Thus far, our late season fishing had been rather uneventful. Bait, in the form of peanut bunker, had shown up early in mid-August. This was reminiscent of a great year he and 1 had three year's previous. That season consisted of wading the areas sandy beaches and fishing with light tackle. We fished some of the most amazing "blitzes" we'd ever experienced. Most of the feeds this year seemed to be occurring farther off the beachfronts out of our reach. Granted, we'd landed a few nice fish, but still things seemed to be out-of-sync. I always felt we were a step behind. On the morning of September 6th, that would all change with the landing of a single fish. It would cause me to rethink my thirty-plus seasons in the high surf, both in terms of method and approach and would bring me back to earlier times. Days of big plugs and even bigger fish.

The air hung heavy with salt spray as we "crabbed" out along the slippery rocks of the outer point. The fully risen sun cast vaporous rainbows upon the mist, dancing and shimmering, then fading before us. Level with the sea the wave heights were even higher than they'd appeared from the road above. Eight-foot high combers marched relentlessly in breaking further out, surrounding the area in Whitewater. Landing a striper here was going to be a real challenge. Making matters more tenuous were two underwater ledges fronting the position, one to the left and the other to the right. This left only a narrow slot to lead a hopefully tired fish through. Fate was with us in one respect. A large high outcrop of rock dominated the middle of the point. This height advantage above the surrounding structure would give us a commanding position while battling a fish. Proper line angle, or "scope," above the water could easily be achieved, preventing line cut off from both ledges.

Stashing our gear beyond the splash zone, Bobby and I followed a narrow cleft of barnacles to likely casting sites. It would take a large profile plug to gain any notice in these types of conditions. I selected a one and a half ounce Gibbs yellow pencil popper and snapped it onto the forty pound fluorocarbon leader. My rod was new, a nine foot St. Croix Avid surf model. I was anxious to test it. The plug arched out over the incoming waves and landed with a noticeable splash. Reeling in time with the surf, I kept the lure on top thumping erratically, left, then right. There was no noticeable bait or bird activity present but the water certainly looked fishy. My third cast sailed out further than the previous two, landing atop a huge roller. I sped up my retrieve, keeping the plug surfing in along with the wave, splashing amid its crest. As the wave loomed closer, I lowered my rod tip and the lure began to skate down the surface of the comber. It never reached the bottom. A huge shape shot across the translucent green curl and engulfed my offering. I reared back on the rod and set twice. My rod bent over hard as a huge fan-shaped tail slapped the surface of the water. Whitewater flew in all directions as the fish disappeared out the back of the wave. Drag screaming, I ran back and scrambled atop the high outcrop while the striper headed steadily seaward. Bobby quickly reeled in, stowed his gear and perched beside me. We both struggled to spot the fish but she was running deep out of sight. The line melted off my reel at an alarming rate. All I could do at this point was simply hold on. "How she feel?" asked Bobby. "Heavy," I said. The take was "awe-inspiring" and I recanted on how the fish shot across the curl of the wave. That first run removed a hundred yards of line from my reel before the fish slowed. Leaning back, slightly on the rod, to gauge her weight, she once again resumed her run. I felt the angle of the line coming up and she broke the surface, rolling and smashing her tail, violently. Slowly, I began to gain back some line. Changing direction, she swam right, then left. Constantly, I adjusted my rod angle to keep pressure on and prevent her from throwing the hook. Driving by and seeing me into a good fish, my friend, Dave, joined us. "Nasty water, how she feel?" asked Dave. "Huge," I said, as I looked over my shoulder and smiled. My quarry was halfway in when she sounded again and headed for the bottom. God, she's going to try and rub me off, I thought and I leaned back a little harder on the rod. "Smart fish," said Bobby, "big and mean and smart." My largest concern now was the underwater ledges. If I was unable to get the line angle up and tire this fish further she'd cut me off there for sure. It was at this moment that she made her second run, straight out back to deeper water.

Having caught only brief glimpses of the fish made me all the more anxious. The rough surf conditions also made it truly nerve-wracking! Inhaling the salt air deeply, I forced myself to relax. Whatever happened from here on in, I was going to take my time. After all, I had two of my best fishing friends beside me ready to help and shouting encouragement. It would be crucial to tire this fish thoroughly before attempting that narrow slot.

Her second run wasn't as long as the first. She was still down deep when I felt her stop. Shaking her head, trying to free the lure, she sent nervous tremors up the rod. Silently I willed her to stop as Bobby said, "You've been into it twenty minutes, now." She must be well-hooked, I thought. "Don't rush, just hang on," said Dave. Line began to head seaward, once again, but I could sense the fish was tiring. Slowly, I put line back on my spool, gaining steadily, yard by yard. The line approached the slot and I tried to make her surface to better steer her through the opening. She would have none of it and remained deep. Whitewater obliterated any view we might have had. Before I fully realized it, the line passed through the slot, into a maelstrom of foam. Man, I still couldn't make her surface!

The action now resided on the right side of the point, pounded by the surf and separated from me by a narrow chasm. Scrambling down from my perch, I did the only thing I could do to prevent from being cut off. I jumped! It was one of those moments when time seems to stand still and everything becomes slow motion. Hanging in the air for what seemed an eternity; I spread my feet wide apart and bent my knees to absorb the impact. I landed and stuck to the rock's wet surface thanks to my korkers! Reeling frantically, I took up the slack and gained proper rod angle on the fish. Lifting the rod hard, the huge fish rose up through the foam, fining on her side. We all gasped in unison as I yelled, "gaff!" The sea receded, drawing her back towards its womb. Catching the gaff as it sailed through the air; I set it down beside me. Hurriedly, I gained line and slid the huge striper towards me. An enormous roller was bearing down upon us spelling real trouble. Forcing myself not to look at the incoming wave, I picked up the gaff and slid the point in the water under the bass. My ears filled with the dreadful hiss of the approaching wave. I would have just one shot.

Time stood still for the second instance that morning. With a quick upward motion I gaffed the great fish and lifted her on the rock beside me, my arm surging with adrenaline. I turned my back to the ocean and huddled over her. Whitewater smashed over me and spilled down my back in icy torrents. All the while I couldn't avert my eyes from the fish. She was breathtaking with evenly spaced black stripes set against sides of hammered silver. Like a knight's protective maille her large, crescent-shaped scales glistened in the sun. Streaks of iridescent orchid adorned her shoulders; slowly fading. She was truly a regal creature! An overwhelming sense of sadness overcame me. Under these conditions, I'd really had no choice, still the moment was bittersweet. Some teenager I hadn't noticed before, slapped me on my back saying, "Man, I've never seen anything like it, the way you fought that fish and jumped across the rocks!" Slowly my breathing returned to normal. I struggled to hold up the heavy striper for a picture which Bobby took. We both smiled, feeling for one second the tumblers fall into place and the planets align. No longer were we a step behind. Looking back on it now, it all turned with the landing of this single fish. On September 6, 2005 our greatest autumn, ever, began.

Oh, I almost forgot, the bass measured forty-seven inches long and weighed forty-one pounds. The point we fished would be named "Forty-seven" and the high outcrop from which I battled would be nicknamed, "The Pulpit." Bobby and I would catch numerous large fish from it and would manage to release them all unharmed. Those stories are still yet to be written.

"Steve Papows is considered, by many, to be one of the top surfcasting instructors on the East Coast" (Massachusetts Striped Bass Association). Steve frequently hosts surf-casting seminars that are attended by beginners as well as advanced shore anglers.

Steve was featured in an article in On The Water magazine, entitled Great Fishing "Along the Other Cape" in the September 2004 issue.