Skim ice ringed the dock pilings on this bitter cold Thanksgiving morning and moonlight twinkled frosty silver off the weather-beaten planks that led to the boat. Ducks skittered from under the dock, wings whistling softly as they fled the approaching footsteps of the bass fisherman. Wood smoke from a neighbor’s fireplace hung heavy in the still, dense air.
In less than an hour, dawn would open the winter sky on this special day. While others thought of turkey dinners, his were of striped bass. His family would be impatient for his return, but this was an annual ritual he never missed. Thanksgiving morning, while his family still slept, was always the last trip of the season.
A pair of wire-line trolling rods slipped into waiting rod holders in the rocket launcher while umbrella rigs armed with deep-purple tubes were laid on the deck. Despite the cold, the outboard turned over easily, coughed and sputtered briefly, and then lit up with a roar and a belch of oily smoke. Before tossing the lines, a sip of coffee from the Thermos heated his belly while waiting for the outboard to reach a smooth idle.
The fisherman eased the SeaCraft from the slip, then turned downriver and pushed the throttle forward, crouching low behind the windshield to avoid the blast of chilling air. The skiff nimbly danced past markers and buoys, following the channel leading to the inlet where the fisherman was soon greeted by the vast openness of the ocean as he cleared the jetties and turned north. His favorite striped bass reef was twenty minutes away.
He chose one of the umbrella rigs, slightly bent and re-bent from past victories over striped bass, and clipped it to the end of the leader. Pulling back to idle speed as he approached the reef, he launched the rig. In the darkness, he felt the wire-line marks slip through his fingers until the rig streamed about 200 feet behind the skiff and 20 feet below the surface, its tube lures twirling seductively. The boat rocked gently in the swells, adding to the umbrellas rig’s pulsating lifelike motion. The simple chore of attaching the umbrella rig to the leader was difficult due to the bone-chilling cold so he decided to fish only one rod.
The fishfinder etched several slashes on the screen as he steered across the south edge of the reef. Bass appeared as telltale slashes on the recorder on the down-current side of the reef—they were there. He could sense striped bass eying the rig with its spinning tubes. (He made his own rigs, taking the time to dye the tubing exactly the right colors and cutting them to the ideal lengths. Stored curved in a coffee can atop the furnace in the basement, the latex tubing set from the mild heat and retained their perfect curves. But that was a winter project; today’s job was to catch the last bass.)
He carefully ran favorite and proven ranges, lining up shorelines etched deep in his memory. He knew them by heart and the boat seemed to know them too, since many tides and miles of water had slid beneath that hull. Each pass over the best spots brought the promise of a fish, but no reward. The tide was ebbing and would soon be slack. The fisherman didn’t always catch a striped bass on his last trip of the year, but there was always hope.
“Just one more pass,” he told himself, “then it’s time for home.” Heavy gray clouds hung low, seemingly only a rod tip away as he swung the bow toward the green can buoy that marked a sharp rise in the bottom, then he headed west toward the old Coast Guard Station. Running straight toward the beach, he turned sharply to the south a scant 50 yards from the rocky jetty at the old beach club that pointed like a finger to a deep hole.
The fishfinder etched another large slash as the skiff crossed the hole, so he slowed the outboard slightly, allowing the rig to settle a few feet deeper. “Come on!” he whispered, “Take it.” This was a charmed spot for big bass and he hoped the fish would take. A moment later, he notched the throttle up another 50 rpms to pick up speed and raise the rig to avoid a hang-up on the boulders at the far edge of the hole. Had he missed his chance?
The reel clicker screamed, “No!” and his heart thumped. “Fish on!” As wire line melted from the reel, the rod dipped hard and then bent over double as the striped bass yanked desperately against the tight drag. Turning to put the wind off the stern, he almost lost the rod as cold-numbed hands grabbed it from the rod holder. Adrenalin flushed through his body as he began the serious business of battling the fish. The cold, the clouds and numbed hands were quickly forgotten. He steered with his back to the console, his hips and rear pushing against the rim of the steering wheel, leaning the wheel right or left to keep the fish directly off the stern. A freshening north breeze helped keep the line tight.
Finally, the bass rose to the surface about 10 yards off the stern, its tail seemingly as wide as a snow shovel. This was a trophy fish, and the fisherman whistled in awe at the sight of such a big striped bass. The drag whirred several more times and the wire line scraped against the guides as the great fish pulled line while gulls laughed at the man all alone on the cold ocean.
It seemed like an eternity, but it was more like 15 minutes before the fish was ready for the gaff. It lay off the stern corner, the forward motion of the boat keeping the line tight and holding the beautiful fish on its side, its dark stripes accented with a wide splash of purple on its back, contrasting against the stark silver-white sides.
He couldn’t kill the fish. Instead, he knelt and leaned over the gunnel to grab the leader, easing the big fish, perhaps a 50 pounder, closer to the boat. The water felt warm as he grabbed the tube firmly implanted in the fish’s jaw. His other hand grabbed the fish under the gill plate and he struggled to haul it over the covering boards.
It plopped on the deck, glistening, smacking its tail in protest. The fisherman quickly inserted a tag under one of its scales. Somehow, numbed fingers managed to tie the knot that held the tag in place. With the tube lure twisted free, he held the fish under its belly and head, lifted it up, and then slipped the bass back into the water. The low clouds softly dropped their first snowflakes as the bass turned away from the boat. With a powerful sweep of its tail, the great fish disappeared in the gray water.
The fisherman paused to savor the moment, then turned abruptly to take his place at the wheel, shoved the throttle forward and headed for home. It was time to reflect on the past season, enjoy his family and give thanks for his many blessings.
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