I step out of my car on a dead-end road lined with garish Jersey Shore mansions just after sunrise and take a quick look at the surf. 

There’s a decent swell and some nice whitewater, but no one is fishing. A few trucks idle in the lot with the heat on, rods clamped to roof racks. I chat with one guy, sipping coffee with his window down, who says he’s been here awhile. “Nothing happening. Just those whales,” he says, pointing. Sure enough, two humpbacks spout about a half-mile off the beach. We watch them slowly steam south.

I decide to follow them, so I drive to a nearby beach club. It’s closed for the season, but the parking lot overlooks the ocean. The humpbacks are closer now, and I watch them through binoculars from a seawall. Then I see bunker splashing, bass busting on them. The school moves in front of a jetty and within casting range. Gulls whirl. Here we go. In a flurry, I suit up and hurry toward the surf. The bass briefly erupt again, this time 100 yards down the beach. Then they’re gone.

Tom Lynch

Another surfcaster shows up, and we fish side-by-side in the pocket next to the jetty. He misses a blowup on a popper, and I miss a thump on a bucktail, but that’s all. I leave, driving south through Asbury Park. I stop at the next town, Ocean Grove. I walk to the beach with my binoculars and see birds a half-mile south in Bradley Beach, so I move again.

In Bradley, a few guys are casting, and gulls circle. I grab the surf rod and plug bag. Birds swing in close to a jetty, and I see bass busting. I pass a guy landing a schoolie on a swim shad in the pocket on the north side. Not wanting to crowd him, I set up on the south side and immediately get a swing-and-miss on a spook, then nothing. The birds are a long cast away. I put on a tin and boom it out. I miss a strike, then go fishless on my next half-dozen casts. I switch to a big bucktail and red trailer and finally land a small fish — maybe 4 pounds.

Meanwhile, Swim Shad Guy is putting on a clinic, landing schoolie after schoolie, and two guys that set up next to him are hooking up on pencils. Swim Shad Guy lands a 34-incher — which he announces to the world. A fly fisherman joins the party, clambering onto the jetty, and lands two schoolies, one after the other, while I cycle through my entire surf bag without a touch. Clearly, I’m in the wrong spot despite a pod of about 50 adult bunker swimming figure-eights around my feet.

Tom Lynch

I make the walk of shame and join the lineup. A fish swirls in the whitewater in tight, so on a hunch, I switch to a ¾-ounce, lime-green bucktail, and it works. I quickly land four schoolies while the other guys go cold. Then the bite dies, and we all start wandering off the beach.

I drive back north and end up at the same parking lot with the ocean view, where I was this morning. Nothing happening. I eat a quick lunch and brew a pot of coffee on my camp stove. A guy pulls up in a pickup with rod racks, and we begin chatting. I’ve come to learn that anglers looking for blitzes are far more talkative. There’s an exchange of information: where you just came from, what you saw and who caught what yesterday. Then he gets a call from a buddy who says there’s bass at a beach 20 miles south, and he leaves. It’s too far for me, so I stay and finish my coffee.

Birds begin circling a quarter-mile down the beach, so I get in my car and drive a few blocks. There’s an older guy with binoculars at the end of the street. He’s watching three anglers cast next to a jetty. He tells me they’re picking away at schoolies. I think about joining, but then they start running south. I look beyond the squadron of surfcasters and see birds working tight. I hop in the car and drive two blocks to intercept them.

Tom Lynch

When I get to the beach, 20 guys are lined up with bent rods, birds and bass blitzing in front of them. I’m about to make my first cast when the birds suddenly head north and begin diving along a jetty 100 yards away. Anglers run past me to climb onto the rocks. I hurry past the scrum on the rocks, thinking the fish will move my way and I’ll have them to myself — at least for a little while.

Bass blow up a massive school of adult bunker right in front of me. I send a 6-inch Spook seaward. It lands in the melee, but there’s so much bait I wind up snagging a bunker. The next cast touches down on the edge of the school and is walloped. I set the hook, and I’m on. A few minutes later, I slide a bulked-out, 20-pound striper onto the beach for a quick release. The main bunker school pushes past, but bass remain to pick off stragglers. They slash and boil everywhere in the whitewater, the breakers. I watch an individual bunker get inhaled in a giant slurp. A green wave curls, and I can clearly see a half-dozen, 15-pound stripers in tight formation behind hundreds of fleeing bunker.

A big bass slams my lure at the lip of a wave, thrashing wildly and throwing water. It grinds out a long run, and I lean back, clutching the rod with both hands. Eventually I beach a 30-pounder that looks like it’s been wolfing down steroids.

I’m not sure how long the action lasts, 45 minutes, maybe an hour. What I do know is that the big Spook and I apparently can do no wrong. I land 15 “overs” in nearly as many casts. The blitz dissipates, and I’m almost glad, as it was teetering on the precipice of gluttony. I reel in my plug and walk up to the joyful angler fishing next to me. He greets me with an enthusiastic Dude! and a fist bump. We laugh and swap tales. I wander back to my car in a daze — covered in sweat, salt and sand, happy to be alive.