Chunkers are viewed as the bottom-feeders of the fishing world, the polar opposite of the refined and finesse-obsessed fly fisherman. Chunkers are seen as beer-drinking, cigarette-smoking, white-bucket-wielding Neanderthals whose only goal is to harvest meat. Some will tell you chunking is cheating. This couldn’t be further from the truth. The way I chunk is every bit as refined, sophisticated and intense as any pencil-popping, eel-slinging, deceiver-drifting surf guy you could imagine.

Step one is catching bunker. Despite having had no trouble finding bait the past several nights, my first two stops this evening came up short. I had a single adult menhaden in my cooler, but my average outing requires 20 to 30 bunker. I had already invested more than an hour looking for bait, and with the change in tide fast approaching, I had little time to waste before a decision would need to be made: forget the bunker and go plugging instead.

The first step in the chunking dance is finding bait with local knowledge and a cast net.

If I found a pod of bunker, I’d still need time to process them, finish gearing up, drive to the fishing spot and hope no one had beaten me to my rock — all before I lost the best two hours of the tide. I was running out of time.

I pulled up to another boat ramp and found several vehicles parked there — nothing out of the ordinary, even though it was 9 p.m. on a Tuesday. Half-dressed for fishing in a farmer John wetsuit and rash guard, I grabbed my supplies — a 10-foot cast net, bucket, cooler and 800-lumen flashlight — and made my way onto the dock. I scanned the surface for signs of bunker: small flips, slappy flops and ripply, nervous water. I saw nothing aside from a few silversides being chased by young-of-the-year snapper blues. My confidence was waning, but I pressed on, pacing the dock, feeling the pressure of time and tide, and hoping to spot fish. I began to think it wasn’t going to happen tonight.

I was walking back up the dock when I saw a disturbance about 50 feet out — the unmistakable sign of bunker milling in shallow water. There was hope, even though the bunker were still out of reach. I set up where I thought the school would approach the dock. With the net loaded on my shoulder, my muscles started to ache. I felt a burning sensation creep down my arm to my hand. I glanced toward the pain and could make out the red tentacles of a large jellyfish draped over my bare forearm. I must have picked it up making the earlier throws.

An average outing requires at least 20 fresh bunker. 

I focused on the water, squinting as I peered into the darkness. I tilted my head to block the light shining from the streetlamp, but I saw nothing. My back was burning from holding the net, and the sting from the jellyfish was painful. I was about to drop the net to the dock when a large bunker school gave away its position. I let the net fly. The throw was about as graceful as a newborn giraffe — far from a pancake but good enough.

As the net sank, I felt a throbbing in the handline, a sure sign of success. I let the net sink as close to the bottom as I dared, then hauled it up. I deposited 27 baits on the dock. I picked each fish from the net and placed them one-by-one into my small Igloo cooler.

I moved to a dark corner of the ramp to process the bait away from prying eyes. Each bunker received two cuts: one in front of the tail and one diagonally behind the gills. The tails serve no purpose and are tossed to the crabs. The two remaining pieces are the prime cuts; the heavy midsection is flesh and muscle, while the head retains the scent-filled innards. Both have merit depending on the spot I’m fishing, the current strength, casting distance, the number of nuisance species around and other factors. The chunks are big, but so are the fish I’m seeking.

The tail serves no purpose. The meat and innards are the good stuff. 

Once I’ve finished cutting, I stuff the pieces into a custom bait jug and hustle back to my buggy to gear up. I step into my wetsuit, dry top and spike-soled boots. There will be no waders tonight; the surf is far too dangerous at this spot. Plus, clambering onto my rock is liable to tear up my waders.

When I’m finally standing on the rock, the rest is automatic. Blood squirts, and the flesh makes a squeaking noise as I drive the 10/0 circle hook (which I snelled myself) through the nose. I lob the chunk as it is — no weight, no fishfinder slides, no pyramid sinkers.

After years fine-tuning his presentation, the author can tell where his bait is at all times of the soak.

I cast well up-current of where I intend to fish, and the weightless chunk settles to the bottom. I keep the line on the index finger of my right hand and remain attentive to any sign of life on the bait. The rod remains in hand the entire time, with the butt resting on my knee and the tip pointed to the stars. I know when the bait is held fast to the bottom. I can feel a crab as it begins picking away at the meat, and I know when a dogfish or porgy begins chewing on it. If the chunk slips free of its hold and begins to tumble in the current, I recognize that, too. I swear at times I can even feel when a bass approaches for an inspection before eating. With each cast, I use a fresh piece of bait.

Barring a hit, the soak lasts between 10 and 12 minutes. I begin counting off the seconds once the bait settles to the bottom. A hit often comes within the first minute. If there is no sign of life, the next 60 seconds are usually uneventful. This is when the current starts to spread the scent, attracting nearby stripers. Now is the time I usually take small to average-size fish up to about 20 pounds.

Detailed chunking techniques are highly effective when targeting larger striped bass.

After the four-minute mark, I move the chunk with the current to a new location, spreading the scent farther. The next four to five minutes are often unrewarding, but I remain vigilant. Assuming no signs of life by the eighth minute, I make a final adjustment to the location of the chunk and let it soak. By now, the scent has spread as wide as possible. This is when the biggest striped bass often locate the bait. Finally, I feel the telltale bump of a fish.

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Scratch, scratch, tap, CRUNCH.

Several seconds pass without further signs. I dare not move the chunk. It feels like an eternity. I remain attentive, weighing my options. Do I hold fast? Make an adjustment to the bait’s location? Maybe the fish pulled the bait off the hook — or worse, repositioned the hook point to where it won’t grab hold of the fish’s maw. Was there too much tension on the line?

Before I have time to react, my thoughts are silenced by a light thud, transmitted from hook to leader to braided line to rod and finally my fingertip. A slow pull finally starts. I drop the rod tip, instinctively leaning forward, keeping my right hand in contact with the line while my body begins to tense. Just as the rod tip approaches a horizontal position, the pull on the line speeds up, and I lean back in response. The 11-foot surf rod surges into a beautiful, deep arc from butt to tip — I am hooked up.

On a good night, the first hit comes within a few minutes of the bait soak.

I can tell right away that the fish has weight, but I have been fooled before by mega dogfish and 20- to 30-pound stripers fighting well above their weight class. And for the past few weeks, 6- to 7-foot brown sharks have been in the area. The night before last, I hooked two different sharks on consecutive casts that nearly emptied my spool.

As the fight progresses, I become confident that I have hooked a nice striper. She makes a strong charge against my drag and the tidal current, a sure sign that this is a large fish. I apply as much pressure as I dare, walking the line between too much force (which could pull the hook or part the line) and too little force (allowing the fish to dictate the fight). I know the locations of every snag and hang, so I know when I need to stop her progress and when I can let her run and burn energy.

The author releases a striped bass back into the surf. 

I get my first glimpse of the fish when its wide back and dorsal break the surface a rod’s length away. I guide the fish through the last few submerged rocks before pulling her into the wash at my feet. I flip on my red headlamp to get a look at where the hook found its purchase: right in the corner of the mouth, just as a circle hook is designed to. Between the rise and fall of the building surf, I pull her close, thrust my hand into her mouth, grab hold of her lower jaw and hold on as she thrashes wildly in one last-ditch attempt to escape.

After removing the hook, I spend time reviving the fish before taking three quick photos, hoping that one will come out. My wetsuit enables me to take the fish out beyond the surge and breaking waves. For a moment, I float in shoulder-deep water, face-to-face with 46 pounds of silver and white, barely visible in the fading moonlight, before thoughts of the recent shark activity creep into my head. Time to let her go.

It doesn’t take long for the fish to regain its strength; she bites down forcefully on my hand. I change my grip from lip to tail, point her head away from shore, and before I can signal that our fling is over, a wave breaks over my head. I lose my grip as she sweeps her powerful tail and disappears into the darkness.

This is the fish I seek every night, the one I fantasized about walking off the fishing pier with a cooler of bunker. This is why I endure the questions and the stares.