The dome of cloud cover was thin enough that you could just make out the general position of the moon, now one day past full. There was a diffused twenty-watt glow that flatly lit the water making it hard to tell the sky from ocean. Fog was piling up on the hills above the beach on the distant shore where we had put the kayaks into the water to catch the ebbing tide at 2am. When the rain started it sounded at first like dust on a vinyl record. Then, as it intensified it reminded me of crackling bacon in the frypan. I pulled my hood over my baseball cap and zipped my jacket up tight against my chin.
It had been a good trip. My hands were red and swollen after four days on the water. Marked with line cuts and hook jabs. My thumbs had become sandpaper-rough from lifting striped bass by the lower lip.
There was no free ride back on the current of the incoming tide. A gusting west wind was hitting us square in the face. Cottages on the shore didn’t appear to be getting any closer. Running over a sandbar, the push of the paddle blade on the bottom convinced us we were making progress but indicating we might still be a little early to get all the way back to the ramp at the old wharf. To rest our arms, we got out and walked, dragging the boats by a length of anchor rope until we had reached the edge of the bar and could find deep water.
Paddling out into the channel that morning we had agreed to stay in sight of each other. Red headlamps on and turned backwards like taillights to signal our presence to outgoing power boats. Now, heading back to the wharf, it was every man for himself. Even turning around to look back would swing the boat and catch the wind. Neither of us wanted to suggest a tack or to lead so we paddled side by side.
Every year since 2010 – with a pandemic interruption - we have fished the flats of the inner cape for a week, and sometimes two, timing our trip with the full moons of summer and the highest tides. The years have been similar enough that we had developed familiar routines and frequented the same haunts, but never feeling like we had fallen into a rut. It was early October now and this was an unexpected second crack at fish in the same year.
Already the Cape was sliding into the off season. The crowds had left, and business was slowing down at the shops and restaurants in town. Perched on stools at the counter bar of Mac’s in Wellfleet where the bartenders had that practiced easy expertise after another hectic summer with a touch of the exhausted impatience of wishing the last few weeks to pass quickly so they could tally up their season and make a break for Mexico to surf or Thailand to be customers at someone else’s bar.
The summer instalment earlier the same year was supposed to be in July, but my nephew had dropped a save-the-date for his wedding on the same weekend. Things lined up for June and it all worked out for the best as the weather was warmer this year than in previous years. The fish were there in big numbers and aggressively chasing flies. The second trip back was for another serving from the buffet and not in any way a need for redemption. July could be a shit-show with the vacation crowds, so we were happy to have missed it. We seemed to have found the sweet spot fishing in June or late September.
Most years by early January, Steve has reached out to Harper and offered us the first pick of dates. A couple of back-and-forth emails and we’re locked in. Harper keeps a few irons in the fire with friendly cottage owners and they likewise check in early with him, so it all falls in line. As the weather turns from winter to spring, we can follow the Striper Migration tracker online.
Except for the one year I had driven down to pick up Harper in New Hampshire, the trip started at the same curb on the arrivals level at Boston Logan as it always did. Truck rolls up. Throw the bag in the back seat. Shake hands and reach across the bench for a hug. Big grins on our faces. Promptly get lost finding the highway while talking and not paying attention. An hour and a half later they’re taking the turnoff to Wellfleet and heading past Macs looking for the rental cottage.
Quick pause at the market for a few essentials and then the next order of business is settling into the cottage. Nothing fancy but equipped with kitchen, BBQ and a couple of beds. If we’re lucky a TV to watch the Red Sox. In the past few years, we have gravitated to a spot close to our favorite restaurants and a good local market even though it meant a 45-minute drive in the morning to get to Wharf Lane to meet up with Steve.
If the official start was at Logan, then the unofficial start was really weeks earlier when we both started sorting out gear, replacing lines and intensified in the days leading up to their arrival in town when Harper visited the local butcher to get bison burgers and elk tenderloins, stock up on craft beers and prowl through his wine cellar to choose a few special bottles of red. None of which would be devastating omissions but were all part of building the anticipation.
Bless Harper for all his pre-trip preparations. Everything is organized and stocked in duplicate, if not triplicate in the case of headlamps, sunglasses and rods. Despite checking in extra early and being priority-tagged my bag on the short direct flight from Toronto to Boston, decided to take a detour and left me waiting at the baggage carousel. The airline expected the bag to arrive on the next flight promised to deliver to me. Three days later, having completely given up it was there waiting outside the door when we got home from dinner. Between Harper’s spares and an extra pair of waders that Steve had, I didn’t miss out. I did bust the tip off the rod I borrowed from Bill. Ouch.
The first year we fished from stand-up Freedom Hawk kayaks. It was warm enough to wade in shorts so when I opted to leave the waders at home on another trip only to find the water cold, he came to my rescue with a pair of waders in the truck bed. That was the year we fished overnight from the beach.
The walk from Pilgrims’ First Landing Park to Long Point Beach from the roundabout at the end of the road in Province Town starts out easily enough. A big rock causeway stretches out in a straight line and the top surface is broad and flat. The rocks have been laid with care and feel like a sidewalk. The causeway separates a tidal marsh from the harbor. On one side is a broad sand flat and we have spent time here walking and wading looking for striped bass. It’s here that we have fished poppers and even tossed tiny crab patterns that Steve had encouraged us to try. Like fishing for permit he has called it. The last few times here have been underwhelming. Perhaps a consequence of the seals that seem to pop up regularly at the edges. Farther along, the causeway starts to narrow and becomes more treacherous as it jogs left and you spy Wood End Lighthouse. It’s early evening and the place is deserted. Our plan is to walk up and down the beach where it drops off quickly. We’re spending the night here to fish in the dark.
With the water laid out flat, or at least not crashing surf, we wade out in the water. In the darkness it feels farther from shore than it rightly should. Steve is casting out a sluggo with his spinning rod prospecting for cruising bass. He hooks one and walks it back to shore where he picks it up by the bottom lip, pulls the hook and releases it.
The night was not a total waste. We had filled an empty wine bottle with scotch and water and brought some great sandwiches for a snack. Taking a break from fishing we build a fire with driftwood and before we know it, we’re drifting off to sleep in the sandy banks.
On most days we fish right through, munching on a granola bar or better yet a sweet and salty oatmeal raisin cookie from Kayak Cookies. It’s one of the first things we grab at Hatch’s market, and they never disappoint. They just seem to hold up well in a Ziploc tucked into a wading-jacket pocket.
It does mean that by the time we get off the water and out of our waders (usually between 9am and 11am depending on the tide) we are starving and ready for a good breakfast.
If we can hold out until we are back in Wellfleet it might mean a stop at the Flying Fish Café for linquica and eggs. To fortify ourselves for the drive we might drop into the Snowy Owl Coffee Roaster in Brewster. When our fishing day ends later our timing means we can head to Sweet Tomatoes Pizza in South Yarmouth which is not far from the boat ramp. We usually have left-over pizza for lunch the next couple of days. Our route home on those days might include a stop at Devils’ Purse Brewing Co. in South Dennis, and if they have it, we take home some Intertidal Oyster Stout. For a stretch a few years ago, we drove home along the old highway 6A and we could break the trip up with a stop at Cobies Clam Shack for fried clam strips.
Whatever it was and wherever we stopped we never seemed to wait too long. Our timing of sleep, fish, eat, sleep would set us apart from the crowds. It was the timing of the tides that established our schedule. The plan was always to arrive a few hours ahead of the low tide and catch a ride out to the sand bars. The bar was big enough and the drop sufficient to expose miles and miles of dry sand. A few people would walk their way out from the beach and back. Once we saw a deer crossing the bar far from shore.
Heading out we wanted to be early enough to clear the bars closer to shore without having to drag the boats. Which usually meant having to mill about offshore until the outer bars were shallow enough to wade. Steve’s face would light up as he checked his phone to verify our location. Most mornings are calm and the water generally flat. It’s quiet and you can hear the bass swirling or busting around you. We have the sunrise ahead of us and against the dawn we look for birds gathering.
Sticking a paddle down into the water to gauge its depth, Steve decides it’s time to get out of the sit on top kayaks. We jam the paddles under the front hatch straps and hand the rope to Steve who pulls the boats along behind us as we prospect forward hoping to see fish show themselves. A steady walk across the flat takes us to a drop, or to a channel, and we cast into it letting the fly swing on the outgoing current like a river. Steve has taught us to tuck the rod under an arm and use a two-handed retrieve. Often in these spots the grab comes from a small schoolie. They come steadily for a while as you creep forward until the channel gets too shallow.
We walk onward. Scanning ahead for tailing fish, or a blitzing pod up ahead. We take off on a run to catch up with the fish. If you can get there in time to cast in the middle of the commotion, and it never takes too long. As the sun rises, the wind picks up a bit. On those rare days with clear skies and calm conditions we can sight fish. Backing up in stages with the incoming, we look out to spy fish coming in singles or groups against the white sand. A fish or two will back-door you and as you watch it cruise past you, you know its time to pick up stakes and set up for the next round closer to shore. Paddling in you might cross paths a fish and then you point with your paddle as it rockets across the bow.
As we get closer to shore and depending on what kind of a day we’ve had, there’s always the “last-chance” spot where Lone Tree Creek dumps into the ocean. As the tide comes in, the fish will move on up the creek to a few deep pools and at the mouth a shallow bar lets you wade across to intercept them. The pool itself is deep and dark, and really the only time I wish for a sink tip to get it down. Even here, we feel like we are miles away from it all. In all the years we’ve come here I can count on one hand the number of other anglers we’ve seen. And those we do are usually known to each other and respectful.
On our own one day we walk out from the car park at Chapin Beach. Far off to our right we see two other fishers with the same idea. We later learn it was Steve and another client. He keeps an eye on us and gets a laugh later when he tells us he saw us way out there and figured we had overstayed our welcome on the incoming. Absorbed with casting to waves of incoming fish, we had forgotten that there was a trough between us that bar. By the time we clue in and start wading in the water is up to our chest and we have to bob through on our tip toes with one hand cinching the top of our waders to stay dry. The wade of shame Harper calls it. I say it’s a small price to pay for another great memory.