Fishing
Fall beach fishing is like a good short story you can’t put down. There is the rising action, the climax, the falling action and the end. Some times it’s fast, other times it’s measured, but at all times it’s a page-turner.
When fall actually starts depends on who you ask. My calendar tells me that fall begins on the Autumnal Equinox, the 22d of September. The significance of that day is that the day and the night photo periods are nearly identical in length. Yet for most, Labor Day triggers the beginning of fall. During this pivotal weekend, summer beach shacks get boarded up, Tevas get traded in for textbooks, and vacationers reluctantly return home. Seasonal hotels and restaurants respond by shortening their work week and their hours. It gets progressively harder to get a cup of coffee, but I take comfort in my quiet town without bumper-to-bumper traffic.
I am a fisherman and for me fall begins with the Striper Moon, the first full moon in September. It’s the first major push of the striped bass migration. Some front-runners trickle south sooner, but the first big body of bass moves on the Striper Moon. Some years it is early, some years it is late. Regardless, one thing is for sure: the biggest shore-caught bass of the year are landed around the Striper Moon. I used to think that there were three phases of fall: early, middle and late.
I used to think that the early phase was warm, the middle phase was cooler, and the late phase was the coldest. I no longer think that way because there are too many nuances to keep track of.
On some days the winds blows WSW. Winds from that direction are summer winds, warm and welcoming, a little Southern hospitality coming from far below the Mason-Dixon line. The cloud ceiling is high, and the eggshell-blue sky is dappled with puffy, white cotton balls. Sometimes when the winds shift around you’ll see mares tails splashed around the blue like a painter gone mad. On other days the wind blows WNW. Winds from that direction bring the Canadian chill. They’re the winds that move ducks and geese and woodcock down the Eastern Flyway, and they are the culprits that change the color of the sea from green to gray. On a few days, northerly winds make swells and flotsam clutters the beaches. I never know what the day will hold until it is upon me and I look out my window.
Somewhere in the middle of the ever changing winds is an oasis known many centuries ago in Europe as Saint Luke’s Summer. In our modern day we call it Indian Summer, the time in October when the fall feels like summer. History alleges that this two-week warm spell was the time when American Indians harvested the bulk of their crops. The first person to coin the phrase Indian Summer was a Frenchman writing in 1778 in rural New York named St. John de Crevecoeur. As I walk around the beaches once inhabited by Wampanoags, I wonder when the tribe marked the beginning of fall?
Fishing a beach in the fall is as much a part of fishing as catching a fish itself, I like how hazy, hot and humid becomes clear, cool and dry. I like the sand under my feet. I like the solace of the beach, my only companion being the birds. And I watch them; big flocks spread out for what seems like miles. I watch the terns repeatedly dive on small bait, the gulls shriek and pick up scraps, and the gannets plunge-dive 50 feet from the sky to grab a herring. When I learned that gannets have air sacks to cushion them from the impact with the surface I lost respect for them. I regained it when I considered that they swim with their long wings to catch a meal. They’re tough birds, even with air bags.
Fall on a beach means lots of bait that stages and gathers on the various moons. Silversides, sandeels, glass minnows, herring, peanut bunker, anchovies, mullet and butterfish pack up their bags and start heading south for the winter. Their cycle predicts good fishing. I follow the advice of anglers who came before me: “Fish the points on full and new moons, and fish coves on the quarters.” Bait stages in coves during half moons and moves on full moons. Bass and blues lie in wait to corral them against structure, on the surface, or wherever they can. Every living thing needs to store fat for the winter and the fish are no exception. Plus they need some gas for the long swim home.
A beach serves as a corridor for migratory fish, and so I love fishing the bars the best. My favorites are the offshore bars that run parallel to the beach. Offshore bars are not connected to land, and have hard-running currents blowing through on both sides. They are like small islands, with fish on both sides. Sometimes I find that the stretch between the beach and the bar is chock-a-block full of bass. Other times the fish are on the outside edge of the bar. Regardless, there is something wild about standing on a bar with water all around and the promise of big schools of stripers at my feet. On a calm day I’ll paddle a kayak out to the bar and get out and wade. On a rough day I’ll pass. Swimming back to shore in the fall isn’t too appealing.
I like onshore bars, but they are more civilized. Onshore bars connect with the beach and wading out is easy. They typically run at an angle based on the dominant current. I start to work my way out to the point an hour or two before low tide and keep going as far as I can. The fish may be up current from the bar, they may be at the point of the bar, or they may be down current from it. I never know until I fish them. Once the tide turns, I’ll work my way back toward shore. I’m comforted knowing that Land Ho isn’t faraway, but I always out longer than I should . . . just because.
Bull-nose bars are rounded and look like an upside-down letter U. I find them easy to fish, as they typically don’t go very far out into the ocean. Sometimes the fish hold in the lee, other times they feast on the windward side. I smile when I see the trough where the rounded edge of the bar connects with the beach. I always make my first cast onto the bar and let my fly sweep over the edge into the hole. I catch enough fish there to make it worth a cast, but I really like the sweep of the fly over the sand and into the deeper water. And when the fish are tight to the beach, I don’t have to cast much further than my feet.
I find it incredibly frustrating when a large school offish is a few hundred yards offshore. I feel stranded on my beach. I lose my mind when they are ten feet beyond my furthest cast. On those days the sparkling water or having the beach to myself isn’t much of a consolation prize. All that is left for me to do is wait for the wind to blow the fish closer or to look for washed up lobster buoys and nail them to a tree in my front yard.
With the bad comes the good, and some anglers are fortunate enough to encounter pelagic species on the beach in the fall. Anywhere the Gulf Stream pushes close to shore, fast fish like bonito, false albacore, bluefish and Spanish mackerel appear. When I see a school of blues or albies racing down a beach spraying silversides all around I feel like I’m in Vegas. And when I land a fish with my feet planted on terra firma, I feel like I hit the jackpot.
An oddity happened on a Massachusetts South Shore beach a few years ago when the water was warm and there were lots of school bluefin tuna around. A fellow was casting when he got a tug on his 1ine. A fish made a long-as in 300 yard or more-run down the beach, past rocks, kelp and mussel beds before it tired. After the fight he rolled the fish on its side, moved it into a cresting wave and walked backward up the beach. As he surfed it onto the sand, he saw a tuna laying at his feet. I’d have hoped it were an 80-pound bass on steroids.
In the fall it’s easy to get caught up in the action as the fishing heats up. And then suddenly, like the good short story it ends. The ice that formed overnight on my boat deck no longer melts in minutes after the sun clears the horizon, and the fish have moved on.
Fishing
Migratory fish get under your skin. They follow a lot of rules, but they break almost as many as they follow.
That makes them a lot like an outstanding novel, with a beginning, a peak and an end. The story line comes together on a beach in the fall. Fishing conditions improve considerably, peak and then gradually wind down. Anglers study tides, lunar cycles, wind and water temperatures to determine patterns. When something doesn’t add up, they play hunches and take educated guesses.
In the Northeast, the fall usually means striped bass and blues on the beach. But from Chatham, Massachusetts, and westward, the Gulf Stream pushes close to land. From July through October, you’ll find false albacore, green bonito and skipjack. The fall run is addictive. Sometimes you’ll find peace in your fishing. Other times the fish will drive you just plain nuts.
Weather and Moon
The fall run has been the subject of fishing lore for decades. From the 1940s to 1960s, the Cape Cod beaches were the places to be, period. From Nauset Beach in Orleans through Race Point in Provincetown, 40-pound bass were considered rats. Four-by-four campers with tin skiffs strapped atop them brought anglers who fished around the clock from shore or from beach launched skiffs.
This continues today, and hard-core anglers from Maine through New Jersey head to the beaches to get in their last licks of the season. Technically, the autumnal equinox, around Sept. 21, is when daytime and nighttime are nearly identical in length. In the fall, days grow steadily shorter, whereas they grow steadily longer in the spring. Sunsets come earlier, and fall winds shift from southerly to Canadian Maritime northerly. Cool, dry air with high cloud ceilings and mare’s-tail formations reflect the strong winds, and there is a greater difference between daytime and nighttime temperatures. Sunrise and sunset colors change too, from oranges and yellows to more purples, greens and blues.
Figuratively, fall begins with the “Striper moon,” or the first full moon in September. Kenny Abrames dubbed this time frame, as it represents the first major push of the striped bass migration. During some years, the striper moon is early in the month; other years, it is later. Regardless it is a great time to get out and fish. In New England, the biggest shore-caught bass of the year are landed around the striper moon.
October’s Indian summer, though, is a pleasant respite from September’s initial cold weather. It’s when the fall feels like summer. History alleges that the two-week warm spell was when American Indians harvested the bulk of their crops, hence the name. Most of the pelagic fish will follow the retracting Gulf Stream south at this time, so the end of Indian summer usually marks their departure.
Learn to Read the Birds
As in so many other fisheries, birds are hugely important to the fall run. But they don’t just indicate the presence of fish and angling opportunity—rather, they can tell an angler what kind of bait is in the water.
Terns hit small baits, mostly silversides, bay anchovies and sand eels. When they hover close to the water’s surface, they’re on a big pod of bait with predators underneath. If they’re winging it high, they’re looking for food. If they fly fast right above the surface, albies or bonito are probably in the mix (as opposed to the slower striped bass and bluefish).
Most gulls are scavengers, but they too can tell you what kind of bait is around. Herring gulls feed on herring, but they also love mackerel. When a flock of herring gulls works together, there is probably a school of big bass underneath the bait. Black-backed gulls are the most aggressive and basically eat anything smaller than them. Their value to anglers is similar to that of black-headed laughing gulls, as they love crustaceans, particularly crabs.
Shearwaters feast on squid but also follow schools of mackerel and menhaden. The Cory’s and the sooty are two popular shearwaters in the Northeast. Storm petrels, meanwhile, are skimmer birds that tiptoe their way across the water’s surface in search of plankton. Petrels follow bigger bait like the squid and mackerel that feed on the silversides and the anchovies that feed on the plankton. Petrels and stripers love shrimp.
Gannets are plunge divers that soar 50 to 70 feet high. When they get a clear view of their favorite food, herring, they crash into the water, with air sacs cushioning their impact. Gannets use their wings to swim to bait, which they either inhale or impale with their long, pointed beaks. When you see a flock of them diving along a beach, you’re in for a treat.
Sea ducks are common in the fall. Mergansers feed on small baitfish like silversides, sand eels and shrimp. Common eiders like small bait as well, and king eiders like squid. The oldsquaw feast on shrimp, while surf scoters target crabs. Diver ducks like tide lines and frequent Oceanside beaches with good current and tide seams, but they’ll move into the bays and estuaries with the bass and blues.
Belly Up to the Bar
Northeast beaches in the fall are ripe with bait that stages and then pushes on the various moons. If you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, you’ll miss the silversides, sand eels, glass minnows, herrings, peanut bunker, anchovies, mullets and butterfish that head south for the winter.
Find the bait, and you’ll find the fish. Bait stages in coves during half-moons and moves on full moons, so you’ll want to fish points of bars on the full and new moons and coves on the quarter moons. If you go to an area and see a lot of bait but no fish, then switch spots. I guarantee that the fish found more bait somewhere else! The schools of fish move into either the wind or the tide, whichever is stronger, so you should pick your next spot with that in mind.
When you arrive at a beach at low tide, preferably at a negative tide, you’ll be able to see the terrain that will set you up for the moving water and an approach.
Onshore bars connect to shore. They typically run at an angle based on the dominant current. Start fishing at the drop, and work your way out to the point. As the tide begins to flood, fish your way back to shore. Fish the point and both sides, and watch the bowl along the leeward side, where the bar joins land. Bait and fish will gather in that bowl and move over the bar when the water is high enough.
Bull-nose bars are rounded and look like an upside-down letter U. Sometimes fish hold in the lee; other times they feast on the windward side. Watch the way the current moves over the bar, and cast your fly up and across, letting it swing into the adjoining deeper water. When the fish are tight to the beach, you won’t have to cast very far.
Parallel offshore bars are not connected to land and have hard-running currents blowing through on all sides. At low tide, they may be exposed or just slightly underwater. An easy way to find a parallel offshore bar is to look for a “tribe.” Surfers love a good beach break! Sometimes the back bowl between the beach and the bar is chockablock with bass. Other times the fish are on the outside edge. And still other times they’re working the currents on either end. You can wade to some offshore bars on the low tide, but wear a Farmer John wetsuit. As the tide comes up, you can float back to shore.
Points are spits of sand that jut out into the ocean, while bowls, or holes, are basins that have deeper water and lots of current.
Use ranges to mark mother lodes. Take a longitudinal point and match it with a latitudinal point, and X marks the spot. The right end of a cottage porch and a lobster buoy could be a coordinate in its simplest form. Other common structures are water towers, buoys, breakwaters, channel markers, rock piles and trees.
Northern New England and Massachusetts Bay
From August to mid-October, Dave Gibson, of Great Bay Rod Co., fishes beaches in the fall from Maine through northern Massachusetts. He doesn’t see lots of birds marking fish in Maine and New Hampshire, but instead he drives along Route 1A looking for beachfronts that are sandwiched between the rocky coastline.
He typically searches for those spots around low tide and returns to fish them during the last few hours of the food through the first few hours of the drop. Because of the cold water, he likes Monic intermediate lines and adds a variety of lengths of lead-core lines for additional depth.
Running the beach at Plum Island,Massachusetts, is the easiest way to find fish. Because of the usually present sand eels, Gibson sees more bird activity there. Still, he’ll tie longer flies because of the diverse baitfish that dump out of the river systems.
In Massachusetts Bay from September to October, schools of striped bass split, with some migrating on the inside of the bay. With all of the river systems from the North Shore down through the South Shore, there is never a shortage of baitfish dropping out. The last beach on the South Shore is White Horse Beach, and it is just north of Cape Cod Canal, where all the bayside fish push through.
Cape God and Rhode lsland
In September and November, other fish follow the Labrador Current, which runs from Plum Island to Cape Cod’s Race Point. According to Capt. Dave Steeves, of Fishing the Cape, the fish seem to split.
“Race Point, in Provincetown, has historically been an exceptional spot,” he says. “Some of the fish will move along the bay side, and Sandy Point, on the outside of Barnstable Harbor, is excellent. We also find bass and blues along the outer beaches in Truro, Wellfeet, Eastham andOrleans. Reverse the spring patterns, and you’ll find them.”
Fishing the Cape owner Bruce Zeller reports that the number of bass on the Oceanside beaches is smaller, but the quality is outstanding. “This past year we saw a tremendous amount of bait right up on shore, and long casts weren’t necessary,” he says. ” As the water cools down, we change fly lines and favor the Cortland PE+ Crystal and the Airflo Cold Saltwater fly lines because they don’t kink up.”
Anglers consider Rhode Island, the Ocean State, the smallest state with the longest run. “As the migration starts, you’ll find fish dropping down from Upper Narragansett Bay,” says Peter Jenkins, owner of the Saltwater Edge in Middletown. “While most anglers think of fishing the beaches of South County, the Upper Bay beaches are great places to start to fish.”
As the fish drop down from Upper Narragansett Bay, the Saltwater Edge’s general manager, Arden Gardell, says he “finds fish spreading throughout Newport’s First, Second and Third beaches, from the cobble beaches around Narragansett down through the rocky and sandy Scarborough Beach and throughout South County. From the sandy Matunuck to the rocky Carpenters Bar to the expansive Charlestown Beach, Weekapaug and Napatree Point, you’ll find the bass and blues throughout all of the stages of the run.”
There’s always something to be found during the Northeast’s fall run. While the addictive quest can indeed drive you nuts at times, there’s plenty of peace to be found in this fishing.
Fishing
It was as perfect a September as ever.
The temperature at night was cold enough to ice the deck of my boat, and hot enough during the day to make me sweat. Indian Summer as it’s known here in the Pilgrim State of Bassachusetts. Before the sun was up I walked into my driveway and stared at the ice on the boat. Instead of slip-sliding my way around the deck until the frost melted, I decided to grab a pair of boots and head for the beach.
Lots of fish were around because it was fall and time for them to migrate. The coves and bowls were full of silversides, sand eels, and small menhaden, and several species of predators took their seat at the table. The striped bass ranged from schoolies to 35-pounders, there were pods of late-run shad, and a mix of bluefish, bonito, Spanish mackerel, and false albacore. Anywhere you looked there were fish. They were on the flats, on the beaches, in the rips, at the mouths of the salt ponds, and on the reefs. Labor Day was well behind us and the crowds were thin. I tossed my kit in my truck, fishtailed out of the driveway, and headed up Cape.
I turned left down an overgrown dirt road to the back of a salt pond. The brush slapped the truck, and somewhere not far away a covey of quail sang whoooo–whit, whoooo–whit. I tucked into a small opening, pulled on my waders, grabbed my rod, and trudged toward the cove, flushing several mallards from a nearby mosquito ditch. I marked the quail and the ducks, and in a few weeks when hunting season opened I would return with my setter and my 20-gauge. And if at that time I were lucky with the birds I might also pick ripe beach plums and rose hips for chutney and see if I could swap a mallard for a bag of cranberries freshly harvested from the bogs.
I chose a salt pond that would have bass and blues inside, and bonito, shad, and albies at the mouth. It was a large pond, the kind that would take an entire day to walk around, and it was protected from the wind. I would start fishing at the mouth, and as the tide flooded I would work my way back to the truck.
I first saw him from a distance. He was a tall, thin kid standing on the jetty. The rocks had shifted from decades of pounding storms and L?-foot tides, and they were slick with kelp, mussels, and barnacles.
The jetty terrain is second nature for most fishermen, I thought, but he moved awkwardly. I chalked it up to his youth. He wore a tattered T-shirt, a pair of swim trunks, and Tevas. Why anyone would walk on a jetty without Korkers was beyond me. In his hands was a rod about three times his height. It looked like a fall-run surf stick, the kind long enough to toss a Goo Goo Eyes Big Daddy with a trio of trebles all the way into next week. Most of the kids on the jetty had shorter sticks, usually around 7 or 8 feet long.
It was odd. It was odd that this kid had such a long rod before the fall run had even begun. Odder still when I scanned the water and saw a long yellow floating fly line on the water.
He must have heard my cleats crunching the shells at the waters edge, because he turned, and I saw a large fly reel mounted on the grip. I looked back at his fly line and it extended to just about the other side of the channel. This wasn’t a particularly large breachway, but it had to be all of about 250 feet wide. If he had a nine or ten-foot leader it would have meant that this kid cranked out a 235-foot cast. I watched him knurl his line slowly, and when a big school of false albacore blew up near my feet, I didn’t cast.
Instead, I studied the sand. There were cracked quahog shells mixed in with some razor clams and bay scallops. They were colorful shards of calcium with bright reds, lavenders, yellows, and oranges all mixed together. I don’t think I ever noticed the beauty and texture of these ordinary shells. The scallops had their rippled surfaces, the razors were sharp and shiny, and the quahogs were blunt with their purple and black trim. I thought I would remember this moment for the rest of my life; I was about to meet the first kid who could cast farther than me, and a lot farther at that.
When I surf, I prefer a following tide. I look for a wave’s steadiness and its consistency. I like the wave to grow, crest, roll, and run hard. I like it to roll over an offshore bar and go way up onto the sand. As I looked at that long line on the water, I bore witness to a rite of passage. This next generation, like the water, was passing through my previous one. It never much mattered to me before. Then again, the generation surpassed was never mine.
The water was flat, the sun grew increasingly warmer, the tide was running, and a pod of albies shredded anchovies and sand eels a rod’s length away. I did not dare cast. Instead, I thought about the first trout I caught on a Squirrel Tail I tied when I was ten. And the first 20-pound Atlantic salmon I landed. The first bonefish that inhaled my Gotcha. Having my butt kicked by a kid would be just another memory that I would store in a closet with my sweatshirts, fly rods, and shotguns.
Perhaps I should learn from this master? He strip-struck twice, and raised his rod for the fight. The amount of line in the air resembled a tightrope in a circus act. I sat back down.
I thought about a fishing trip with my father decades ago off of Napatree Point. There weren’t many bass in those days, and when the tide turned. an enormous school of bluefish moved in. I caught a fish and my dad didn’t. Then I caught another and he still didn’t. It went on like that all afternoon. We had a quiet ride back to the dock and a quiet time hauling the boat. We drove home in silence. Now, I just scratched my head.
I stood up, brushed the sand off my waders and walked out on the jetty. The kid’s fly line was tangled in the rocks, and there was a small striper flopping at the water’s edge. “Need a hand?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. His hook pulled before I got down to the fish, and the schoolie dropped in the water. “I like it when that happens,” he said. “It’s hard to release the fish with all this line out.”
“Yeah,” I said, “You’re casting halfway to Falmouth.” “It’s not hard,” he said. “Sometimes it’s tough dealing with the line, but the casting is a cinch.”
I never suffered the woes of having 235 feet of fly line bunged up. I was happy with a 100 feet, and this kid more than doubled my best. He sought empathy from me, not sympathy, because his miles of fly line had tangled in the rocks.
I surveyed his outfit. “That’s an expensive rig you’ve got,” I said. “It’s not mine,” he said. “It’s my dad’s. He never uses it. He bought it a few years ago but he can’t figure out how to cast it so it just hangs in the basement. This reel is sweet, but it’s expensive, too.”
“That’s nice that he let’s you use it,” I said.
“Let me use it? If he knew I had this rod out here, he’d kill me. It’d be easier to land fish if I could set it down, but I don’t want to get a scratch on it. This is my lucky rod. I catch all my fish on it.”
“I don’t know how to cast a Spey rod that well,” I said.
“A what?”
“The rod you are using.”
“What did you call it?”
“A Spey rod. They’re used for salmon fishing. Named after the River Spey in Scotland.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that’s what it was called. Why don’t you use one?”
“I don’t cast them well. Anyway, not like you. Why don’t you show me how to do it?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s really simple. I see that you keep waving your rod back and forth, but I just cast once. Just pull it back, wait for a minute, and let it rip.”
“Let it rip,” I said. “Please.”
The kid pulled the rod back over his head and paused for a few seconds until the line quieted down and then he pushed the rod forward as hard as he could and stopped when the tip-top was at eye level. The entire line and much of his backing whizzed out through the guides and kerplunked nearly on the other side of the bank.
“That’s all there is to it,” he said.
“That was my best cast today.”
“Why is it splashing so much at the end?” I asked. “A piled leader doesn’t make that much of a splash.”
“It’s the sinker. I can’t go any lighter than a three-ounce pyramid with the current. The clam belly adds weight, too. Besides, the fish don’t care about the splash.”
A pyramid sinker and a clam belly.
“That’s great,” I said. “That’s really great. Your dad would be proud of you.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I just have to be careful how much I tell him.”
“Well, if I see you guys on the beach together some time I’ll make sure I don’t bring it up.”
“That’d be awesome,” he said. “l don’t want to get in trouble.”
Fishing
FISH PATTERNING IS a modern term for a very old methodology. It is a reasonable, deliberate and highly effective way of fishing. It depends on understanding the dynamic relationship between predator and prey in their environment. The phrase describes the essential survival approach to fishing that enabled commercial and professional fisherman to succeed in their day-to-day quest for a good catch that would ensure their livelihood.
Patterning fish behavior is similar to hunting. With all methods of hunting, you must study your quarry to understand their behavior. Many modern sport anglers simply arrive at a familiar spot and hope to catch fish. Their fishing strategy is limited to chance occurrence. Anglers who fish that way are dependent on happenstance alone rather than observed, fact-based knowledge. Fish, like all successful predators, base their feeding routines on the habits of their prey. Fish do not starve to death because of poor luck. They have an intimate knowledge of how to find food. Like these fish, the best fishermen are familiar with their quarry’s routines and use this knowledge to form strategies that enhance their chance of success. Learning how fish find bait in their environment is fundamental to becoming a consistently successful angler.
Develop a Plan
The fast lane to learning how to pattern fish is to study the flats. Flats have finite borders that are filled with classic structures like bars and channels, coves and points, rips, basins, and various bottom types (mud, sand, cobble and grass). And fish are restricted in their ability to move. They are subject to the boundaries of the environment. Flats are first and foremost laboratories for observing fish behavior. The first task is to develop a plan or a strategy that you can use to find fish. Simplicity is the order of the day. Start by heading to a flat at slack low tide so you can study its structure. Fish move along structure lines, and it is critical to note where the bars drop into channels, where one bar ends and another begins, where there are grass beds and where there is higher ground. The bait will follow those edges when the tide floods, and larger fish will follow the bait.
Then start at the shallowest edge that you can get to and move along, and head into the current, parallel to the flow. This will do several things for you in short order. It will eliminate water that is not holding fish in a matter of minutes. Using a depth line as a guide and following it allows you to observe and quantify the life on the flat. This is the most important skill you can master. If you cover an edge thoroughly and find no baitfish, move to a slightly deeper edge. You should spend at least 45 minutes to an hour scouting out the depth line before wetting a line. Resist the urge to cast, even if you see fish. After several passes, you will begin to notice the baitfish moving along an edge, and you will see their relationship to the water’s surface or the bottom. You’ll see how they move along the edges of current seams created by bottom structure and moving water. You’ll notice their depth and whether they are high in the water column (closer to the surface), low in the water column (closer to the bottom) or somewhere in between.
As you move along the depth line, you will come upon shallow bars and edges that focus the current, consolidating the bait into dense schools. These schools will pause and gather together to move over a bar or through a small rip as they move into the current. Observing the patterns of how individual schools of baitfish move is significant; this determines how the predators locate bait in order to feed easily. The patterns of bait change daily, depending on water temperature, light levels, wind velocity and wind direction. Once you locate the bait and register their patterns, it is natural to look up-current and notice where the water flow provides an easy place for predators to ambush them. Use your GPS to mark spots, or do it the old-fashioned way and take ranges (line up two vertical landmarks, one behind the other, like in a rifle sight, such as a house chimney in the back and a flagpole in front of it). Once you have identified the baitfish’s patterns, repeat the same steps, with the focus turned toward predators. Return to the shallowest water you can get into, and this time move quickly along the edges and start looking for your quarry. Move along an edge until you have eliminated it, and then move incrementally into deeper water until you find the depth that the fish are moving in. The difference between your shallow-depth runs and your deeper-water runs will probably be only a matter of inches. Note the depth in which you find fish, for they will stay at that depth as the tide rises. That means if you find them at 21/4 feet, they will constantly move in a depth of 21/4 feet, regardless of their physical location on the flat as the tide rises. If the depths are uneven, then the fish will reposition to move at a depth of 21;4 feet. They will mill at a bar and only pass over it when the water rises to their preferred depth of 21/4 feet for that day. They may go around the bar rather than wait, but that type of movement is not hard to notice. Once they go over the bar, they will continue to move at their preferred depth and search out baitfish as they go along. This depth orientation is one of the most amazingly consistent patterns fish display on flats and an important one for you to know.
Here’s the tough part: To learn how to pattern fish, you’ll need to leave fish in order to find fish. Now is the time to see if the pattern you observed is correct. If you find fish on the southeast corner of a point bar at 2 1/4 feet, go to the next southeast corner of a point bar at 2 l/4 feet and see if they are there. They probably will be. As the tide rises, the bait and the bass will also move up the bar in that 2 1/4-foot zone. They will follow the structure line until it ends. Then they will use a current line to bridge their move to an adjoining structure, always maintaining the same amount of water over their head. Leapfrog your way across the flat, and observe as you go.
Pay Attention to Subtleties
If you have a pattern that is producing consistently and you find a similar structure or current that does not produce fish, do not assume that the pattern has changed. So why is this area barren of fish? Try to discern a difference. You’ll likely notice something, like the current has changed or your pattern was for offshore bars and this one is an onshore bar. Perhaps there is a point bar forming an uptide rip current that pushes the flow into deeper water. Remember that bar, because it may fit into a different pattern that you learn about later on. While that bar did not contain fish on the flood tide, it may be an escape route for the fish once the tide ebbs.
Now you can make your first cast. Because you patterned the fish, you can station your boat or yourself so that you can catch them consistently. You’ll know where they are coming from and where they are moving to. You can deliberately position yourself above them to make a proper presentation. You will not spook them because you are waiting for them, not chasing them.
By patterning fish, you will notice the different mannerisms of fish. You will become aware of whether fish are positive, neutral or negative. Positive fish are easy to catch. Negative fish are spooky fish, jittered by even a sea-gull shadow. Neutral fish are inquisitive and can be caught if you make them interested enough to strike. Hunger governs positive fish, wariness governs negative fish, and indifference governs neutral fish. Positive and neutral fish can be caught through patterning. Negative fish can be caught if you use patterning to intercept them with stealth.
When the tide drops, the direction of the current reverses, and fish will slowly drop back off the flat, always facing into the current. They will move off the flat at the same depth in which they came onto the flat. To learn to pattern fish, you must get rid of your preconceptions. Just go to the water and observe. Avoid routines. If you return to the same spots you always fish, you won’t broaden your skill set. Instead, notice the current, examine the wind, and note how the two interact. Watch how the current and the wind move on structure and form edges and pathways for fish. Look for those edges, and look for bait. If you incorporate observations like these into your fishing, you’ll be able to read water and understand the structure of every flat you encounter.
Fishing is much more than just catching fish. If it were passive, then we might as well go and watch a spectator sport. Sometimes when we go fishing, we spend the entire day and make only a handful of casts. Our day is spent studying the baitfish, the environment and then the fish to see how they interact. When we do make a cast, we hook the fish deliberately. As you spend time patterning fish, test out all hunches, no matter how irrational they seem. If you are wrong about a current or a location today, you may find that it is useful tomorrow. When you are right, log the pattern. You’ll quickly become a savvy angler.
Current Events
When the water begins to move, study the current to see which direction it is going. The fish will move into the current. Note if the current is moving to the left or to the right. Observe how the wind interacts with the current. An onshore wind will push the current and the fish closer to the structure, while an offshore wind will push the current and the fish farther out. A wind that blows into the current slows it down, and a wind that moves with the current increases its speed. If the wind is faster than the current, it will form a surface current that predatory species might move into. Notice what speed of current the fish prefer. See if they favor the hard currents around the end of a point bar or if they prefer the softer current in the middle of a shoal. Look for edges where currents meet and join or where they separate and split. Cardinal points are critical; use these compass directions to note how fish approach bars and which side of the humps they use to move into the current. These behaviors may seem random, but they are patterns that are predictable and consistent.
This article originally appeared in the September/October 2012 issue of Fly Fishing in Salt Waters.
Fishing
A solitary fisherman shares his space on the flats as the sun rises over Chatham.
During the warmer months, I wake up every day before sunrise. One of my indulgences is to pour a thermos full of hot coffee, get into my barely running CJ5, and drive to a beach to see the sun come up. Not much inspires me more than the sun rising above the Atlantic Ocean, and when the light touches the water I am invigorated with infinite possibilities.
Just before the golden ball pops, there is a significant temperature drop, commonly noted as among fishermen and other hoot owls. It’s called False Dawn. If you’ve been fishing all night, odds are you’ve been warm and comfortable. Then you feel the chill roll in, like some foggy scene out of Macbeth. When the temperature drops, you know it’s approaching the magical time when the beautiful Cape Cod oranges, lavenders, magentas, and blues flood the horizon. It’s no small wonder that droves of artists summer here. The light is pure. Sometimes I even get out of my Jeep and go fishing.
One of my favorite places to see a sunrise is on Shore Road in Chatham. Chatham is at the elbow of the Cape, and the sun touches only the Atlantic Ocean before it hits land. It’s where the Chatham Bars Inn is located. The magnificent property harkens back to the turn-of-the-century when life was slower and more relaxed. The view of the sunrise from the Inn is among the best on the Cape.
People flock to Chatham from all points on the compass, and in the warm months, many are fishermen. Folks visit the quintessential seaside town to patronize the art galleries, unique retail stores, spas, and great restaurants. Anglers come for the white sand flats, long stretches of barrier beaches, and water so pristine you can see sand dollars while wading. Some fishermen love the shallow water sight fishing for striped bass and bluefish, while others jump aboard the Inn’s boat the Starfish for offshore angling adventures for tuna, mahi mahi, or swordfish. There is a time, a season, and a method that will suit the most discerning fishermen.
One June morning, I sat in my Jeep and drank my coffee. I came to fish, and scanned the water across from the Chatham Bars Inn. As usual, I was alone. The tide dropped and I studied the water pouring out of Pleasant Bay through Chatham Harbor for signs of life. Black-backed seagulls and terns cruised the shallows looking for herring, menhaden, silversides, or sand eels. Gulls haven’t earned my respect. They are indiscriminate at best, feasting as aggressively on washed-ashore horseshoe crabs as on bait. But the terns command my attention, and they seldom lead me astray. In the fall I pay the same level of respect to gannets and shearwaters.
As I planned my approach, I noticed a man on the CBI patio. He set down a coffee cup, walked across Shore Road, and headed toward the spot I had been scouting. Nothing motivates an angler more than seeing another fisherman heading toward his mother lode, so I ditched my coffee, grabbed my fly rod and kit, and snuck off through the bushes to beat him to the punch. He didn’t even see me.
Neptune was kind to me, and on my first cast I was into a good bass. Not to be outdone, Poseidon rewarded me with a better striper on my second cast. I looked up. There, about 75 yards away was the angler from the CBI porch watching me. I feared he would descend on me. Instead, he headed away toward Tern Island.
I figured since the tide was dropping, the fishing would be spotty up there. The grace and dignity of his action made me whistle to him. He turned around and looked, and I waved him over. No need to be paranoid any longer, I thought. He’s a fisherman who enjoys pre-dawn coffee, a sunrise on the beach, and striped bass.
“There are a ton of fish over here,” I said. “Take a cast.”
“Sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” I said.
“I didn’t want to crowd you. There aren’t many people awake this time of morning, you know.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “But there are lots of fish right here.”
We got to work, moving south as the tide dropped. His name was Nick and he was from Manhattan. He spends a week every year with his family at the Inn. “It’s perfect,” he said. “I can get up early while my family sleeps, catch some striped bass, and meet them for breakfast at a more civilized time. A few days ago we took the Inn’s Bartender to North Beach.”
“What were you angling for, free cocktails?”
He laughed. “The Bartender is a shallow-draft launch that ferries guests to the beach. I was able to fish some more while my wife read a book. The kids snorkeled nearby. They love the clear water and the white-sand flats. I trade them ice cream cones if they tell me when they spot a school of fish. It’s a win-win.”
“You might want to get a permit and dig some steamers at slack low tide,” I said. “Monomoy steamers are among the best on the Eastern seaboard. Because of the clean water and sand, their shells are white as snow. There’s seldom any grit.”
“We dug a peck yesterday,” Nick said. “The Inn prepared them for us as an appetizer. I just need to land a legal bass so they can grill that for dinner.”
The tide dropped quickly, and we moved down with the current. I didn’t realize how much we waded, but behind us was the Stage Harbor Lighthouse. The sun was up now, and several fly-fishing charter skiffs were out on the water. By Northeastern standards the boats they were using seemed out of place. Typically used in Florida or the Bahamas, these sleek boats have platforms on the stern so the captain can quietly pole them along the flats. They sneak up on the bass and blues just like they sneak up on tarpon or bonefish, oftentimes in less than a foot of water. Two anglers hooked up as quickly as Nick and I did.
“My wife and son are attending fly fishing school offered by Fishing the Cape. I participated a few years ago and the instructors are terrific. With luck we’ll all be out here tomorrow together. She’s not an early riser, though.”
“No worries there,” I said. “One of the reasons these flats are world-class is because it’s better to fish them with bright sun. It’s neat to cast to fish that you can see, and in the shallow water they fight like junkyard dogs.”
“I’ve never done that before,” he said. “Maybe we’ll try it later in the week.”
The sun was getting higher in the sky now, and I had to go. From the looks of it, Nick would have the beach to himself a while longer. Then he’d head back to the Inn for breakfast with his family. Just the way he liked it.
