Deep Into the Night

Small and stealthy wins the night when targeting striped bass in the skinny waters of a New Jersey bay

By Jerry Audet

January 16, 2024

I’m early, and the ramp is packed with trucks, trailers and boats — a buzzing hive of activity. And like a nest of wasps, there is a hostility to it. Honking, yelling, profanity. Anglers jump the line, cause traffic jams and incite “ramp rage,” a close cousin to road rage.

But everyone is going the wrong direction, and I’m relatively certain they’re utterly unaware. Not one boat is going in the water. They’re leaving the best fishing behind, and as I watch the chaos, tucked away in a distant corner of the lot, I sip my coffee and feel smug.

Tom Kosinski, my guide for the night, arrives as the swarm of trucks and trailers has mostly thinned. He gets right to work launching as I hurry over. Kosinski is an inshore and fly-fishing guide based in Redbank, New Jersey. We met through a mutual friend and quickly bonded over our devotion to striped bass. Kosinski is a fishing intellectual, a true scholar of old ways and new, who integrates techniques from other fisheries. He is stoic and quiet, but with a fierce wit and a wry, sarcastic humor that often catches me off guard — but in a good way. Whether talking about fishing, politics or music, Kosinski considers his words carefully but doesn’t pull punches. After all, he is a born-and-raised New Jerseyan.

As I wait for Kosinski to get the boat untethered — his head down, totally focused — his best friend Shawn Matthews arrives. Matthews is the “sport” for the night — I’m here only to observe — and from the moment he jumps out of his rig and gives Kosinski the finger, I’m laughing. Matthews is talkative, boisterous, endlessly hilarious; he’s an affable jokester with non-stop one-liners and an almost constant smile — a stark contrast to his best friend. But he’s as hard, talented and obsessed an angler as you’ll ever meet. “Let’s get after it!” Matthews exclaims, before even introducing himself.

As the sun dips low and the sky turns peach and salmon, we push off. We pick our way through channel markers until we hit open water, then run on plane under a low bridge and into a choppy, expansive bay dotted with boats. While Kosinski primarily takes clients out in his 23-foot Regulator, we’re in his beloved 16-foot Sea Strike skiff, Knee Deep. It’s far from a traditional striper boat, and while anglers like Jeff Northrop and Paul Dixon have seminormalized poling skiffs in the Northeast over the last 35 years, those who utilize them for stripers are typically sight-fishing with crab flies and Clouser minnows.

What we’re setting out to do tonight couldn’t be further from that “typical” Florida-and-Carribean-style fly-fishing. We’re trading in blades for sawed-off shotguns, venturing deep into the dead of night to blind-cast giant wood and plastic lures at trophy-class fish feeding on adult menhaden.

In the growing twilight, we slow to trolling speed, and Kosinski surveys the scene with a steady eye; the look on his face gives nothing away. Matthews points out a knot of boats anchored in a loosely knit group. Kosinski nods and nudges the throttle. We head over for a slow-cruise investigation. No one is catching, but Kosinski notices a couple of boats he recognizes and calls out to one of the pair. He cocks his head at Matthews, and they share a glance and roll their eyes. Things go unsaid between them, but I’m picking up on the nuance. The striper world is full of heroes and villains, and New Jersey has the best of both.

I stay quiet and watch the other boats — all much larger than our skiff and decked out with gear. Kosinski’s little boat seems out of place, small and Spartan, and it’s getting dark fast. I feel slightly self-conscious as we pass a line of 20- to 27-foot boats, some with twin outboards; we stand out like a sore thumb. Doubly so because this isn’t a 6-foot-deep sand flat — the water is 18 feet and the color of mahogany.

Sitting on the bench in front of the windshield, I swivel to ask Kosinski if we’re going to join the lineup. “Might as well start here. We don’t want to give anything up while it’s still light,” he says. “It probably won’t be good until it’s totally dark. No one will be here by the time we have to turn on the running lights, anyways.”

We slide into the current at the end of the line as Matthews climbs up on the bow and lowers the trolling motor. He begins casting as the last embers of the day are snuffed out, and just as Kosinski predicted, one by one the other boats disappear.

We land a couple of fish in that first zone, and Kosinski decides the action is too slow. We run for a half-mile and drop the trolling motor again on a hump Kosinski likes, this time much closer to shore in the shallows. We hear bunker flipping on the surface all around us. On his first cast, Matthews can feel them bouncing off his line as he drags a 6-ounce, metal-lipped lure through the school. I catch a glimpse of a patch of water vibrating so violently just below the surface that it’s easily visible in the murky darkness. Then we hear a loud crack as a fish attacks the school with a violent splash. My heartbeat quickens as Kosinski and Matthews cast toward the sound.

Seconds, then minutes, tick by. Just as I’m losing my enthusiasm for the moment, Matthews sets the hook on a fish so hard that the boat rocks and I slide in my seat. The fish pulls the baitcaster into a deep bend, and Matthews puts the tip in the water as the striper runs under the boat. Kosinski comes forward to help land the 20-pound fish, but for his generosity, he gets a ribbing from Matthews. “How come I’m catching the fish when you’re supposed to be the expert?” Matthews pulls a couple more decent fish before the bunker move on and the bite shuts down.

After another hour of bouncing around, picking up a fish or two each time we stop, Kosinski brings us tight to the base of a steep hill dotted with beautiful homes. As I stare at them, wondering if any of the residents fish, Matthews proclaims, “It’s time for Poppa!” The boat pitches when he hops off the bow and begins rummaging around in a bag filled with PVC squares. Each square holds a lure or two, many of which are works of art, and Matthews rejects one after another until he finds “Poppa,” a 10-inch, 5-ounce plastic swimbait with a rubber tail and metal joint at the center. It looks cheap and hokey compared with the beautiful wooden plugs. I’m dubious. Matthews wags it at us as if he’s making an obscene gesture. I can’t help but laugh; a low chuckle escapes Kosinski, too.

From the first cast, the fish respond, bumping and nudging Poppa throughout the entire retrieve. Once Matthews and Kosinski, who also has switched to a Poppa, get the swimbait to move in just the right way, the hits detonate like 1,000 pounds of dynamite. The fight is pure chaos and fury. The fish rocket to the surface, shaking, thrashing and cartwheeling to extricate the plastic and metal from their maws. It’s a toxic mixture tonight — fussy, savage fish on big, heavy lures — that makes them maddeningly difficult to land. The stream of profanity that pours from both anglers as they botch fish after fish is impressive.

Still, they pick away at, missing twice as many fish as they hook. We drift down-current and into a lee. It becomes eerily calm. Out of the wind, the world is hushed and feels close. We’re all silent for a time, and I’m acutely aware of our smallness.

After a final drift and a couple more fish, we run dark to the next spot so as not to give ourselves away to anyone who might be spying. Kosinski cuts the throttle back quickly, shutting down the engine as the wake catches us and tosses the boat, testing the fortitude of my stomach and reminding me that we’re in a poling skiff, not a center console.

Matthews doesn’t drop the Minn Kota, and when I ask why, Kosinski says “we” (meaning me) should keep our voices down. The bottom comes up quickly, and the fish can be sitting in just 1 foot of water. In his calm, low voice, he tells me the trolling motor spooks the fish here, and we’re best keeping an eye on the finder and fan casting as we drift. I ask if chop from a larger boat could spook them. He says it’s possible — another advantage of the skiff.

The edge in this spot is so severe that as the tide drops, you can swing from 10 feet of water to sand in a couple of boat lengths. Again, our little boat shines, as maneuverability is crucial. We narrowly avoid mooring buoys as we drift in darkness, the depth finder at its dimmest setting, our last-second warning that we’re reaching the shoal. Kosinski says this is one of his favorite spots, even though it’s a little hazardous and often isn’t the most productive. “I just really like it,” he says with a shrug, hooking a fish as if he planned it.

Halfway through the night, I understand why Kosinski loves the skiff for this type of fishing. It’s stealthy and quiet, and we can maneuver quickly from spot to spot or drift a hole or hump multiple times. We can get in tight without the anxiety of possibly running aground. Yes, it’s bumpier in the chop and a bit cramped for the three of us, but it’s a wicked little fishing machine.

And as I listen to a story about giant bluefin Matthews is telling, I’m suddenly transported to Washington County, New York, fishing from my grandfather’s 14-foot flat-bottom boat with a 15-hp Nissan. I loved the flat deck, how it felt so low to the water and how easily I could peer over the side and look right to the bottom. We’d pitch worms until it was too dark to see, Pop calling the biggest perch “gila monsters” and me laughing the whole time. The vibe is similar tonight — 30 years later — and the boat is part of it. But the fish are much bigger, the jokes more adult.

Kosinski makes a longer run across the bay to a smaller cove that can hold really big fish. We’ve eclipsed midnight, and Matthews has cracked a beer. He and Kosinski start working an expansive inside corner, and it isn’t long before Matthews hooks a nice fish on Poppa, which he drops after a short run. Kosinski starts marking fish everywhere on the sounder, and it becomes a bite of attrition and determination.

The fish aren’t trophies, mostly 12- to 18-pounders, but their ferocity is supersized. They jump and dive, shake their heads and roll, and fight you every inch of the way. Their power is amplified in the small skiff, as low as it is to the water. When the fish go berserk next to the boat, it’s right in my face. Scooching to get a photo, I take a splash of cold water from a crazed striper. I inhale with the shock of the temperature as water runs down the front of my shirt. “That seems as good a sign to quit for the night as any other,” Kosinski says as I wipe water from my eyes.

Reversing course and cruising back under the bridge, we come across an angler who’s run aground on a sandbar. The channel is narrow with the tide bottomed out. The water in the middle is less than 4 feet. We slow as we get closer, and there is talk of attempting a rescue until it’s clear the other boat is slowly coming off the bar.

As I huddle on the bench, he reminds me that we all have to be at the marina at 5 a.m. for a sunrise session on Raritan Bay — three hours from now. “I’d rather not sacrifice any more sleep for someone that didn’t follow the markers with the wrong boat,” Kosinski says. “He’ll make it.”

I agree, as I do the math and realize I will get, at best, two hours of sleep before I am back on the water. But I’d rather be tired and fishing than dreaming about it.