I hear them coming long before I see them. Three guys shining their flashlights everywhere — over the rocks, in the water, in my eyes if I’m foolish enough to turn around.
The leader is fat and loud, with a short gray beard and jowls. He’s wearing hip boots and sports the largest flashlight I’ve ever seen anyone hang around their neck. It must be 18 inches long and extends to his big belly. I can tell by talking with them that they all work in the restaurant business. At least one guy is a dishwasher.
They’re loud and crude, but friendly and willing to tell me all they know on this late-October night. Flashlight says this is one of the best spots on the East Coast and that many famous fishing writers have worked these waters. When I quiz him, he can’t remember any of their names. I have fished this point since I was a boy. Like all decent locations, it has its days, but it’s not my favorite spot.
They are four hours off the best tide. The guy in the leather hat is talking to the third guy, who’s wearing low, white boots and says he hasn’t fished in three or four years. “They told me all I’d have to do is open the car door, and they’d swim in,” White Boots says. “Just open the car door.”
He’s uncomfortable navigating the rocks that are strewn everywhere. And he’s skeptical.
“What’s that” White Boots asks, pointing to Fishers Island, located in eastern Long Island Sound. “Is that Block Island?”
“Nah,” says Leather Cap. “It’s Long Island. Montauk, I’m pretty sure.”
The conversation makes me think of an Emily Dickinson quote I’ve used in my writing: “The sailor cannot see the North, but knows the needle can.” This trio is about as lost as Columbus.
They are waiting for more tide and water to fish directly off the point. “Half an hour,” says Flashlight, in a loud, raspy voice. “They’ll be here. Give it time. Another half-hour. They got ’em last night. They’ll be here.” Until then, he continues to toss a popping plug, not the typical choice for nighttime stripers.
About an hour in, Flashlight is standing on a rock with a Tootsie Pop in his mouth. “This isn’t my pole!” he announces to everyone. “This isn’t my pole or my reel! I’m going to kill my kid. I know it didn’t feel right.”
His son apparently switched rods by mistake. Oy vey.
I fish for nearly three hours, much longer than I’d anticipated. I have one small fish shake off, and one other hit. I am on a good rock fronting fishy water; the tide is flooding, waves building. But tonight is not the night, despite Flashlight’s cheerleading. I finally sit and slip off the rock just as a swell looms up and rolls over the top of my waders. I hadn’t thought to bring my wading jacket.
The trio is still yammering as I slip past. I’m getting chilled. At the car, I doff my waders and root around for a pair of shorts and a top. I’m parked under a streetlight on the only road through the village. Nevertheless, I strip naked and change into dry clothes. Not a car comes by. A season that is winding down seems to amplify this random encounter on the beach. You never know how things are going to go some nights.
