Today was ‘video day’ for me, and as I drove to select a spot I traced the same track I make nearly every Wednesday, down the hill, through an intersection and then along a picturesque pond where I can get a handle on the wind direction and the strength of the wind – I try to pick spots where the wind won’t create sound issues with my mic. A persistent south wind turned the often-placid pond into a dark blue carpet of choppy waves and, in turn, I decided to hit a north-facing saltwater vista that provides protection from a south blow.
I walked down the cobble beach, the tide was about halfway in. I found myself at the mouth of a tiny inlet, maybe 15 feet across. Water surged into the small, grass-lined pond. I looked across to the opposite corner of the protected cove and just happened to spot a small striper blowing up on a pod of silversides. I stood in 3 inches of water and watched as the schools of mummies scattered, feeling my steps and seeing my shadow. I stood perfectly still for several minutes, barely doing more than drawing breath and turning my head.
Soon, the mummies seemed to accept my presence, or, perhaps, forget that I was there. And an aquarium view opened up in my polarized gaze. Mummies, silversides, crabs and a few late-run mullet began riding the tide into the pond. Dozens, then hundreds of the smallest baitfish used the neutral water just outside the inflowing rip to gather in a widening school, inching closer to the inlet, the dense school stretched like a flock of migrating grackles, drizzling into the pond, single-file, as the tide sucked them in, one at time, in scarcely more than an inch of water. Frozen in my footprints, the activity in the water ratcheted up another notch as some of the biggest mummichogs I have ever seen dashed up the middle of the shallow canal, hugging the bottom. This hierarchy of baitfish sizes was something I felt was noteworthy.
The day before, I found myself standing on a bridge, looking down into a dropping tide. The bridge marked the narrowest point in the estuary and, straining my eyes, I saw a pod of about a dozen slot-sized stripers hugging the wall, just inside the up-current side of the bridge. Surveying the scene, it became clear that this was a classic ambush scenario. The cement structure of the bridge and the riprap that protects it funnels a 115-foot wide estuary down to about 50 feet. Naturally, the tide quickens there and – over years – it has excavated a deep hole in that 50-foot gap. The walls of the bridge ensure that there is no shallow water for baitfish to hide in as they are pulled under the bridge. Further, as the water backs up against those walls, it is sucked through the gap at greater speed.
Now picture the tiny estuary example detailed above.
The entire estuary was alive with silversides that day, and as they encountered the slope that dropped off into the deep hole, many of them would make a run into the shallow “pocket water” against the north side of the bridge. As the quickening current ushered them closer to the gap, they too, would break off into 1s and 2s before being pulled – backwards – around that corner to where the bass waited. I only saw two confirmed kills, as the competitive bass pushed baitfish leaping clear of the surface before punctuating the pursuit with a loud pop. But I’m certain many more went down without much more than a flare of the gills.
To me, it was a beautiful example of what we all imagine must be happening below the surface in these situations. And what a rare opportunity it was to be able to watch it unfold in real time, as an unseen observer. I preach it all the time, if you want to become a better fisherman, take time to observe these little things because they will inform your presentations and they will make you better at finding spots and positioning yourself within the scenario at hand. I could have just hopped down there and tried to catch a couple of these stripers, but they gave me so much more than any 30-second battle ever could.
