After taking in the bait man’s stories, my father decided on some frozen clam bellies and a dozen sand worms for
our surfcasting excursion. The man had advised us that there was a good chance we could catch flounders and
black fish off of Crab Meadow Beach. Our father packed the fresh bait next to the sandwiches in the cooler and
we headed off with enthusiasm.
It was a Saturday morning in mid-July. The early morning sky was light blue and the clouds were puffy, blowing
by quickly in the breeze. The deep aqua salt water in the sound reflected the low angle of the sun. Sailboats
crested the white-capped waves in the distance as calm breakers lapped against the shore. Ten miles across
the Long Island Sound northward, the shore line of Connecticut was sharp, seemingly so close that you could
reach out and touch it.
After absorbing the natural beauty of our surroundings, we began the ritual of setting up, including sorting out
the poles, claiming a pole, and deciding who would get "rigged-up" first and who would have to wait.
My brother was the first one to get his hooks in the water as he cast out his baits and sinker that my father had
carefully tied on for him. We fished with two hooks, one tied about eight inches above the other; the lower hook
lay on the bottom while the higher one drifted in the current just off the bottom, attracting fish swimming by. This
is the theory.
My brother took up a position about 20 paces away from where I would be fishing. Fishing people never stand
too close to one another on the beach, not only to avoid getting lines tangled but because of a natural territorial
mindset (you fish your side and I'll fish my side). If one were to cast into the fishing zone of another and happen
to catch a fish, then it would be sort of like the other guy’s fish that you just happened to catch because your bait
was in his spot.
our surfcasting excursion. The man had advised us that there was a good chance we could catch flounders and
black fish off of Crab Meadow Beach. Our father packed the fresh bait next to the sandwiches in the cooler and
we headed off with enthusiasm.
It was a Saturday morning in mid-July. The early morning sky was light blue and the clouds were puffy, blowing
by quickly in the breeze. The deep aqua salt water in the sound reflected the low angle of the sun. Sailboats
crested the white-capped waves in the distance as calm breakers lapped against the shore. Ten miles across
the Long Island Sound northward, the shore line of Connecticut was sharp, seemingly so close that you could
reach out and touch it.
After absorbing the natural beauty of our surroundings, we began the ritual of setting up, including sorting out
the poles, claiming a pole, and deciding who would get "rigged-up" first and who would have to wait.
My brother was the first one to get his hooks in the water as he cast out his baits and sinker that my father had
carefully tied on for him. We fished with two hooks, one tied about eight inches above the other; the lower hook
lay on the bottom while the higher one drifted in the current just off the bottom, attracting fish swimming by. This
is the theory.
My brother took up a position about 20 paces away from where I would be fishing. Fishing people never stand
too close to one another on the beach, not only to avoid getting lines tangled but because of a natural territorial
mindset (you fish your side and I'll fish my side). If one were to cast into the fishing zone of another and happen
to catch a fish, then it would be sort of like the other guy’s fish that you just happened to catch because your bait
was in his spot.
| A Fishing Story |
by Michael Domino
Copyright © 2007, 2008 by Michael Domino
| May 24, 1997 Most dads would like to see their kids catch a fish. When a kid catches a fish it demonstrates to his dad that he can do something on his own, facing nature and the world one-on-one. The kid might succeed or might not but a line in the water shows, at the very least, that he’s willing to try. The first fish of any remarkable size that I caught was while fishing off the beach at Crab Meadow State park on the North Shore's rocky beaches overlooking the Long Island Sound. On that day, we got up early, packed a fisherman's lunch consisting of salami sandwiches, cheddar cheese, and apples along with some cold sodas. Still sleepy eyed, my father drove while my brother and I spread out over the back seat of our station wagon. We first stopped at the bait and tackle shop and listened to the shop owner tell our father where the big fish were caught during that week, what type they were, and what bait had been used. We grew excited with the anticipation of catching of something big, too, comparing our future catches with the prize-winning fish displayed in sun-yellowed Polaroid pictures Scotch-taped to the back of the cash register. |
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