The other day, I took a drive. I drove through the neighboring towns, slowing down as I passed over a bridge that spans a tidal river. I looked down to the marsh point, where, for as many springs as I can remember, I have caught my first striped bass of the season (not counting holdover fish). I pictured all those years in an overlay, standing there in the cold, the excitement in the air so thick it blurred your vision. Faces in the mist, some of which I will never see again. But I saw them in this moment and it made me smile, it also made me realize how lucky I am to have intersected orbits with these amazing people, whom I will never forget and whose absence means things will never be quite the same.
The river, running cold under the bridge, just dark water in the shadow of the hill, the sun still rising to warm the day… seemed lifeless and brown. It’s funny how easy it is to tell when life again courses through these tidal waters, you could take two photos, just weeks apart and, I promise you, I could tell you which one had stripers swimming in those depths.
I continued on, through the farms and neighborhoods, past houses big and small, belonging to townies and summer people, dew glistening on the grass and dripping from the buds on the leafless branches. I turned into one of those neighborhoods you wouldn’t dare enter in the summer. Towering homes placed like teeth along the estuarine shoreline, the expanse of the river flickering like 8 mm film, the houses rhythmically blocking my view and I drove past.
Each house was dark and battened down for the winter just passed. I dared to stop between two of these McMansions and looked down on an area where I’ve had countless springtime encounters with stripers of nearly every size class. The wind was still and the sun was creeping higher, now flooding these fishy backwaters with the strengthening warmth of the oncoming spring.
There’s a strange level of comfort that comes over me when I look at these places that have, essentially, made it possible for me to become the angler I always wanted to be. When there is no chance to catch a striper from these waters, they’re calming to look at. When the fish are in, they fill me up with excitement, but they also amplify the ticking of the clock, the passage of time… and that comes with a measure of needling angst that constantly asks what I might be missing when I can’t be out there.
Looking out over these waters at this very unique moment, it’s almost mind-blowing to think that in just two weeks this area that seems so cold and dead will be vibrating with life. Striped bass will return, just like every year. The herring will be dropping back, just like always. The worms will hatch. The moons will pass and there are dozens of stripers somewhere along the coast right now that will have a strange encounter with me on some misty morning or new moon night.
Ever since I was a kid, I have been fascinated by the idea that something can “be” and then “not be”, or in this case… “Be nowhere to be found” and then suddenly… “there”. And when the stripers do return, when they are suddenly there. All this build up and anticipation will be released all at once. The start of a new season is a very unique juncture, because you still have every day of a long saltwater season ahead of you and each of those days carries nothing but possibility.
Here’s to hoping that we all can take full advantage of another amazing season along the incredible New England coast and enjoy it fully, not just for the fish we might catch, but for the amazing experiences we have along the way and for the people we share them with.
