Landing in Rhode Island for my cousin’s fall wedding, I was excited to participate in a whole bunch of annual rites I could no longer do in my new hometown of San Diego, CA. Crisp mornings with burnt-colored leaves, cozy sweaters and some warm apple cider. And of course, striper fishing.
I’m from New Jersey, which assuredly and explicitly is not New England. But Rhode Island stole away one of my cousins, and the two places have more in common than most people care to admit. The large Italian-American population results in a shared culture, shared cuisine, and shared communication style. I walked into all three when arriving at the family house, the air thick with loud conversation and chicken cutlets being fried.
The greetings, “Hey Cali boy, welcome back,” “you’re so pale, you sure you live at the beach,” and “you doing a lot of fishing out there?”
“Good to be back,” “I still have a job,” and “not as much as I want,” returned in reply.
I wasn’t fishing as much as I wanted, but isn’t that always the case? But mainly the fishing out there just didn’t scratch my itch. From shore all I could get were some tiny sand perch, croaker, or the occasional halibut. It wasn’t boring per se, it just wasn’t the fishing I grew up with, and as such, didn’t feel as comforting or rewarding.
I wisely and patiently waited until after the wedding to find time to fish, driving in the morning to a spot I clocked the day earlier. It was a long rock pile, the remnants of an old rail-bridge extending about halfway into a channel that bottlenecked the tide through a narrow opening. As if taken from a diagram in a fishing book, I could picture all the stripers sitting on one side, picking off all the mullet swept by. I’m not sure if it was because it was a weekday morning or just the fishing gods were smiling, but there was no one there. Just me on the rocks, salt in the air, and an outgoing tide.
After a few attempts with bucktails and Albie Snax, I switched to my favorite lure, a saltwater spook. I think I was saving it for last because I knew if it didn’t work, nothing would. A big booming cast landed it above the submerged rocks, right where the turbulent water was swept through the bottleneck. Each big swipe of my rod made it twitch towards shore, slicing against the rushing water, looking like a panicked animal trying to stay afloat during a river crossing. Then I saw it, a quick slurp followed by swipe, the shiny and gray back breaking the surface so smoothly and easily, like shaving off the end of a warm stick of butter.
For an instant, I panicked. I always expect to catch a fish, yet am always surprised the moment I hook one. Luckily, instinct kicked in and I let it take over. Reeling fast and banking my rod to the right, I led her away from the rocks before she had time to think. She unwittingly obliged and swam into open water, before deciding she had enough of that and went on some line-ripping runs. My footing slipped slightly on the wet rock I was perched on, the salt spray started hitting me in the face, and my reel made that noise that has only been described as screaming. I cracked a wide smile, and just thought “This is it.”
After a proper fight with some give and some take, she finally came to the surface and I led her through the labyrinth of rocks to get her at my feet. She glistened in the water. I wish I could have gotten a good picture, but all I managed was a selfie with my face and her head, like a vacationing couple in front of a landmark. I said thank you very much and sent her on her way. And with a big old slap of the tail, she was gone.
I took a few more casts but the tide had shifted and I was more than ready. Ready to head back to the house, ready to share the story with my family, ready to bask in more sights, sounds, and smells of home.
