As a casual fisherman growing up in Brooklyn during the 1970s, striped bass were an enigma. I knew about them from the pages of this magazine, but I had never seen one, let alone caught one. Nobody in my family fished, so I spent more time reading about fishing than actually doing it.
Most of my fishing consisted of catching snappers behind the Waldbaums in Mill Basin. My friends and I would climb a fence to reach a tiny marina where we spent entire days catching killies, chasing blue claw crabs and digging for bait. Every incoming tide brought schools of baitfish, and that meant snapper fishing. As far as we were concerned, snappers were the only fish that existed. Once a kid caught an eel, but we didn’t count that.
Then one day a friend landed a strange fish with stripes on its sides. None of us knew what it was until an older kid identified it as a striped bass. The other kids had never heard of one, but I had read enough magazine articles to know exactly what he meant. The fish was tiny compared to the giant “cows” featured in the stories I devoured, but it was a striper nonetheless. Unfortunately, by then it was also a dead one.
That was the first and last striped bass I saw for many years.
As a teenager I graduated to party boats like the Helen H and Dorothy B. We caught bluefish, fluke, bonito and even some giant weakfish, but never a striped bass. These were the moratorium years, and stripers were scarce.
Then life got in the way. College, work and other responsibilities kept me off the water for nearly five years.
Eventually I started spending weekends in Hampton Bays. After hearing reports of small bluefish around the Ponquogue Bridge, I decided to give it a try one evening. I grabbed an old snapper rod and headed for the bridge at sunset.
This was before the new bridge was built. I was fishing from the rocks on the north side with no light, no landing net and only a rusty 2-1/2-inch Rebel plug armed with undersized trebles.
My first cast taught me a lesson. The current immediately swept the lure toward the bridge pilings. Somehow I got it back. On the next cast I aimed away from the structure and reeled fast enough to keep it clear. For about 20 minutes I repeated the same cast without a touch.
Then everything changed.
I allowed the lure to drift a little deeper into the shadows before beginning my retrieve. Suddenly it stopped.
At first I thought I was snagged.
Then the snag started swimming.
The fish nearly ripped the rod from my hands. This was a bargain-bin snapper outfit with aging 12-pound mono and a drag system that had seen better days. I quickly loosened the drag as line disappeared from the spool.
To my surprise, the fish ran east, away from the bridge. I scrambled along the rocks and onto the beach, following it. For the next 20 minutes I gained line, lost line and wondered when the inevitable break-off would come. More than once I was convinced the spool would empty completely.
Slowly, however, I began to gain ground.
Eventually the fish settled near the bridge shadow line and refused to move. I stood on the rocks with no net and no practical way to land it. My only chance was to steer it toward a nearby stretch of sand.
The fish hugged the bottom and used the current to its advantage. Through the dark water I caught only brief glimpses, but I knew two things for certain: it was a striped bass and it was the biggest fish I had ever hooked.
The first striper I had ever fought.
After several minutes of stalemate, I tried lifting the fish higher in the water column so I could guide it toward shore.
Then I heard it.
Pop.
An instant later my Rebel plug came flying past my face and landed on the rocks behind me.
The fish lingered in view for only a moment before fading into the darkness.
I stood there shaking.
For the entire fight I had assumed the weak link would be the old monofilament. It never occurred to me that a hook could straighten. Yet when I picked up the plug, one treble was nearly pulled straight.
I made a few more casts with the crippled lure but never got another strike.
I’ve caught plenty of striped bass since that night. Some were larger. Most made it to hand.
But no fish has ever meant more to me than that one—the first striper I ever hooked, and the one that got away.
