OPINION: Surf Fishing: A 13-year-old’s dream come true

I love fishing; ever since I was 5 years old. For me, it had a special meaning. I was an average kid, but when it came to fishing, I was in the top 10% of my peers. For a round, awkward boy of 13 years, fishing set me apart to some extent. I passed the time waiting for a bite, admiring a new rod or reel, or lure, and anticipating that trophy hookup that would make me famous one summer day on all of Oregon Street in Long Beach, New York.

One day in August I rode to Atlantic Beach with adult friends Annie and Arnold. Atlantic Beach was a prime spot because the jetties were fairly flat, and you could walk way out and cast into 20-30 feet of water. Big striped bass would hover near the rocks waiting for passing prey. Upon arrival, I baited up my 10-foot surf rod with a big clam, and walked out about 75 yards.

Facing the incoming tide and the early-morning sun on a perfectly clear and calm day, I casted off the rocks about 30 yards and let the 3-ounce pyramid sinker drop down to the sand 30 feet below. But it never got to the bottom. As soon as the sinker hit the water, my rod bent over in a 60-degree arc. The drag wined as 20-30 yards peeled off. I knew this was a really big striper. I loosened the drag and walked back down the jetty, making sure to keep tension on the fish.

Getting to the beach, I tightened the drag and the rod bent in half again. All I could think of was “please God, don’t let me lose this fish.” After about 20 minutes, I saw the fish shadowed in the profile of an incoming wave. It was huge, about 35 pounds and over 40 inches long. Another 10 minutes and the fish was flapping on the sand in front of the three of us. I was so excited and proud, and Annie and Arnold showered me with congratulations. It was a real trophy.

We fished for another hour or so and nothing else happened. Walking up the beach, I kept saying, “Wait ‘till my Dad sees this!” We got back to Oregon Street, and I said my goodbyes and thanks to Annie and Arnold. I then proceeded to walk to our house, a half a block up Oregon Street, dragging the 35-pounder by its gills, rod in hand and walking as tall as a 13-year-old could. Neighbors came out to look and add their congratulations, fulfilling my dream of Oregon Street fame.

I got to the house, and Dad was in the alley with a white handkerchief around his head; painting the foundation. I dragged the fish up to him and when he saw me, he stood up with a big smile and his eyes wide with pride and gave me a big hug and pat on the back. I told him the whole story and he listened with admiration. Mom came out and I got another big hug and big kisses. Later, Dad filleted the fish and Mom cooked up three big pieces that night for dinner. It was probably the best meal I ever had.

I guess Henry David Thoreau was right when he said: “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” That day I learned what Thoreau meant.