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The Turn of the Tide

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Contents

Chapter 1 My Addiction....................................................1Chapter 2 Good Friends and Cold Nights....................................3Chapter 3 The Big One.....................................................7Chapter 4 Fish and Fame Almost Lost.......................................17Chapter 5 The Arrival.....................................................21Chapter 6 Problems for the Stripers.......................................25Chapter 7 Invitation to a Lawsuit.........................................29Chapter 8 Dirty Deals.....................................................33Chapter 9 "One Man Against the Survival of a Species".....................37Chapter 10 On Camera with Connie Chung....................................41Chapter 11 The Big Debate.................................................43Appendix..................................................................49

Chapter One

It was Tuesday evening and my office clock showed 5:30. I snatched up my briefcase and headed for Penn Station to board the 5:59 train for Long Island. It would take me to my home and family in Massapequa Park, an incorporated village on the south shore about 40 miles out of New York City. Leaving the office this late would ensure me a seat for the long ride. My commute usually took an hour and a half door to door.

Eileen, my wife of twenty years, greeted me with a kiss. She informed me that she had already fed our four starving kids and my dinner was waiting. I pulled off my tie and sat down to a fast meal.

Glancing anxiously at my watch, I calculated that I had just 25 minutes to hit the road in my beach buggy. I gulped down the rest of my meal and quickly pulled on my fishing clothes. If all went well, I should be arriving at the inlet beach in time to catch the turn of the tide.

My fishing buddies and others would already be on the small outer bar from which their hooks could reach predator fish feeding in the deeper fast-running current. If I arrived too late, there might be no room for me on the narrow sand spit. As I crossed the waist-deep slough in the dark, I could just make out the human forms already gathered on the bar. I quickly found a casting spot in the middle of the line of anglers, noting that two rods were already bent with fish on.

Snapping a blue and white darter to my line, I held my cast until no one else was casting, then fired my two-ounce lure up-current at about a 45-degree angle. I reeled in the slack line as the fast current carried my lure past me. Then, as my line tightened, the plug began to throb enticingly. I reeled more slowly and got a good strike. I tried to set the hook but missed. Then another strike followed, and another. Before the action died, I had taken two bluefish and released a feisty, undersized striped bass that was hardly longer than my lure. Another angler not far from me landed a twelve-pound striper, while others loaded up with bluefish.

The slough that I had crossed earlier was now reduced to a mere trickle. With rod on my shoulder and fish on a stringer, I trudged my way up the dune to my beach buggy. I removed my headlamp, waist belt, plug bag, and waders. Several swallows of the still-hot coffee from my Thermos quickly revived me. It was now past one in the morning. By the time I got home, gutted and iced down my fish, it would be three o'clock before I could join my tolerant spouse in a warm, comfortable bed.

I set the alarm for 7:15 a.m. and rolled into bed, planning to catch the 8:12 into the city. When the fish were present in the surf, this would be my routine two or three times a week. It was an addiction that would rule my life for years. Catching the turn of the tide became my master.

Chapter Two

Early on in my fishing days I met Frank Keating, a former police reporter turned fishing columnist. Frank suggested that I would benefit from membership in the High Hill Stripers, a surf fishing club with about 30 members. They held monthly meetings and competitions and knew the ins and outs of catching the big ones. Little did I know that his suggestion would have a tremendous impact on the next fifteen or so years of my life.

Some of the members spent weekends at Montauk State Park, the striped bass capital of the East Coast. Keating described these fishermen as both knowledgeable and competitive; in his words, they were true sportsmen. Taking his advice, I became a member and began spending weekends and vacation days with them.

Montauk's growing popularity with anglers was due to the size and abundance of the catches from these waters. The Point jutted out into Block Island Sound and the game fish had to pass its shores as they migrated south from Cape Cod, New England, and Long Island Sound to warmer waters. They also were in hot pursuit of the south-moving forage fish such as herring, anchovy, sand eels, mullet, and squid.

To make my frequent trips to the Point, I purchased a Volkswagen camper and equipped it with oversized tires, which I deflated to increase traction on the sandy beaches. It wasn't much to look at, but it was comfortable and dependable. Most important, it provided protection and warmth from harsh winds when the weather was foul.

It was on just such a blustery night that I headed out to Montauk Point to join my fellow surf rats at the North Bar, a usually productive game fish location. My considerate wife stopped me as I was leaving and handed me a bottle of Southern Comfort.

"Here," she said. "This is to ward off any chills."

Normally the drive took about two and a half hours, but on this night I was anxious to get there and catch the outgoing tide. I passed the paved parking lot and glanced up at the old brick lighthouse, now painted red and white. The structure had been commissioned by President George Washington in 1792. It had stood, since its completion in 1796, as a beacon to warn ships of the treacherous rocky shoals that surrounded it. The Montauk lighthouse was New York's first, and was a popular destination for history buffs.

I continued down the deeply rutted track to the North Bar where I hoped some of my buddies were also crazy enough to show up on such a night. I angled the VW up close to three other buggies parked there and hastily suited up. I donned heavy waist-high waders, a foul-weather jacket, an old army belt from which hung a hand gaff, fish chain, and a sheathed knife. My headlamp dangled from my neck as I picked up my surf rod and started walking. We had discovered that if we placed our headlamps on our heads, other fishermen could spot any possible action. Some even sat in their buggies watching through binoculars to see who might be having luck; but, with the lamps hung around our necks, any light beams were hidden by our bodies from the shore.

As I waded carefully into the windblown surf, I struggled to keep my balance on the slippery boulders with the butt end of my surf rod. I could see that those already out there were being buffeted by the pounding waves. After less than a half hour of this punishment, all of us were soaked and frozen. We headed back to our vehicles.

My buggy was in a position that offered the most protection from the stinging northwest wind and we gathered on its lee side. Remembering the bottle of Southern Comfort that Eileen had handed me when I left home, I suggested we...