Bluefish Bonanza: An Experience for the Ages

No matter your passion, calling, or craft, periodically there are times when things just seem to fall into place beautifully and you step back, look at your work and say, "I nailed it." Such experiences serve a dual purpose: they keep us going during times of discouragement, like a light at the end of an indiscernibly long tunnel; and once they're achieved—they recharge our inspiration batteries to full capacity. Considering how much of fishing is a matter of circumstantial chance, you learn to accept the uncertainty of when such things may occur, but your faith as a dedicated angler remains steadfast.

An iconic example of such a time took place for me, back in the early 90's. On what seemed to be a typical weekday, I stepped off the bus on the way back from middle school in Byram, CT, which is literally a stone's throw from the border of Westchester County, NY. As I walked through the crowded parking lot on the way toward my family's apartment, a red midsize sedan came screeching expediently toward my location with its horn blaring. Before I could make sense of the situation, the driver slammed on the brakes directly next to me and hopped out of the car. To my surprise, it was my uncle Steven, from my dad's side, screaming for me to "get in the car!" Alarmed, I asked him to explain, due to my immediate cause for concern. He smiled (almost deviously) and said "Have you ever been fishing before?!?" Wearing a smirk, I responded "Of course, Unc. Many times with you; remember?" With a piercing glare of determination he proclaimed "No you haven't. At least not like you're gonna today. Now get in the damn car!"

Apprehensively, I tossed my book bag in the backseat and strapped myself tightly into the shotgun position of the car, as I knew his driving would only become more erratic. For the next five minutes, as he blew through red traffic lights and skidded around narrow corners, I imagined what awaited us, that could be such an intense driving force behind his unwavering sense of immediacy.

Soon, we sped into Grass Island Park, which is actually a peninsula, along the southern part of coastal Greenwich, CT. After speeding passed the guard gate with his ID held out the window (as if the guard could actually see it), Uncle Steve made a hard right and gunned it toward the far west corner of the park, just beyond the boat club. Like a Hollywood stunt driver, he slammed on the brakes and halted us diagonally, yet almost perfectly into an empty parking space. As the excessive G-forces quickly subsided, he pushed me out of the passenger seat and screamed, "Follow me!"

Click photo map to enlarge:

After hopping a short guard rail and negotiating some thick green brush, we found ourselves standing on the small muddy shore of an isolated estuary. To our left was the shoreline, about thirty meters straight out were the boat docks, and to our right was a small channel that opened to the Long Island Sound. It was then that I realized why my uncle was so high strung; the saltwater in front of us looked as if it was literally boiling. This surreal sight was the result of notoriously aggressive bluefish engaged in a feeding frenzy on bunker (menhaden), their primary food source. The frenzy was so extreme that the bunker were literally beaching themselves at our feet, in order to escape the jaws of their exceedingly aggressive hunters. Throughout virtually every square inch of topwater within sight, there was beautiful chaos in motion.

We shared a set of two spinning setups; one with a plug (a lure that resembles a fish), and the other with a single hook. Of course, both setups were equipped with wire leaders, as the sharp toothed bluefish can easily bite through any standard fishing line with ease. The results were effin' RIDICULOUS! For what seemed like hours, without exaggeration, we landed countless amounts of ferociously fighting bluefish without pause. Periodically swapping setups back and fourth, we kept the process more interesting. When Uncle Steve had the plug setup, he was like a worker on an assembly line cranking in product after product. Simultaneously I’d reach down to the water’s edge, grab an available beached bunker, bait my hook, cast it out and BINGO: fish on! Two of the (many) captivating moments of the event were when Uncle Steve landed TWO blues on ONE plug at the same time; and when I hooked into a monster that had me sliding across the mud shore in my basketball sneakers.

Needless to say, the experience I’ve just described to you was and always will be quintessentially archival in the mind of a man who’s in love with fishing. The timing was excellent, not just in terms of the situation itself, but because I got to experience it as a wide eyed teenager, which added some experiential enormity to the event. To see and participate in such an extreme food chain—relations process was as humbling as it was exhilarating. Mind you, this was well before the days of popular cell phone ownership, so a BIG shoutout goes to Uncle Steve for choosing to temporarily leave such an extreme angling opportunity, in hopes that he could quickly find me and bring me along for the “ride.” As I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, the way a young person experiences fishing may significantly impact the manner in which it becomes a part of his or her life later on. For me, this one was a tattoo on my soul, from the moment it began.