One Fish. When I saw Matt’s request for submissions about an angler’s one memorable catch, I instantly knew what he was talking about. After over 50 years of angling, there is one fish for me that stands out well above the others.
June 5, 2022, outside east of Moriches Inlet, I was merely going through the motions, fishing alone, lost in thought, much like a hunter that is hours into his sit in a deer stand.
A month earlier, my Uncle Joe had passed away. He was a mentor to me both in the woods and on the water.
In the 70’s, aboard his old wooden twin-engine inboard boat out of Sayville, “Rhythm,” we caught weakfish throughout the spring spawn, fishing evenings on Salty Dogs while dodging gill netters on the edge of the flats on the Great South Bay. The summer months would find us out east sneaking our way onto lakes and ponds pursuing largemouth bass while Grumman Tomcats were put through their paces overhead, ensuring entertainment whether or not the bass were biting. In the 80’s and 90’s, we fished rivers and streams in Montana, surfcasted Montauk and the Hamptons, and we even shad fished the Delaware River. Recently, we had spent the last two decades on the flats of Moriches Bay chasing fluke, striped bass, and bluefish, all while taking our share of clams.
May of 2022, Joe passed, and with him for a time so did my desire to be on the water. To say things weren’t the same would be an understatement. But fishing is what I’ve always done, and almost against my will it was what I continued to do. With each trip I hoped my desire would return, only to arrive back at the dock with that same unshakable, lonely, melancholy feeling.
Even as Joe approached his 80’s and his time on the water declined, his eager ear awaited the details of my day on the water. His enjoyment, and a great deal of mine, came more through sharing my day after I had returned than the actual fishing itself. He was adept at making calculated observations and suggestions over a cup of coffee or while sharing some of my Aunt Pam’s fine cooking. His welcome suggestions always came with a fair amount of humor, banter, and lively conversation.
As I robotically set out alone at sunrise from Harts Cove that day in June, I had planned on picking away at the bunker pods between Moriches and Shinnecock. The inlet and ocean were both relatively flat, and boat traffic was at a minimum. The stage seemed to be set for a productive day.
I remember finding several bunker pods, live-lining both unweighted and weighted bunker, and throwing topwater lures like the Doc. Unfortunately, the schools I encountered were all fairly well spread out and obviously un-harassed by any predators. After repeating this over and over almost all the way to Shinnecock, I turned the boat back west and decided to idle my way back to Moriches, watching the water and the bunker for any indication of predatory life beneath or between the pods.
Eventually I stopped the boat, sat down on the seat forward of the center console, rod laying across my lap, the warm sun on my face from the southeast as the boat pivoted from the slight breeze. Inevitably, my thoughts drifted to Uncle Joe. What would he do in this situation? Why did he have to go when he still had so much life left in him? Do you really meet everyone again when you pass away? What else could I do to help my Aunt and cousins? What am I doing out here? Where the hell are the bass?
Snapping me out of this mindset was the unmistakable sound of fish breaking water. I looked to the starboard side where the sound had come from. I saw the tail end of a splash and the rings emanating out from the disturbance. I launched a cast, not as accurately as I would have liked. The Doc was slammed as soon as it hit the water, and line exited the spool at a joyful rate. As I gained line on the fish and as the fight wore on, the possibility of this being one of the biggest bass I had ever hooked, became more and more likely.
As she came alongside the boat, I slipped the net under her. Her weight required the use of both hands to lift her into the boat. I quickly realized that this was the biggest striper I’d ever caught, and I knew who it came from. I didn’t take time to measure or weigh her. I unhooked her, propped my phone on the seat, took a few pictures, and immediately went to work reviving and releasing her, all while quietly thanking Joe for putting this fish in my lap. This one fish was instrumental in improving my outlook and reigniting what had been temporarily lost.
Whether that one fish was a result of dumb luck, persistence, or something else, I’ll never know. I prefer to believe that Joe, while watching and looking down, had a hand in what happened that day. I hope he’s enjoying observing everything I do on the water while helping to guide me in some way. At times though, I’m sure he’s undoubtedly shaking his head and wondering if I had actually learned anything at all these last 50 years!
