeve. As I backed out onto the main road I realized though that I had a bit more than just a “little” luck. I realized that I am extremely fortunate to have an obsession that rewards me almost daily with a variety of experiences. From sunrises to sunsets, from strange encounters with funky wildlife to casual conversation with both friends and strangers to feisty leaping schoolies, it is all good and this morning was a fine reminder of how truly blessed I am.

Tight lines...
Paul