Tsunami Lure Package Giveaway

The winner of Gibbs giveaway is

Gilsahagun@hotmail.com

xvzvv

The winner of Tactial Anglers giveaway is

vic_G129@yahoo.com

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Our sincerest thanks to crew from Gibbs Lures and Tactical Anglers for making it possible

I took a quick trip to Cape Cod Canal yesterday to shot bunch of videos with SJ Editor Dave Anderson. The fish in the canal did not cooperate on the morning tide but it was still nice to see some friends.P1000881

Today’s giveaway is a courtesy of Tsunami

The winner will receive

3 oz Tsunami Timber Pencil Popper

6 inch Tsunami Long Stick Swimmer

2 pack of Tsunami Pro Deep Diving 5 inch shads

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Sealing The Deal

SEAL

 

I am fresh off a relaxing family vacation to Cape Cod; the former surfcasting capital of the world and home of some of the tastiest looking sand beaches you’ll find anywhere on the planet. I have been visiting the Outer Cape, on and off, since I was a little kid and fishing the beaches was one of the things I used to look forward to most—I have gone for a week each of the last four years and I have brought a rod with me exactly zero times. You may be questioning my grit as a surfcaster or my devotion to the sport—but unfortunately it’s not that I’m going soft, it’s that I have learned that it’s just no longer worth my time.

On our first day, we headed to Coast Guard Beach in Eastham; this beach makes up the northern edge of the famous Nauset Inlet and then stretches two or three miles before being shadowed by the majestic dunes the Cape Cod National Seashore is so famous for. As we picked our spot among the sunbathers my mind slipped into overdrive and went through an involuntary rundown of the tide, wind, current structure and wave action. At roughly the same time my conscious mind was running through stories I’d heard or read by many of the surfcasters that made their names on the Cape beaches from the 1960s through the early 2000s.

By chance, (or was it?) we sunk our umbrella right in line with a cut in the offshore bar. The tide was low and coming in, a quick scan with the Costas revealed that a deep hole accompanied that offshore cut and a long finger bar reached out to meet the water flowing in from the Atlantic. Words from the late Tony Stetzko began to float through the back of mind as I walked through the shallow cut that was carved by the incoming water as it eroded the base of the finger bar and spilled over into the next bowl. I remembered him telling me about some amazing nights where big bass were slurping sand eels in a spot just like that. Dozens of fish, all over 30 and some over 40 working that little nearshore jet of current—their backs fully exposed—a swimmer and dropper reeled with the rod tip almost jammed into the sand getting eaten almost every cast. And when the school cleared, you’d drive down to the next bar and find another pile of fish ready to play.

I am not a sand fisherman. I’m not saying I can’t do it or haven’t, but I like my boulder fields and I like my deepwater rock formations. But as I walked out onto that finger bar and saw how steeply the water dove off from inches deep to well over 10 feet, my brain was on fire—it took some serious willpower to keep myself from playing the fisherman’s version of air guitar as I placed imaginary casts in my head. It was one of those places where you look and you just know that fish would be there—or, rather, should be there.

The current, the structure, the exchange of water between the ocean and the trough, the water jets rushing downtide between the bowls… sheer perfection. I really wished that I’d brought a rod… but the one thing I’ve left out of is that there were four huge seals and a smaller harbor seal swimming with the sunbathers in that hole. Looking south, the next bar was a “table top” (not connected to the shore) and there were easily 200 seals basking on the sand and another 50 sitting submerged with their heads poking out of the water like turtles, gawking at the gawkers shooting pictures.

As the week progressed we hit Lecounts Hollow and Marconi Station Beach—each of them had their own angling charm and their own armies of seals. When I visited those beaches at dusk I saw a single caster fishing with a small panel of seals hoping he’d luck into a fish so they could take it. People have told me that the seals know to follow people carrying surf rods and now I’m a believer. I was able to talk to one of the surfcasters, he told me that it has become a game of perseverance on the Cape beaches, you have to fish a lot of nothing days and nights to get into a few fish for the season. He did tell me that the beach I was walking had a good shot of fish the night before, but it was all seals after that—he added that a fish over 20 pounds would be considered extraordinary these days.

There are a lot of emotions that surface when I walk any of the Outer Cape beaches, they will be forever tied to my soul and childhood. I remember in all of the years we went between 1990 and 1998 I saw FOUR seals and they were all together in one spot as I was walking out to Nauset Inlet. When I see hundreds and thousands now it kind of breaks my heart. The Cape used to be known for its fishing and anyone had a decent shot off of those beaches. I remember seeing dozens of buggies with rods in the bumpers, big fish in the coolers at the shops, photos galore on the shop walls and now, there is no draw for surf fishermen on the beaches. I have no doubt that there are some hardcore locals that have figured out how to fish around the seals, but for average Joe or even the seasoned traveling surfcaster, the only things left of those bygone years of world class striper fishing are the stories and the memories. Too many seals is no good for anyone—I hear rumors that the State may step in to thin the herd a bit, but until someone is killed by a great white in plain view of thousands of vacationers, I doubt very much that any action will be taken. I didn’t even get to enjoy those great years on the Cape and I miss them, I can only imagine what it must be like for the guys who actually lived it.

Bonefish Dreamin’ by Jerry Audet

This is a blog post by guest author and SJ subscriber Jerry Audet

 

My Bonefish

“It’s too deep, and I can’t see a damn thing,” I said out loud.

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I was late; Carly and I had gone out for dinner and time had just gotten away from me.  My mind was a little foggy from a long day on the water, but I figured I’d work my way across this relatively deep flat, and keep my eyes out for cruising fish trying to snatch up their last meals as the day waned into rosy twilight.

I “hustled” across the grass flat in nearly waist deep water, dragging my feet in an effort to keep myself from becoming a stingray victim.  The long, waspy mud trail billowing behind me gave away the direction of the current.  It was deceptively strong, and I was tired from multiple ten-hour wading days.  This, and my overly-full belly stuffed with crab cakes and roasted brussel sprouts, was making my navigation to the edge of the grass more difficult than in days past.

And I was nervous.  I had seen two sharks over six feet long in this exact location earlier that day.  A good sign of life, sure; but for me as a Yankee, with little shark experience, it was a bit harrowing.

No doubt about it, I really didn’t have any idea what I was doing.  I mean, I know how to fish, and I can cast a fly rod well enough to hold my own, but before this trip, I had never flats fished before.  All I really knew was I had spent a lot of time, effort, and money on this trip, and I REALLY wanted to catch a bonefish.  All the stories I had read, all the videos I had watched- they all pointed to the bone’ as the ultimate fly-rod quarry.  I wanted to experience that.
I had chosen this flat from scouring Google Earth, because I felt it looked “fishy”.  No one told me to fish here; in fact, I couldn’t get much information out of any of the local shops of where to go (what to buy, sure, but where to go- not so much).  I ended up just falling back on my experience.

Experience that had been failing me over the last five days.

I couldn’t help but think about this failure, as I shuffled along, armed with my new 10-weight fly rod, after having exploded my 8wt with a heavy crab pattern the day before.

“Tonight’s the night,” I thought to myself.

“I can feel it”.

I arrived at my destination, and began to strip off line.  Here, at the border between hard, light sand and soft, dark vegetation, the water was shallower and clearer.  I found myself standing in less than knee deep water.  There was a solid 10-15mph wind coming over my non-casting arm, and resolutely turned to face it.  The sun was low behind me, and the combination of this with the wind meant all I could see was about six feet in front of me to the edge of where the grass abruptly ended, and sand began.

“Guess I’m blind casting,” I whispered into the breeze.

2
This sandy trough, about 3.5 feet deep, traversed along the edge of the grass flat between the bridges.  10 to 30 feet out from the edge more grass “pot holes”- some up to 15 feet in diameter- dotted the whole area going out at least a quarter mile.  It was full of life, with brightly colored bait fish, various sea-stars, urchins, crabs, and other small and medium sized crustaceans.  I had multiple encounters with a large loggerhead turtle here in the days prior, who was feeding on conch, and I was in love with the spot.

But it still hadn’t produced for me, and I was getting frustrated.  The fish were there; I had had two follows and seen two other bonefish, but no hook-ups.   Undoubtedly even getting a bone’ to follow your fly the first few times you go out is an accomplishment, and I was trying to keep this in perspective.  However, anyone who knows me well will not find it  at all surprising that I really could not be happy with this “almost” attitude.  But I had made the decision not to hire a guide, as to me, it wouldn’t be satisfying unless I could find, hook, land, and release the fish on my own.

All this was going through my mind for the millionth time as I finally started to cast.  I started to isolate spots I figured could hold fish- small rocks, pot holes, grassy patches, a big sponge, a funneling area of soft bottom, etc.  I’d cast to all of them 2-3 times.  Then I’d move.  Being out of the current now, I’d let the fly sink completely, and then painstakingly drag it back to the edge with slow, purposeful strips, adding in the occasional “pop”.  When it got close, I’d lift it up slowly, pulling it out of the grass.

I worked a merkin for about 20 minutes, as it was the only fly that drew any interest from fish on the previous trip to this flat, but it was tiring to cast with a 12 foot leader and 15 mph wind, even with the 10wt.  I decided my wrist and hauling arm needed a break after so many days of casting, and since I wasn’t catching anyways, I figured I’d try something else.  I dug around in my fly box, before settling on a Petersons spawning shrimp I had bought a few years ago at an Orvis outlet.  I had intended on using it for carp, but the fly had gone un-used.  I bounced it in my hand.  I liked it’s “action”, and the coloration was good for the light bottom I was casting into.

I tied it on with a loop knot, and continued ever so cautiously progressing along the edge of the grass as the tide continued to rise, blind casting to different structure points.

As the sun started to really get low, I arrived at a spot I had identified previously.  It looked like a fish magnet; I had not caught anything there yet…but it just felt like it had so much potential!  This “micro flat” contained a small point jutting out from the turtle grass towards a large circular grassy area within easy casting distance (50-60 feet).  The cut between me and this patch of dark bottom was a shallow trough, maybe 20 feet across, strewn with coral fragments and pebbles.  I stood on the edge of the point, and cast my little fly directly into the grass.

Naturally, it hung up immediately.
I rolled my eyes, and stripped it hard out of the grass, with a couple of long, hard pulls, quickly dumping it into the sand trough.  I then let it settle, glancing off to the towards one of the bridges as a small green turtle popped it’s head up, exhaling sharply.  I watched its’ head dissappear, and then turned back to my fly.

I gave it a little twitch.  Normally, it’d be covered in grass, but I could tell it wasn’t because there was very little resistance on the line.  I then proceeded to just slowly pull it across the bottom, with intermittent quick twitches, trying to envision it underwater acting like a injured and fleeing shrimp.

As I approached the edge of the grass, no more then 15 feet from where I was standing, I felt a slight…something.  It wasn’t a “hit” or a “bump” or “weight” or anything like that.  I can only describe it was if someone had taken their hand and pushed water at my fly hard enough to send it rolling along the bottom, and the feeling that that would impart on the line in my hand.

I strip set the hook hard.

3

The weight was immediate.

I had hooked…something.

I couldn’t see it, and at first whatever it was decided to do a slow, soft arch around me moving from right to left.  I raised my rod high, bright blue fly line scattered all around me, sun glinting off the water leaving me blind to what was happening.  As I watched the line cut the water lazily, I started to think perhaps I had a small ray or something like that.  I took a tiny step forward in an effort to get a look.
A sudden rapid change in direction and in 3 seconds all 80 feet of my fly line was gone, and in another 5 I was 30 yards into my backing.  I desperately tried to adjust my drag, and over tightened it to the point my rod sagged against the pressure.  Fearful I would break the 15lb leader, I backed off the drag and palmed the reel as the line continued to melt from the reel. The handle smashed against my hand and I recoiled.

My heart was pounding now; I had planned for that run, but I was not prepared for it.   As the reel finally slowed I was able to grab the handle.  Then, the line goes just about slack.  I start reeling like mad, mumbling curse words through my clenched teeth.  The fly line makes it back onto the reel, and still the line is barely taught.

An explosive burst of power and I have to release the reel handle.  All the fly line and at least 40 yards of backing disappear in a blink of the eye.

Again, I work it all back, under more resistance this time.  And again, as I get the fish within 20 feet of where I’m standing, it blazes back towards Africa like no fish I’ve ever experienced before.

They say you’re never ready the first time, and I definitely wasn’t.  I can’t help but smile now just thinking about it.  You always remember your first time.

This pattern repeats once more: I scramble to regain line, the fish then blazes it all off, and after at least 3 minutes I still haven’t seen the fish.  I’m talking prolifically to myself now.

“Don’t play it too hard, you’ll pop the hook”.  “No you idiot, turn the rod, keep pressure thisway”.

There was a fair bit of profanity mixed in as well.

“Has to be a bonefish,” I begin to recite.  It turns into a chant. “Please be a bonefish, please don’t be a barracuda”.  “Please be a bonefish, please don’t be a barracuda”.  “Please be a bonefish, please don’t be a barracuda”.

I reach a stalemate with about 20 feet of fly line out; the fish won’t come closer, and I won’t give it an inch.  After another thirty seconds or so, I relent and she takes a another short run, before finally yielding.

I will never forget the next moment for the rest of my life.  The glint of the sun on the choppy water, the dark grass underneath, pastel clouds in the background, the long, slow curve of the rod- and the bright flash of an angry bonefish with a bright little pink fly sticking in the side of it’s lip.

My stomach goes into my throat; I can hear my rapid heart beat in my ears.  She’s the most beautiful fish I’ve ever seen.  Yes, earlier this year I caught a 47.5″ striper.  That fish was monsterously powerful.  But this fish was…….incredible……

I’m so nervous now that I’ve seen her, I let up on the pressure, and she goes again, but doesn’t even get the fly line off the reel.  I try to maintain my composure despite knocking knees and work her back quickly.

Then the game of actually grabbing her begins.  Around and around she goes, making me spin 360 degrees several times.  I don’t dare pull my knot through the first eye for fear she runs again, and it catches, breaking my line and setting her free.   So I have the rod at a precariously high angle, and am trying to grab at my 12 feet of leader.

Twice I grab, she thrashes, and I drop it.  I don’t think I was breathing the whole time.

Finally, I get a solid hold, and slide her towards me.  As I slip my hand under the belly, I let out a soft, long “YYYEEESSSSSSSSSsssssssss”.

I dropped my rod in the shallow water; screw it, let it float away, I don’t care.  I hold her, carefully, and let the goosebumps run up and down my spine.  What an amazing animal; what an amazing moment.

I held her in the water and tried to take a few quick pictures before unhooking.  Being all alone on this particular evening, I had to figure out a way to get a couple “selfies” too.  I decided to gently cradle her in my arms and try to snap a few that way.   I gingerly lifted her 26” into my arms, noting her panting lips, mirrored sides, and extremely large, dark, forked tail.

Unfortunately, none of the pictures came out that great.  I was too concerned with making sure the camera worked to think about the ugly faces I was making.  Or water on the lens.  Or the angle of her body.  After a few quick shots in rapid succession, I placed her back into the water.  I rocked her gently by her tail, washing water over her gills, beaming ear to ear.

Before I let her go, learning from my terrible pictures in the surfcasting tournament, I decided to take a short video.  I didn’t even know what to say.

After I finished taping the release, I just remained motionless, kneeling in the water.  After a few moments passed, the gravity of what just occured sunk in, and I snapped to my feet to continue casting.  However, I didn’t get a single follow or nibble after that.  The only fish I saw was a large spotted ray, gliding along the grass edge looking for crabs.  I stepped aside to let him pass, and as he did, I decided to call it a night.

I had done what I had come to do.

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Editor’s note :

This blog post originally was published at http://www.trebleandbassfishing.com

Thank you for sharing Jerry !

Zeno

Rac A Rod Fishing Rod Racks – by Lou Caruso

By Lou CarusoRacARod2

A few weeks back I came across a Facebook post for a set of roof racks to secure your surf rods. I researched them some more and found these looked very much like the racks “The Surfcaster” use to sell. Well, these really intrigued me, as the Surfcaster version had no way to lock the rods in. I already had Rod Vaults on my truck so I have a way to lock up my rods. Since the update of the front clips on the Rod Vaults I have been pretty satisfied with them. The one thing that always irked me about them though was they marked up the stem of the reel when traveling because you have metal on metal where the cross bar secures the reel in place.RacARod4

I figured, what the hell, lets take a look at the new Rac A Rod system and see what it’s all about. I contacted the owner, Hal Truhn and set up a meeting.  When I got there Hal was waiting in the driveway. Turns out, he’s one of the nicest guys you ever want to meet, honest and sincere. We chatted and he brought out a set to look at. First thing I notice is the tubes are made from a reinforced rubber with a circle cut out to hold the reel stem in place. Hal cuts a V in front of the circle so all you have to do is give a little shove and the rod is locked into place. There is a swing bar that swings around and locks the reel securely in place. Next thing I noticed was the front racks are made like a ski rack with a latch to secure the front of the rods. Both front and back have a place to put a lock to secure your equipment when you’re stopping at 7-11 for that midnight coffee.

After looking over the racks I mentioned to Hal how much these look like the original Surfcaster Racks. Turns out he use to make them for them back in the day along with those bumper mount ed RacARod3racks for the front of your vehicle. As we chatted some more, turns out he works for the same company I retired from. As a matter of fact, he worked in the building behind mine some years back.

I was so impressed with the construction of the racks; I bought 2 and sold my rod vaults. I have had them for a while and love the idea that I can throw the rod up in the rack and not have to worry that the cross bar is secure for a quick hop down the beach.RacARod1

Hal has put a lot of thought and effort into these racks. His welds are spotless and precise. The powder coating is spot on and he will accommodate whatever you need. The racks come in 2, 4, 6 and 8 rod racks. A friend of mine recently contacted him and wanted a 3-rod rack. Hal made up new templates and now sells a 3-rod rack. I believe he is doing a special order in color for a customer. He does the bumper racks and is making a custom cooler rack for someone as I write this.

If you are in the market for racks, check out Rac A Rod at www.racarod.com or he has a page on Facebook. I hear a lot of guys bitch about the price of racks. Remember, you have a pretty good investment to protect between that Van Stall or Zeebaas and that custom rod your in for $1250 or better, most likely better. The $200 investment for a 2 – rod rack seems pretty cheap in the long run.

The one thing I would like to stress with every one is, this is not going to stop a thief if your vehicle is left unattended and they are hell bent on stealing your equipment. I recently saw a post that someone had put up to keep an eye out for a 10’ CTS rod and VS 200. Seems this person had the rod locked in a rod vault overnight in front of his house. The thief ripped out the cross bars to the car !!!!!!!  What this will stop is the theft of opportunity. Your sleeping in your vehicle in the lower lot in Montauk and some sleezebag walks up and checks out your rig. If it’s not locked, it’s gone.

If you want to make this system even more secure, check out the boat trailer locks the sell in places like West Marine and Boaters World. There is no room to get bolt cutters or a hack saw in there to cut the lock.RacARod

Gibbs Lures giveaway and new SJ Store arrival Limited Edition “Creeping” t-shirt from SJ

We haven’t had a giveaway in a while, being busy with launching the new issue and all, so here it is. Winner gets two Gibbs Pro Series Lures, a Canal Special and a Spook. Courtesy from our friends at Gibbs Lures
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New Surfcaster’s Journal Summer 2015 Limited Edition t-shirt ( not part of a giveaway )

Creeping While You Sleeping, only available until August 15th. You guys on the blog have first shot at them. After they are gone, they are gone

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Personal best, when you least expect it

Sometimes an “eventful” occurrence means that something nice and unexpected happened to you. But sometimes, It is not so pleasant. Right now we have a 170 page new SJ issue with bunch of videos ready to roll but…

yes, that darn BUT

One of our readers contacted us yesterday and told us that although he can watch embedded SJ videos on his Mobile and iPad they won’t play on his PC and Mac. Sure enough ,after I checked my desktop i found same results. On to our genius squad who informed us that youtube changed their embed protocol and we have to update our platform AND re-upload all 32 issues. Oh brother…but then again, if we did not know this, we would have been left with an egg on our faces when making new issue live and having videos that do not play. So hang with us, Tommy is working on it..

Speaking of Tommy and “eventful” things

We have been friends for years now and I watched his progression from at times in early years, being in awe of certain things. To today when he makes me be in awe of him at times. Like when I watch him cast. I literally grimace in pain as I watch just how much he puts into every single cast. I think my elbow would explode if I tried that. But he is like a machine once he gets going, its like he is almost trying to will a fish to eat his lure. And they often do. He is a pure plug guy although at Cutthunk he will occasionally join me on the dark side and toss few rigged eels. But you can tell that nothing makes him brim with confidence more than having a Super Strike plug attached to his clip at night or a YoZuri Surface Cruiser in a daytime. And does he get that plug out there..

Where am I going with this?
He did some nice fish on his own and some high 30 pound fish with me on the rocks at Cutty, but the entry to the 40 pound club has eluded him so far. He rearly fishes in the daytime, in fact, he is usually gearing up when I am just about done at night. But few weeks ago, instead of his usual past-midnight departure, he took a walk to his special spot at dusk because the tide was “good”

But this wasn’t meant to be a regular night. From the first cast till the darkness enveloped the beach he must have felt that he died and went to striper heaven

Why?

Three fish in 30’s and a 40 and his personal best 44. All on YoZuri pencil popper

Sometimes best things happen when you least expect them.
So congratulation to SJ Director and t-shirt designeR extraordinaire on his most excellent accomplishmentweqfergf

Speaking of t-shirt designing…..
The fellow who designed the Moon Girl and Grim Reaper SJ gear, Kris Magnotti who works out of DaVincci Tattoo studio in Wantagh NY, landed his personal best few nights later
It was his only fish of the night but this bluefish cleared 21 pounds
that is a big fish by anyones standards!IMG_5400

Eeling or Chunking?

ugh 027

Last week my friend Keith and I swam out to a rock that we fish regularly. It’s a consistent spot that produces quality fish pretty regularly, we’ve never taken a really big fish there but, I think it’s just a matter of time before that happens. There are many particulars to the pattern that produces there wind, tide and wave action all have to be right. One of the things that has really proven itself to be true is that, no matter how hard you try, you’re not going to get much (if any) love if you’re not throwing eels.

It could be the steep grade of the bottom, or the fact that a decent cast has your bait landing in water we estimate to be around 18 feet deep, or maybe it’s just an anomalous thing where the few times we’ve fished there with only plugs that fish weren’t around. Some things in fishing can never really be known. Last week, we were there, throwing eels as usual. The unfortunate part was that I wasn’t able to get to the bait shop before it closed so we were both fishing out of Keith’s eels and what he thought was a dozen turned out to be more like seven. I’m sure you can imagine my displeasure when my second cast was interrupted by the chattering, jerky tug-o-war of a bluefish—I reeled up to find about half an eel.

Keith and I have been friends for a pretty long time and we get along well, like the same music etc, but I don’t like the feeling of having to use someone else’s anything and that goes up by a figure of about 87 when the supply of said thing is low and I ALREADY need another one after only a few minutes of use! So I stuck with the cigar butt eel in an effort to ‘take one for the team’ and so as not to deplete our eel supply too quickly. My resolve began to waver when Keith bagged a 25-pounder 10 minutes later on a live eel. I acquiesced and grabbed a new eel, but I left the cigar butt lying near the bag, just in case.

Well, I can’t write my exact words down here, but needless to say within three or four casts I found another woodchipper with fins and again I was left with about 8 inches of my once 17-inch eel. I cast the half back out in shame and decided to just let the chips fall where they may. The eel fell unceremoniously to the bottom where I moved it with very short lifts of the rod tip every 10 to 30 seconds. A couple times my already shortened eel was trimmed again by a bluefish, but about five or so casts later I felt a solid and short thud and then the slow movement of a bass, I set the hook and it was game time. Not a giant fish, but a nice 20-pounder! I re-hooked my half-eel, fired it back out and let it settle using the same lift/drop routine. Maybe 10 or 15 minutes later, I felt it again; bam, slow movement. This fish was a very healthy 26-pounder. Around that same time Keith was verbally lambasting an unseen bluefish and changing eels again. And then he was bluefished yet again! As he was eyeing the last full-length eel in the bag I set the hook on an 18-pounder and I told him what I was doing to catch the fish.

After that we were both using half eels and before long Keith was tight to a 20-pounder, then I had another around 15 pounds, then a schoolie, then another in the upper teens and another low-20. Somewhere along the way Keith turned to me and said, “let’s not kid ourselves here, we ARE NOT eeling right now, we are chunking.” As our tide window closed we had about 10 bass between us including a 25 and a 26-pounder, one dogfish and a rogue keeper sea bass. I made one last cast with an eel head that looked like it had been dragged behind a formula 1 racecar for three hours and I felt a pickup. The hit was uncharacteristic of a bass, but didn’t feel like a bluefish either. But then it changed and seemed to me to be a definite bluefish. I came tight and set the hook hard, the fish took off like a cannon shot, but I soon landed the yellow-eyed bastard, roughly 8 pounds, and during its angry display of head shaking it regurgitated no less than FIVE eel tails. I got him. And that, we decided, completed the eel chunking grand slam; a striper, a blue, a dogfish and a sea bass. I doubt, very much, that we’ll ever do it again. So don’t discount or discard your cigar butt eels, sometimes they can save your night and (full disclosure) this is far from the first time half eels have saved or made my night.