Our Nantucket crew included old “lure maker” Bruce, George “thickset outdoorsman”, “nimble” Janski, and me “tenacious plugger”. A sparse group, but full of surf fishing skill wandering the water’s edge. Fishing hard with little reward for two days, the ever-changing weather had suddenly turned cruel. As a roaring nor’easter settled over the island, we decided to take a break with a decent dinner after sunset. Leaving the beach, wet sand was driven sideways by the incessant 35-knot winds, with the forecast for more of the same.
Dinner was an affair where friends become great friends, sharing in moments you could never plan that just happened. We spoke of huge striped bass, certainly ladies, but mostly we laughed; gut-busting ridicule towards each other, with a gusto only trusted friends could understand. Solemn conversation followed as to where our next efforts would begin. My thoughts turned to the east side of the island and a narrow spit, Coskata-Coatue Wildlife Refuge, with its Great Point. It was named “Che fa Rip” evolving from the Italian version of, what are you doing at the rip? With the tides and wind at a peculiar polarity, great plumes of saltwater could be seen spraying 40 feet high, and the crew insulted me for even mentioning this spot during a nor’easter. But I knew it was perfect for the cup-shaped pocket at the tip point of the island.
After a few hours of sleep, I tried waking the crew around 3 a.m., greeted by obscenities, and death threats. But with the help of strong coffee, we headed off towards the “Rip.” The storm lengthened our bumpy ride to the point, approaching from the back side at close to 5 a.m. in a cranking nor’easter. Most seasoned surf anglers drove in the dark or used amber colored fog lights mounted close to the ground, and as we neared the point we noticed a few Rhode Islanders we met the year before fishing the backside, wind at their backs, casting huge plugs with no one hooked up.
We pulled around the pocket but could barely make out a black and white surf boiling with 30-mile per hour madness. A steep sloping wash made plugging look not only foolish but treacherous. I left the truck first, but it would be 20 minutes before I saw first light. With stiff winds in my face, it was difficult to tell if my plug even made it past the first wave. Ten minutes later, George was plugging beside me. We could barely keep our eyes open with the wind-driven salt spray and rain. As first light finally broke, I began sneaking closer to the pounding wash. Plugging with stout Gibbs lures, I squinted through the turbulence and finally began to focus, seeing two enormous black and silver serpents rolling 25 feet in front of me. I edged closer and barely made out four more directly behind. There were no formed waves, only crashing walls of angry saltwater. Fixed on the striped mirages, I was nearly vacuumed into the froth by leg-dragging backwash.
First light is a mystical moment on the beach. Shadows become forms, forms become veiled items, and dawn proudly announces these items as sharp images. “George there are monster stripers rolling in the wash,” I shouted over the thundering surf, “just keep your plug in the water!” He returned a nonchalant look as I smiled back and walked to the right, then hearing his screaming reel drag not three steps away. Looking over my shoulder, George was now staring back in wide-eyed disbelief. As if awakened from the dead, Janski and Bruce finally emerged. Light enough to survey the boiling surf, everyone knew it was a special time. Just as the greyish dawn arrived, seven men were in paradise.
George finally coaxed his fish into the wash. I’m not exactly sure, but I think Janski gaffed the enormous linesider. We all knew it was a 50-pounder and vigorously began plugging with visions of the huge fish. “Fish on,” rang out for two hours. The driven rain slackened, but the wind cranked on. A huge tumbling surf caught an old goateed Rhode Islander in the dangerous backwash as he was trying to land a freight train of a fish. He disappeared for a second and I glanced up seeing Janski grabbing his gaff, thinking the worst. Facing up the slope on his knees, the wave’s backwash receded, his arms and legs whirling like a desperate sand crab. He scooted up the slope snatching his half-buried rod. Knowing he was safe, everyone kept right on plugging.
The total count may not be correct, around 13 as I recall. George had two, a 51- and 42-pounder; Bruce a 40 and 35; Janski lost two huge fish; and I landed a 38-pounder that morning. Spirits renewed, our crew did have a scare when Bruce started having chest pains on the drive back. Stopping at the Wauwinet Gatehouse to air-up our tires, he downed a nitrate drug with a massive slug of Blackberry Brandy, and 10 minutes later he seemed fine and ready for breakfast. We bypassed the Cottage Hospital. It was the perfect morning, except that my son was not with me.
