A Long Journey

by Mike Barbee (aka Barnegat Light Mike)

I began surf fishing for stripers several years ago. Initially, I had reasonably good success including three 30+ inch fish my first night out ("WOW, this is easy", I thought). Subsequently, I learned that a lot of nights I would be forced to come home empty-handed. None-the-less, I enjoyed the solitude and challenge of searching out stripers from the shore.

This activity also brought my father and I closer together. He recently retired and moved to Cape Charles, VA, which is on the Eastern Shore with easy access to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. The area is well known for two things: fishing and potatoes, and I can assure you, he didn't move there for the potatoes.

He has been, and always will be, a better fisherman than me. He is much more serious about it than I, and now has the time to experiment, search out new spots, and try new techniques. He has a 20' center console which is p rfect for the type of close-to-shore fishing he does.

He and I routinely compare notes and trade successes and failures. In the fall of 1999, he was doing fabulously well. That year, he caught over 75 stripers with all but six of them over 33". Needless-to-say, I caught far fewer than that from the shore in New Jersey. As the season progressed and we compared catches each weekend, my frustration level increased significantly. Finally, as Thanksgiving was approaching, I succumbed to his pressure and agreed to make the long journey down to Virginia to fish with him.

My brother-in-law and I left my in-laws in Northern Virginia around 6:00am the Friday after Thanksgiving. We were anxious about our journey into what is apparently "Striped Bass Heaven". Upon our arrival, my father was ready to go. He, too, apparently was anxious and wanted to immediately get us into some fish. We put the boat in the water and proceeded out less than 1/2 mile to some structure my father knew well. We anchored and tossed out bunker chunks. The rods were placed in the rod holders with the clickers on, and we proceeded to tell increasingly ridiculous fish stories. After about an hour, one of the rods began the telltale dance of a bite. Since my brother-in-law seldom gets to fish, I gave him the honors. (Some would later speculate that I knew it wasn't a striper since the bite was a subtle tap, tap, tap, as opposed to the hit and run way stripers normally bite. I see no reason to dignify that with an answer - especially since the truth would be incriminating). He fought this fish for a few minutes, and soon enough, we had the largest eel I'd ever seen up against the boat. This monster was as big as my arm and over 4 feet long. I suggested that we use it as bait for these monster stripers I'd heard so much about, but had yet to see. My father quickly dismissed this line of thinking with a long look over his eyeglasses that told me that I was pushing my luck with smart comments. We cut the line, re-rigged, and that rod was back in the water within minutes.

Another hour or so passed, and a couple smaller eels were reeled in. Although I tried to control my smart aleck comments, I did note that we had found a great eel hole. A suggestion to save this spot in the GPS for future eel fishing was met with an additional long irritating look over my father's eyeglasses.

Around 1:30pm, the clicker on my rod started going crazy. I calmly picked up the rod, let the fish take a little more line, and then engaged the reel. Immediately, the circle hook hung in the corner of the fish's mouth; however, this fish had ideas of its own and continued to head east as if the tension from my rod was non-existent. Line continued to peel off the reel at, to me at least, an alarming rate. As if reading my mind, my father cautioned, "Don't even think about touching that drag. The drag is fine on that reel. You'll turn her in a minute." As if on queue, the energy level of the fish dissipated and I was able to turn her. I was making pretty good headway retrieving line when suddenly, she had another burst of energy and headed east again. This was one big fish. "No way could this be a striper", I thought, "It's got to be a shark".

After this shorter second run, I proceeded to retrieve line rather easily. Suddenly, I realized why it was so easy: the fish was swimming towards the boat! My father, realizing the same thing at the same time yelled, "Reel, reel, reel. She's swimming towards us". Since I had now convinced myself this was a shark, I really wasn't too concerned. Losing a shark before getting it to the boat could actually be a blessing in disguise. After another reminder to "Reel, reel, reel", I rather calmly and professionally pointed out to my father, "You know, it's just a shark". Direct as always, my father yelled, "Bull**** is this a shark!! This is what you came for and you'd better reel". With this positive re-enforcement, my reeling became much more urgent. "Could this really be a striper?" I thought.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we had her along-side the boat. Certainly this was the largest striper I'd ever caught, by far. The source of her power was clear once I saw the size of tail. "Get her in the net", I yelled, as if my father needed any encouragement. He eased this magnificent animal into the net and gently placed her in the boat. My father, who practices a lot of catch and release fishing, then asked, "You're going to release her, aren't you?" "Of course not", was my immediate response. He countered with, "You know, this fish is probably close to 15 years old". I was not to be deterred, however, "I've never caught a striper that big. We're keeping her" and with that, the conversation was over. Although apparently somewhat disappointed by my decision, my father quickly complied by placing this 43-inch fish in the cooler. My heart was still racing. "Did I really just catch that huge striper"? I asked myself.

Although we didn't catch any more stripers that afternoon, it was a great trip as far as I was concerned. We got this gorgeous fish with the long thick stripes home, and she weighed in at 36 pounds. As we were filleting her, my father noticed what seemed to be a piece of string coming from just in front of her anal fin. He cut out what appeared to be a small piece of plastic. After soaking it in warm soapy water, we were able to read the 3/4" red plastic tag: "REWARD U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Tag Number 09055". It included an address and phone number to call. During the rest of the weekend, when we weren't fishing, we spent much of the time speculating on the pedigree of my fish.

Both Friday and Saturday night we did well, catching seven fish between 36" and 44 1/2". Given that we had several packages of fillets in the freezer already, all fish were happily released to spawn again. Sunday morning, we began our long journey north, first to Northern Virginia to drop my brother-in-law off and then on home to New Jersey. I could hardly wait to call the USFWS on Monday morning to find out about my fish.

I watched the clock with anticipation for 9:00am to arrive so I could call the government office to find out the details of my weekend catch. The appointed hour finally arrived and promptly, I picked up the phone and dialed. After several "That number is no longer in service" messages, I was able to circumnavigate the bureaucracy we call our government to get a nice woman from the USFWS. When asked the tag number, I replied with "09055". She immediately whistled and commented, "Boy, that's an old one. We'll have to check the files for that. I'll have to call you back." Patience has never been one of my virtues, but clearly I would have to wait a little longer to find out the history of tonight's dinner. A quick call to my father updated him on the status, and I impatiently went back to work. Late in the afternoon, the USFWS called back with the long awaited answer: "Mr. Barbee", she began, "your fish was tagged on November 13, 1988 at Gull Rock in Newport, Rhode Island. We don't know how big she was then because that information was not recorded". The woman took my address and promised to send me a certificate and a hat for reporting the catch.

As I hung up the phone, a deepening sense of melancholy came over me. Without a second thought, I had killed this magnificent fish that had probably made the long journey from Rhode Island to Virginia/North Carolina and back again, for each of the last 11 years. Although I normally don't have a problem keeping enough fish to eat (and since that trip, have kept several fish each year), it is entirely different when you know a little something about the history of the fish you've caught.

As I sat there, trying to image the trials and perils that twice a year journey might have entailed for her, I thought about the look my father gave me on the boat, when I said I wanted to keep that beautiful fish. "You know", I contemplated, "I thought I had a long journey to get down to Virginia".