The stars aligned on a rare 70-degree, late October morning. A full moon caught the confluence of the last hour of an incoming tide that lined up perfectly with the sunrise. It was quiet in the darkness, and a warm breeze had been blowing off the ocean since around 4:45 a.m. in the false dawn, that zodiacal light before a sunrise, the faint glow of diffused sunlight scattered by interplanetary dust.
The day before had been colder, and the air still smelled of menhaden. I had just beaten my personal best, with a 44-inch striped bass taken on a topwater bait a little after sunrise. We were out to see if we could find the schools again, and hoped the water moving in the low light would get them to chew again before the Saturday crowds came out in full force. I stood there casting next to my father as the glowing backdrop gave way to the horizon line which revealed the few other fishermen down the beach who were only earlier betrayed by an occasional red glow of a headlamp. We began to see the telltale signs of baitfish, as stretches of nervous water started to form in between the swells and the gulls and terns frantically hovered.
Within minutes of that first morning glow, wolf packs of large striped bass began breaching on peanut bunker, hurling themselves out of the water, with hurried mobs of fishermen soon casting feverishly to the ends of their range hoping for a strike. I loaded a small pencil popper and let out a cast. As I felt the familiar “ping” of the braid snapping free from the athletic tape wrapped around my forefinger, I listened to it sing and hiss as it sailed through the guides. It landed a few feet off from where I had just seen a spray of peanuts. I twitched the rod and walked the plug back towards me slowly across the surface, careful to impart a back-and-forth darting motion on the bait.
The lure got no more than 3 feet from its landing position before the water beneath it disappeared in a vacuum-swirl of commotion, followed by the sudden sweep and kick of a broom-like tail. My 9-1/2-foot rod bent over to the hilt and my black VSX150 was singing as the fish peeled off line on a screaming run away from the beach. No matter how old you are, you never tire of that beautifully frantic and blissful moment of the bite. The reverberant “thump” of the take and the ensuing weight, followed by a primal tug-of-war that beats a drum deep in our chest.
My dad looked over and hollered as he so often does, “heyooooo,” as I leaned back and held tight through three screaming runs, methodically reeling down and keeping pressure while coaxing the fish back towards the beach. Around the rocks and into a cove, then back down the other way and out around the rocks again as the fish charged to try break me off on the structure. After gaining ground with the help of the momentum of a swell, I swept the fish onto the sand and immediately realized that I had not been able to see the fish due to the low angle of the sun on the water; this fish was much bigger than I realized.
As I quickly got the fish steadied, I thought about thanking my wife for pushing me into an Orangetheory fitness class so my arms didn’t fall off. With dad’s help, and after snapping a few pictures, we quickly released her. The mark on my Shadow Surf measured out at 49 inches, what we estimated at 53 pounds.
When the bite finally calmed down, we packed it up and ended the morning with breakfast on the sidewalk at a small cafe downtown, each of us reveling in our own version of what had just transpired and laughing at the ones we missed. The waitress at least pretended to be impressed by our stories. We sipped iced coffees as the unseasonably strong sun beat down and watched as scores of pickup trucks and SUVs with roof racks littered with surf rods drove with plates from New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania plates alike, all looking to get in on the next bite.
You only get so many mornings like that in your life. To be there and experience it with my father was one day I will cherish forever, which neither of us will ever forget. It’s these moments, when the ocean comes alive, alongside the quiet moments, when it feels like there’s nothing else but you and the horizon, that keep us coming back to that frothy, salt-strewn altar. It is here we cast off the weight of society on the backs of divers and plugs and find ourselves centered in hope before the awe-inspiring expanse of sea.
Breathing in the false dawn, we listen and move in search of the next sign that might lead to a take, ourselves and those fish we chase, but small formations of interplanetary dust.
