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Join Date: Dec 2000
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Been 6 years today
A Surfman’s Dream Come True
By Tim Coleman
First Published November 14th, 1985
The Fisherman Magazine, New England Edition
Six 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 1985 and appeared in The Fisherman magazine. This article is perhaps the one of the best examples of creative writing that captures what it was like to surfcast Block in the 1980s.
It was a special time and I’d like to share it with you.
The nights were inky, full of stars and large bass. For two days, the grapevine hummed with news of a pick-up in the level of fishing. Some cheated, keeping more than the law allowed, but a number of others obeyed conservation dictates and kept only their quota. In that batch, a lot were destined for the taxidermist’s workbench. They were of that size.
Art’s fish was just shy of the magic 50, but the Jersey guy had a 55 pounder. A week later, Steve hauled his first ever up the beach and later to Wally Brown. We all gathered around the registered, portable scale, hastily set up out on the windy lawn of the rented cottage. All leaves were gone from the trees and the early morning sky was low with a chill that cut through even a fresh cup of the hottest coffee. The owner of the scale was rousted from a groggy sleep only begun a short time ago. The scale fidgeted a bit but finally, solidly, settled 12 ounces over 50 pounds. Anyone who fought long and hard to arrive at that point knew the weight lifted from the angler’s shoulders.
With that bit of news came word of some beached 60 pounders and others that just ran away, leaving angler to ponder bent and broken treble hooks. For some the memory would last all winter as that was their last hook-up of 1985. Time was running out.
That evening at the cottage people gathered around the table as souls weary from last night’s long night spoke about the horses in the wash and planned yet another try. A front was due in, so the time would be creased by high winds and rain heavy enough to turn your back to it. As darkness closed around, cars and vans left for spots undetermined. Driver’s sipped coffee, concentrating on the dimming light and 12 hour effort ahead. Most roads were deserted save for a few locals heading home to their TVs. The lights from their homes would shine a bit but the land would go dark except for the slice of headlight that told you someone was moving, looking for a better position.
By 7PM the wind was a steady 25 and freshening with the coming tide. No matter how you tried your line was greeted with a disheartening bow that made a solid hook-up impossible. All around the charging surf spelled bass: it was their killing ground. Around everyone’s boots the water rose swiftly as they concentrated on the job at hand. By the tides’ first hour the rain started; not a downpour, but in that wind it got into everything, chilling bodies tired and sore from prolonged fishing. It was a night where dues were due.
With many of the group already on the scoreboard another tough night so late in the year wasn’t palatable. In all truth some had fished so hard they were rundown, one to the point of slight fever and chills, yet even he stayed until mid-tide. That’s how good the water looked. One by one though, they retreated to the warmth of the cottage to rest and sip coffee or stuff in amber bottles and let the rain beat against the window.
By 10:30 only two darkened souls remained. One was a native, a person one might overlook on surface inspection of a bass fisherman’s stature. His beat-up car contrasted against a $20,000 beach buggy yet that man knew more about bass than many; he was one of the best. Even he, though, shipped out for greener pastures. You never knew he left. All of a sudden, he was gone, never showing a light as he walked along the boulder beach without the aid of a necklight. Yes, he is that good.
That left just one, a person who has never caught a 50 pound bass in 19 years of trying. Don’t ask why, but something inside him told him to stay put on that miserable point. Keep casting, he told himself, and the prize may be yours. The cold, fother m#^&#^&#^&#^&#^&’ rain ran down the inside of his rain jacket. Finally he caught an 8 pound bluefish hooked in the belly.
It was one of the low points of his angling life. There alone on a black, rain-drenched hunk of land, he could only come up with one lousy blue while had the fish of their dreams. Why in God’s name can’t I catch one, he asked himself? At that point the answer seemed too far away, like one of the raw deals of life gives you no matter how hard you try. His mood was as low as one of the ugly clouds scurrying by at what looked like a rod’s length overhead.
The warmth and friendship of the cottage was beginning to take hold. He was a smidgeon away from quitting when the rain eased as did the wind. The bow in the line flattened a bit, but still hindered his efforts. About the third cast afterwards he hauled back and barely managed to stick a 12 pounder. Back in the small bass went; he went up to the car for a splash of coffee.
Inside the car was cold and clammy, everything was wet to the touch; his breath quickly fogged the windows, but he was too tired to care. A small piece of Christmas cake, squashed under a box of hooks tasted like the salvation it was.
If it hadn’t been for the tide change he have quit. Somewhere in some such place these things are counted, his number came up. The ocean gave up four in quick succession: two in the 30s and two in the mid to low 40s. All were put back alive. Heartening as it was he was still shy of his quest.
In spite of adrenalin pumping through him his eyes and body were close to ceasing operations. Back at the car again he found dead, cold coffee because he forgot to put the lid on the thermos. Thoughts of a warm breakfast with cool juice seemed the best bet right now.
Ordinarily he’d been satisfied with the night, calling it in. He was no better than any of the others who left; many times he quit only to find out later what mistakes he made. Something, though, poked him back out where winds rapidly dropped and patches of stars shone through. The wild surf of midnight now had a fine rolling action, giving confidence to someone fighting to stay awake.
The hit was a slight bump not far from the farthest rock. Off she went feeling the 3/0 trebles. Down, down went the spool of the 7000. The fish was obviously better than any he’d hooked that night, but in the back of his mind was the thought why should this one be any different? If he landed the fish she’d probably be a fighting 46 pounder. Great fish, no doubt, but not the magic 50.
After the first long scramble failed to dislodge the hooks the battle, for the most, was over. Steady pumps of the rod and soon the fish lay quiet in the surf line. On shore, he lay the fish next to his rod with 47 inches marked off from grip to certain guide. That mark is usually good for a 50 that’s been munching on sand eels awhile. His prize was short lengthwise, but holy heaven – what a girth! If it wasn’t 50, it’ll be 48 or 49. Thinking a minute, he decided to take it to a taxidermist otherwise he’d have let it live. Other thoughts were a long way from the end of the next cast. He was mulling over which taxidermist when the lure stopped about the fourth rotation of the handle. Up on top came the fish, thrashing and throwing white this way and that, then down, off like a race car that made the last jumbo feel like a machine only running on five cylinders. Never had he tangled with any bass that ran that far that fast. God. Please let everything hold together.
Luckily th fish made each move in the angler’s favor. She swam by rocks and came up on just the right wave to also lay quiet on the shore. Total time was about three to five minutes from hook-up to completion. Earlier that season he’d fought and lost to a bass on eight minutes by a friend’s watch. Now, finally he knew for sure on this last one. The creature at his feet was over 47 inches with a girth to almost match the fat one. If this one ain’t 50, he told himself, I’ll eat this graphite rod, guide by guide.
He cast 15 more times in water begging to be fished in, but the thought of getting to a reliable scale was too much. Taking off the belt he put around his foul weather gear, he made a stringer, then made his way slowly back to the car, pausing several times, yet making as much speed as his body would allow.
Back at the cottage, the sky was just turning light as he backed his “buggy” (a two-door Toyota) up to the garage. A reliable Chatillion scale was within. The first fished pulled the needle about one-quarter inch past 50, while the second went down a full inch below five zero. He'd caught two 50 pounders in one night! Church bells went off in his head!
Going upstairs he woke the others to alert them what might be left on the point. Each of his knocks brought muffled voices followed by hurried looks for socks and sweaters. Down they came to look at the fish, but more important, to find tackle before the sun stole higher.
After they left and the sky slowly went from pale grey to orange, he just sat in a chair in front of a picture window facing east, sipping the coldest, finest coffee he’d ever tasted. It was one of the most satisfying moments of his life.
A few hours later found him at the office showing off both fish to the ladies who worked there. Both were going on the wall so one of the women agreed to drive angler and fish over to the taxidermist, for this this fishermen, despite the best night of his surf fishing career, was in no condition to drive. Away they went, she driving, him talking a mile a minute. By the time they’d gone five miles though, he put down the large coffee to settle in a sound, peaceful sleep.
Editor’s note: To make the story complete, we should add the angler caught a third 50 pounder (a 51 ¼) three nights later. After 19 years without any 50s he got three in four days.
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Dessert helped temper the disappointments.
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