Every surfer and salt rodder knows that waves come in sets. Wait out the ankle slappers and you’ll be treated with a swell worthy of getting your wetsuit Sex Wax tacky. But while surfers love big seas those big waves make fishermen nervous. Waves burying a fisherman wading on a beach isn’t much fun; getting power cleaned by one while fishing the rocks is a completely different story.
In the summer, East facing rocks attract bikinis who spread towels for a Downward Dog sunrise yoga session. They give grubs like us night owls the stink eye, not just because we look ragged from chasing Mister Big but from the click clacking of our cleats. Those cleats keep us from sliding into the drink, but those yogis can’t seem to find their Zen while listening to the equivalent of a New Orleans tap dancer hustling for a buck. Not finding inner peace is a shame, especially ‘cause we’ve already found ours.
It doesn’t matter if you’re casting flies, plugs or flying a red and white Diver’s Down flag, the rocks on both sides of the surface are magical. When the waves crash on the rocks they do so with a roaring thunderclap. A woosh of water runs high up the face and gathers loose cobble and shale. Once collected it drags the stones back down the face and into the sea. Rocks pinging rocks is a mesmerizing sound, so much so that it’d be easy to forget why we’re here.
I’m here in search of the sweetest pocket or slot that meets a deep water drop off. Bait gets disoriented in these pulsing vortexes, and when it does it becomes easy pickings for a striped bass. The whitewash makes it difficult to see fish feeding in even the clearest of waters. That doesn’t matter, for when your line goes tight you’re in for a fight.
It’s easy to tell a veteran rock jockey from a rookie. The veteran takes a range, those old school latitude/longitudes that mark a hot spot. A shrub on land paired with a buoy in the water becomes a coordinate, a telltale, of where fish have been caught in the past. Old guys walk down the rocks and stop when their ranges line up while newbies prospect. They’ll cast and walk, and cast and walk until they hook up. All it takes for them to learn the game is to hang a few fish. They’ll use that wisdom the next time they walk the rocks.
It’s impossible to know if your hook up is on a single cruising fish or if there is a pod down below. It’s also tough to tell if you hook a rat or a cow. You’ll find out quickly, for rats hit so hard that they pull your tip to the grip. Big fish sound and swim slowly, confidently, looking all the while, for a long strand of kelp to swim under or a barnacle encrusted ledge to rake a leader. Put the boots to everyone, no matter their size. Don’t give them their head, for even shorts are savvy enough to find an edge sharp enough to sever fluorocarbon. And when you land a big fish, you won’t need a reminder to come back. They’ll be in your blood and will always be the reason you come back for more.
Some of the best rock fishing is near highly populated areas. Rockport, and in particular the artist colony known as Bearskin Neck, is one of them. I remember one perfect summer day when the salt breeze mixed with the aroma of freshly made fudge. Kids on school break shrieked and laughed, firecrackers popped, and the clangs of halyards against masts filled the air. Days like that often make me wonder if life can get any better. Of course it can, now where is that 30-pounder….
Tick rocks on a back cast is a given, so check hook points and tippets regularly. Hone points to a razor’s edge, make them sticky sharp, and get ready to do it again. Run your fingers through your tippet to see if it’s frayed. You’ll spend a lot of time filing and tying, and it’s ok. Dividends are paid when that point drives home and the fish comes to hand. When fishing the rocks five minutes can be the difference between pleasure and pain.
Always fish around a Bass Stand. Mounting steel bars forged into an upside-down letter U deep into rock wasn’t easy. Stands were placed in prime fishing spots that were consistently outstanding. They were used by guides who escorted wealthy anglers from the cities. Gear bags were strapped to the stands as were lanterns at night. If a rogue wave hit just grab the stand to keep from getting sucked back in. The stands were used because no one back then fly fished for striped bass. They used baitfish like lobster tails. These days if you tell someone you’re using a lobster as striper bait, they’ll look at you like you’re mad.
Sailors have a joke about cruising around these areas; “I’d rather have a drink on the rocks in my boat than be in the drink with my boat on the rocks.” Despite the energy, there is a fine balance out here, one that relies on your throttle and steering cable. Captains jockey back and forth between them, keeping one eye on shore and the other out to sea. Your buddy has a job to do and that’s to pitch into the suds where the waves meet the rocks. Fly lines are around a hundred feet, and even if he’s a bomber caster you’ll still need to get him close. There’s a rush that comes from the fine line between hanging a big fish and filling out an insurance claim. When you’re done be sure to have a drink, preferably one on the rocks in your boat.
Striped bass look different from flats or river fish. Catch one in Narragansett, Jamestown, Newport, the Elizabeths, Cohasset, or the 35 inshore islands in Boston Harbor and you’ll see that the cold water makes them firmer, their bellies are whiter, and that purity stands in sharp contrast to their pitch-black lines and vibrant lavender sides. If you’re looking for variety you’ll find it from the Marblehead coast through Maine.
The rocks are the gift of glaciers, and they offer the cold hard facts. They’re further tempered by pummeling winter Nor-easters and soothed by the summer Sou’westers. A day spent in the rocks is spent in full concentration accompanied by your two friends, Fate and Luck. They, along with those attitudes, are quintessentially New England just like the striped bass themselves.
