One of many spell in the fall of 2022 that I spent living out of my vehicle started with eating tortilla chips and queso in a park and ride. The tide wasn't what I wanted just yet for the one spot I'd intended to fish in the dark that night, so time needed to be killed. I threw on a podcast, got comfortable, and put calories in my body. The inside of my 4Runner probably didn't smell especially savory that night; with multiple saltwater soaked items of clothing drying in the back and my own sweaty, haggered self in the driver's seat. My overall mental state at the time reflected that of a fish obsessed hippy. I was nominally single, still occasionally hooking up with my ex but not bound into a time consuming relationship. I was guiding sporadically. My rig was finally behaving itself after half a year of mechanical problems. This was subsequently be my first fall run with my own vehicle, no partner, and no job. This was the first fall run during which I could do what I'd always wanted to do for years- live at the whims of the fish, tide, and wind alone. The conditions controlled what I did, not anything else. I had grown a tight little network of other anglers of the same mind and similar situational freedom. Our focus was honed on one of the most spectacular natural events on the east coast. The mass migration of baitfish was already underway and the predatory fish and birds were snapping at their heals. Those of us who simply couldn't resist the call of such spectacular biological occurrences came from all corners of the northeast and convened at our chosen churches, a fishing pilgrimage, if you will. Some worshipped on the sand beaches and long jetties of Rhode Island. Others boarded boats to pray from within the melee. I myself would be headed to my place of prayer in a short time, a rocky bit of shoreline in Eastern Connecticut where an estuary emptied into the sound. As I polished off my bag of chips, I saw that it was around midnight- almost time for the mass to begin -and dawned my ceremonial garb. I slipped neoprene socks onto my feet, and a beaten pair of sneakers over them. I tightened the belt of my khaki shorts and threw on a salt stained navy blue hoody. Into a sling pack went a few wallets of flies and some spools of heavy tippet.
I parked a fair distance from the spot and outside of an open gate. Despite the fact that it was already late, I knew there was a fair chance this gate would be closed by the time I got back to the parking lot. A police officer had already had already warned me of this likelihood a few weeks prior when the tide timing was similar. I didn't at all mind adding to the walk anyway. The darkness enveloped me as the street lights began to disappear behind the trees and a sense of calm arose. In time, the pavement under my feet gave way to sand, then the sand to rock, then the rock to slat water. Wading into the inlet, I could hear the occasional pop and swirl of schoolie striped bass feeding on silversides. Affixed to the tippet at that time was a white Tabory Snake fly, a scraggly looking offering that I'd swing in hopes of drawing attention from a larger, more opportunistic predator. Bypassing the shallow feeding schoolies, I maneuvered the edge of the rocks out to the very mouth of the inlet. There, the estuary emptied out over a sandy delta into a deep area. Behind my lay a large bar on which stripers often roamed. In theory, the outgoing tide and baitfish in the estuary mouth might draw bass either from deep water of the rock bar to feed in the current plume. My second cast was greeted by a jarring strike. Not a bass though. The fish went airborne shortly after the hook-set. It jumped repeatedly and made spastic, energetic runs. This was certainly a bluefish. That poor Tabory snake fly stood no chance.
After encountering that toothy critter, the destroyed Snake Fly was replaced by something more durable and I was treated to a pick of modestly sized bluefish for the rest of the tide. Though the bite was nothing to write home about, a few fish got the Tibor to sing nicely and the rod stayed bent for an hour or so. Who could complain about that? I made my way back to the parking spot exhausted and satisfied. Sleep would be minimal, though, as the sun still rises early in September and I had no intention of missing what would likely be a fiery false albacore feed right after dawn.
I caught a couple hours right there in the parking lot, moderately comfortable in my fully reclined car seat with a pillow supporting my back and a blanket hiding my face from the one glaring streetlight. I moved an hour before sunrise just to be close to where I'd fish and got one more hour of rest before the light of the new day filtered through the fogged up windshield. Cracking a can of peanuts, I stretched and yawned. Almost reluctantly I climbed out into the morning air, binoculars in one hand and breakfast in the other. From the roof of my truck I'd eat my "meal" and watch for the first signs of fast fish. Before the first rays of sun even graced the Sound's lightly choppy surface the tunny were sending spray and piercing the waves out in the deeper water. I hurried my pace and called my friend Alex. There's a stretch in there that my tired mind did not commit to memory, but I cannot possibly forget the highlight of the morning. I know Alex had caught a rather nice striped bass on an Albie Snax and I'd lost one of his creative popper flies to a substantial blue, the I looked a point over and saw birds working in tight. Reluctant to make immediate moves, I let the situation fold out a bit longer. In time though it seemed there was no reason to stay where I was. I waved to Alex, who was further way and likely couldn't see the action from his position and began scampering across the rocks towards the unfolding blitz. I got out in front of the mayhem, tunny still blasting through the silversides just off the rocks, and fired a gurgler out into the fray. A mere few casts later I was treated to the sight of a tunny, shimmering like something carved out of a block of chrome with blue and green reflecting off of it's surface, blasted through the surface and engulfed the skittering fly. I was tight, and soon Alex was too. Any sense of exhaustion or lingering effects of car sleep melted away as though it were the backing leaving the reel as the tunny ran, taking every other problem in my life with it. There are a lot of different kinds of drugs out there and this, well this is mine. It's cliche, it's overused. But some of us sleep in parking lots, ruin relationships, and risk mental and physical health to pull on fish. Our brains crave the chemical stimulation enforced by evolving to predate, to acquire sustenance, and we take advantage of it to feel good, to get high for a moment in time. Some of us get addicted to it. It's not as dangerous as some other drugs, but it can still effect our well being. I must say, sometimes I just don't care. I'd rather look for that next high, and I feel I get so much enrichment through the process of hunting it. Moderation is good though. Sometimes you have to go home and sleep in a real bed.. Eat real meals. Foster healthy relationships. Like many drugs, you can have a moderately healthy balance if you try. Do I?
Nope.
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