CUTBANK RIGHT THE APPROPRIATE FEELINGS OF SUPERIORITY “Much of the striper water I’ve had the pleasure of fishing is often quite close to large cities, industrial and gritty. There’s been a lot of sliding kayaks into closed city parks or setting shuttles based on which way the wind is blowing. Sometimes you’re sneaking around gated communities or watching your back in some dicey neighborhoods. Regardless, you’re never all that far from humanity.” Photo: Tim Romano As we got closer on this third hike, we saw birds working the surf in the floodlights of the sand dredge that is constantly digging to keep the shipping lanes open. Mike walked the last 10 yards of the beach and bombed a big swim bait toward the bow of the dredge and let the 2-ounce jig head take it deep before coming tight to a fish. They were here. It was on. Of course, I had an intermediate line rigged up from when the water was calmer earlier in the day and now I couldn’t get my fly down to the fish. I backed out of the wash to rerig. The surf and the wind pulled all the line out of my stripping basket. It was tangled around my feet and blowing 10 yards down the beach and I was still sweating from the hike in. I watched Mike land his first fish and then hook up with another as I struggled to untangle things and get the sand-covered line back onto the reel. Shame and frus-tration and anger coursed through my body, the un-fortunately familiar feelings of a fly angler struggling next to a gear guy catching fish. I can never manage to conjure the appropriate feelings of superiority. I swapped out the spool for a heavy sink tip and got that strung up and tied on a new f ly. Mike walked over while fighting his third fish and asked, “Are you finally ready?” I didn’t answer. I angrily tore line off into the stripping basket and made two false casts through the screaming wind un-der the floodlights of the dredge. Its bucket came up from the depths ponderously swinging back toward the pile of sand on the deck of the ship. The overflow-ing slurry drooled into the ocean and broken Tagalog crackled over the intercom as (I can only assume) the bucket operator communicated with someone on deck. I sent the cast and tried to roll slack over the waves to where my fly landed. I counted it down 10 seconds before I tucked the rod butt under my arm and double-hand stripped up the huge bow of line. By the time I caught up to it there was a fish on and it was big and Mike was hooked up and we were doubled up and it felt goddamn heroic. I let out a whoop, and a guy on the deck of the dredge gave us a double thumbs up with his arms over his head. 108 THE FLYFISH JOURNAL
The Flyfish Journal The Flyfish Journal 13.4: Page 108
