The boat was fast. The cold was an understatement. But the pure thrill of it, the planes roaring low overhead on their way into JFK, the skyline fading behind us, the bite of salt spray made the cold irrelevant. We were too excited to feel it.
In under thirty minutes, we were where we needed to be. Brendan gave us the briefing. For stripers, he said, the key is the birds. Find the flocks working the water, and you'll find the fish. He stood with binoculars in hand, scanning the horizon, then pointed. He opened the throttle, surging us toward a smudge of birds in the distance with other boats already converging. Then he killed the engine, and we glided silently into position.
And then just like that Matt was on. The rod bowed, line peeling off. A few tense, glorious minutes later, Brendan leaned out of the boat to grab the bass. Its flanks were a deep, moody silver, streaked with bold, black lines. It was a proper fish.
Casting from a moving boat, with heavy rods and flies the size of small birds, was a humbling art. Our attempts were, to be kind, interpretive. Brendan was endlessly patient, tweaking our timing, our stance, our release.
Eventually, I felt that electric tug, the line coming tight. The fish didn’t just fight, it ran, darted, and circled the boat with a dogged power that felt immense. After what felt like
a marathon. He picked my bass out of the water. The rush was instantaneous, pure. Ithink the first thing I gasped was, “How am I supposed to go back to trout after this?”
