Smiling in the Surf It was December 28, 2015. After 41 years of chasing the trophy striped bass of a
promote the conservation of fully grown adult fish, as most of the time they are
lifetime, success came in one all too fleeting moment.
the breeders of the species. In front of me lay a 50-lb. class cow carrying millions
Northeast winds of 35 to 40 knots propelled a sleet storm that pummeled my
of eggs, possibly seeding generations of bass to come. I knew I should release it,
face while I stood on the beach looking at a nasty, 7-ft New Jersey surf. I punched
but this bass was the biggest I knew I would probably ever catch from the surf. It
an Ava 27 jig with an orange tail and a 5-in. Tsunami sand eel teaser through the
was literally like winning the lottery, the odds can be that profound. So naturally,
28-degree air and it landed just past the second breaker. When the jig hit the
high on the moment, I was going to take this bass home with me, contact a skilled
water, I clicked over the bail and it felt like my lure hit a piece of dock or telephone
taxidermist and pay for the most beautiful skin-mount striper. It would hang on
pole that had been sent adrift by the Noreaster’s pounding. But after a few
my wall for generations, paying tribute to the beauty of the linesider that took 41
seconds, it began to move, peeling drag off a 10,000-class reel and 12-ft. rod and
years of dedicated surf fishing to land.
heading out into the whitewater.
My adrenaline still pumping, I snapped three quick shots of the fish on the
The fight was long and arduous. I ran down the beach, staying in front of
sand and quickly put the camera back in my wader pocket. Then I just stopped
the fish to keep the hook lodged, knowing it was a
and stared at the fish before me.
class of fish I had never hooked into before and might
This was a striper—by boat or by
It was one of those quintessential
never see again. Finally, the spike dorsal fin breached
surf—that barely one percent of people
moments when time seems to
the surface in one foot of whitewater and I promptly walked backward, pulling the bruiser-striped bass
stand still and everything on
will ever catch in a lifetime of pursuit.
out of the surf and onto the sand. The blood rushing
the planet just comes to a halt. I felt total calm, yet a lifetime of
to my head was almost enough to make me pass out—a striped bass worthy of
memories flooded my thoughts. I thought of being just six years old in 1980, when
a lifetime of angling was laying in front of me. I bent down and measured the
striper stocks were nearly extinct, and how my mother signed fake sick notes so I
surf striper at 50 inches long with a 30-in. girth. By IGFA calculations, it weighed
could play hooky from school and travel down to the Jersey Shore with my father
between 51 and 55 pounds. In the Northeast, this was a striper—by boat or by
and brother to surf fish. We’d catch little bass of 20 to maybe 30 inches to bring
surf—that barely one percent of people will ever catch in a lifetime of pursuit.
home to mom for the dinner table. I thought of years of casting for stripers with
I looked down at the bass and my mind reeled, faced with the greatest fishing conundrum of my career. You see, as a professional angler and writer, I always
family and friends, thousands of days when we took advantage of any available time to forget about the worries of life and just go fishing. I thought of my dad.
