A Fish Story: The Night of the Striper

When nightfall descended on the deserted beach, it was time for us to go fishing. Under a moon- and star-lit sky, the waves shimmered as we sat with our legs hanging over the rocky ledge, the surf pounding against the stones under our feet.

The salty sea breeze was the perfect mosquito repellent and so refreshing on those hot and humid nights.

Baiting our hooks and casting the line as far as we could, we’d sit and wait and wait and wait. When we finally reeled in the line, the bait was usually gone, having been nibbled by the plentiful green crab population that inhabited the waters near the ledge.

Although I have countless memories of those special nights spent with family and friends, one fishing expedition always comes to mind. It was the night that Grandfather caught the striped bass.

On that particular weekend there were ten family members staying at the summer house. My boyfriend, who is now my husband, also accompanied us that evening to the water’s edge. He had just received his first fishing pole, a birthday present from me; and he couldn’t wait to try it out.

Please take my advice. Never stand near a person with a brand-new fishing pole who is making his first cast. He stood back and with an enormous thrust cast the line. But he forgot that the reel’s lock was still firmly in place; and as luck would have it, I was directly in the path of the oncoming hook and sinker. Smack! I still bear the scar of that two-ounce sinker.

As usual, my mother was the first one to get a nibble on her line. She is an expert at fishing, and like Grandfather, hardly ever let a fish get away – although in this case, it would have been better if she did. She had hooked an eel.

It was nighttime, and outside of our flashlights and the bright moon in the sky, we couldn’t see all that much. But then my mother brought in the eel, a wriggling, black, snake-like creature; and our screams could be heard all the way to Newport. We continued to scream while Grandfather tried to remove the agitated, three-foot-long eel from the line. Finally, he unhooked the large mouth and threw it back in the water, and only then did we all calm down.

We had decided to quit for the night when Grandfather got that once-in-a-lifetime tug. While the fish fought off the attack, struggling to break free, Grandfather gripped the pole struggling to stay in one place.

My mother and my aunt ran to Grandfather’s side and held onto him. They feared the huge fish would drag him off the ledge and into the water. Both of them knew that their father would never let go of the pole.

Grandfather let out more line, then cranked the reel, hoping to tire out the fish. His arms must have ached as the fish continued to fight. But after about ten minutes, the line went slack; and Grandfather spun the reel as fast as he could. My mother and aunt continued to brace him as he strained to bring the fish in the last few yards.

We all cheered when the fish finally broke the surface. It was the biggest fish that had ever been caught at Fogland.

The striped bass was a fine specimen. I can’t quite remember how big he was or how much he weighed, but he was a beauty. In fact, the whole family feasted on him the next day.

Grandfather’s gone now, but the memory lingers...

Surrounded by all his children and grandchildren, Grandfather proudly carries the heavy striped bass back to the summer house. We are all talking and laughing at once. Our neighbors come out of their cottages to see what’s happened and admire the striped bass. My father guts the fish and packs it in ice. We stay up late, retelling the fish story. Grandfather listens to our tales and smiles. It is a perfect moment in time.

ABOUT SEA, SKY & SPIRIT: Drawing from the many seasonal faces of Fogland, Linda Andrade Rodrigues paints vignettes about nature and spirituality.