Once a year, Doc Catalano ventures to Montauk, conjuring up a surfcasting fantasy based on Hemingway’s hapless hero, the age-weary fisherman, Santiago. This time, Doc’s dream came true.
“First fish, biggest fish, most fish.” That’s the friendly betting pool we concoct each time the Red Hill Gang, my Brooklyn buddies of yore, gather on the East End of Long Island for our annual Montauk surfcasting weekend.
We don’t take the wager too seriously. Most of these guys are googans–surfcasting neophytes–who come more for the meals cook at my Amagansett hideaway, and the poker games that follow. But a little skin the game spurs on those who like to reel in more than merely a fish; particularly, Doc Catalano.
The Red Hill fall gathering has been an annual event for the last fifteen years, with one unfortunate interruption during the height of COVID in 2020. This year, however, we had a bare minimum of participants. Illness and injuries of various sorts, prevented the attendance of Bobbie A. of the Carolinas, Vinny D. of California, and Felix F. of Florida. It was a sober reminder of our inevitable aging —the ugly underbelly of those sixty-year-old halcyon remembrances of Brooklyn Tech, Abraham Lincoln HS, Chick’s Pool Room, Our Lady of Grace Church, and the eponymous Red Hill hangout on East Fifth Street.
But neither age, the threat of Hurricane Ian, nor a 500-plus mile drive north from Virginia with his wife Marci Pants, put the slightest crimp in Cat’s exuberance for this year’s event. He made an obligatory family call at his sister’s house in Staten Island, then scooped up “Don Signori” Dolce–The DreamKiller–in Manhattan for a traffic-maddened final trek east to my beach house in Amagansett.
When this abbreviated duo of Red Hill Gangsters arrived, I shanghaied them for a lightning round of vegetable picking at the cooperative Quail Hill community farm. Their reward was a seaside picnic lunch at Fort Pond Bay —choice of home-smoked bluefish or farm-fresh caponata sandwiches. Then it was time to fish.
Or at least, it was time to find the fish. Surfcasting is as much about hunting as it is about casting and catching. More so, it is about timing. It is a very low percentage sport, which makes the rare successes that much more satisfying. Would there be fish to be caught on the beach this weekend? The fish would have to come to us, and we’d have to be where they showed up and be ready if and when they did. After all, we are not boaters. Only once—in 2008—had the Red Hill Gang walked into a full-throated, all-out weekend-long blitz of non-stop surf fishing. Keepers in the cooler for all hands that year. It was enough of a bonanza to keep The Red Hill Gang coming back year after year. But not always triumphantly.
For 2022, the September trend lines were moving in the right direction. There had been a steady increase of bass and bluefish catches here and there. But the fall run had hardly developed. I was hopeful we were on the verge of a favorable change with a hurricane-spawned nor’easter barreling up the Eastern Seaboard. A hard blow, accompanied by a reduction in water temperatures, could cue this season’s first act. Even the absentee Red Hill Gang members were optimistic. Betting the First Fish, Most Fish, Biggest Fish pool remotely, they made Cat the morning line favorite.
I smiled smugly at their sentimental choice. Though he fishes con brio on these trips, at home, Cat spends far too much time on the golf course to be healthy for any normal person, let alone a wanna be surf fishing sharpie. Plus, I had a pretty good sense of Cat’s fishing prowess since I introduced him to the sport in the mid 1960s. Back then, we rode the Ave. U. bus to Sheepshead Bay, bought a bag of hard shelled clam bait from Mike’s Tackle Shop on Emmons Ave., then schlepped on foot to Plumb Beach to cast for eels on a sandy inlet beneath a Belt Parkway overpass. Considering his lack of success then, I was certain he’d be happy return my surf stick and get reacquainted with his pitching wedge by the end of the weekend.
For the moment, however, properly fed and suitably outfitted, casting on placid Montauk waters in a blazing September sunset, Cat was swathed in his alter ego state as Hemingway’s Santiago. Bait fish were popping up so frequently, that even Don Dolce got out of the truck to cast a line. Hook ups were not to be, however, and we retired for early cocktails, a dinner of rigatoni with red sauce and eggplant parm, and vows to hit the surf hard, fresh, and early in the morning.
On Friday, we were joined by some of the other Fishing Faithful—Billy Black, Big Brother Frank (BBF), Verizon Charlie, and the irrepressible Broadway Bassman, LeeBob. The weather was mild. The water was placid. The fish were cooperative. With little fanfare, Cat scored “First Fish” with a schoolie striper of under five pounds. The pressure was off. No skunk on the Cat. With that, another traditional reward was in order: coffee and crumb cake at the Montauk Bakery.
The weather began to deteriorate as the remnants of Hurricane Ian marauded north bringing rain, wind and white water surf to Long Island. We searched and fished all the usual hot spots throughout the rest of the day and a few small fish were caught, but not by the Red Hill Gang. Don Dolce and I quit early to prep a chicken for roasting before the rain got too serious. But at sunset, we shifted to dinner-plan B. LeeBob donated a 12-pound keeper bass for our evening meal. I chopped up a fresh salsa dressing of parsley, peppers, garlic and tomatoes picked at the farm, fired up the grill and roasted the fillets along side some Quail Hill new potatoes. I don’t know the last time I cooked and served a fish as fresh—barely two hours from the sea to my table.
Saturday morning dawned snotty and mean. Winds were 20-mph plus; gusts half that much again, and the rain pelted sideways. There was flooding, beach erosion, boats run aground. The East End of Long Island was firmly in the grip of a classic fall nor’easter. I had already received notice from my visiting “googs” they would be sleeping in. BBF also took a pass on the morning. So I was solo. It wasn’t a hard choice to simply return to the scene where LeeBob had scored his keeper the night before. It was sort of a default spot which had consistently produced fish for us in previous weeks, on both incoming and outgoing tides; at daybreak and after sunset.
Mostly, I wanted a sense of just how horrible the conditions would be later in the day for my googs. I found out in a hurry that this would be no typical day at the beach. But I got lucky in less than thirty minutes, hooking into a 10-pound fish which I fought to submission through the rain and fast running tide. It measured up at a whisker over 29 inches–a keeper. I plunked it into the cooler and called in the cavalry. By the time Verizon Charlie and Billy Black showed up, I was climbing in my truck, soaked, happy, and heading for home to whip up breakfast for my guests. The day seemed to be shaping up as an indoor poker fest. And if we had to batten down for the storm, at least I had checked the second box: “Biggest Fish.”
Late to rise, but fueled with fresh coffee and a homemade western omelette, Cat was un perturbed by the wind and the rain he saw outside my dining-room window. With an escape clause—“You’ll bring me back if I want to quit, right?”— we suited up in waders and waterproof tops, then headed for another beach which had been producing fish now and then, expecting to find a whitewater paradise in the blow.
Seeing the wind whipped waves of Block Island Sound, DreamKiller Dolce pronounced, “If I was a fish, I’d be as far out in the deep blue sea as possible.” But, in fact, the opposite is mostly true. Striped bass fishing from the surf is typically inversely proportional to the niceties of the weather. The nastier, the sloppier, the wilder, the wetter—the better.
If you have the heart and stamina for it, a nor’easter can result in fishing days of miracle and wonder. And so this day turned out to be. Cat and I fought our way out of the truck to the water’s edge. It had to be blowing 25-mph directly at us, with gusts over 30-mph. In surf barely knee high, the waves and the wind kicked Cat’s ass. His lure was kiting high up in the air, barely getting out twenty yards. But he was completely enlivened by the elements, howling expletives at the stinging rain, which got swallowed up by the deafening wind. Despite air pummeling, I was stunned we didn’t catch a fish on that beach. I successfully punched through the wind enough times to effect a decent retrieve. The clean, foamy surf should have produced strikes. Where were the fish? It was time to move with the tide to find them.
Shagwong Point when we go there was a literal sandstorm. Don Dolce never suited up and remained in the warm dry confines of my truck which was rocking in the gale. But Cat was again into the surf without hesitation, his morning ambivalence replaced by afternoon gusto. I didn’t share his confidence. The storm, if it continued, could shut us down by churning up the water too much. And the beaches we drive on were fast washing away. This could be last chance for fame and glory.
But on my first cast I raised a fish; a hit and a miss. My hope was renewed. As I started to get the cast and retrieve right, I saw bait sprays pursued by predators. “We could get well here,” I thought.
Then a strike. I nailed a cocktail bluefish of about three pounds. Then another. After a while, a third. Bluefish for the smoker; or perhaps a piquant marinara sauce. At the very least, another box checked for me: “Most Fish.”
Meanwhile, the wind was besting Cat. A change in tactics was in order. I switched up his lure to a bone white Super Strike “heavy” for more oomph. I moved him a ten yards closer to the rip off Shag’s promontory. And I did my best to explain the key to keeping his lure from foundering on the breaking waves.
Weary-eyed, rain dripping from his unshaven cheeks and chin, his head sheathed in a tightly drawn hood worthy of a schoolchild in a snowstorm, he nodded his understanding and went back to cast some more. I felt like Angelo Dundee sending out Muhammad Ali for the 15th round against Joe Frazier. This could end badly.
But Cat began snapping off casts sharply into the teeth of the wind. They didn’t all go very far, but they didn’t have to. The bait was in the washing machine churn close to shore. With perserverence–and luck–we’d find quality fish there too.
Cat’s retrieve was tight and showy in the whitewater. With one, Cat adroitly kept his lure popping as it slid down the backside of a cresting wave. Suddenly, a fish crashed lure’s tail hook with a mighty splash. Down went Cat’s rod tip. Up went his eyebrows. He held fast and bellowed above the gusty gale: “Fish On-n-n-n-n!”
“Good for him,” I sighed silently. And then I caught a look at his rod: seriously bent. This was no cocktail bluefish. He was into something big; likely a proper fish of at least 28-inches. This would be his first keeper bass in many many years if he brought it in. But the fish didn’t budge. Foul hooked, I feared. Sometimes, if a fish swipes at a lure but doesn’t bite it, the fish gets snagged midsection. Dragging a fish of any size that way through the surf is akin to hauling an engine block with a bungee cord. Often, it’s a broken line and a dropped fish waiting to happen.
Then the fish flapped its broom-like fantail in the wash and we saw it; ginormous. Its head came up next—the size of a large dog. “Oh my, oh my. Cat may have a fish for the ages!” I thought. The fish was properly hooked, but kept taking line. Cat was forced to walk towards the fish as it swam with the current, struggling to break free. He was losing the battle.
Another fisherman, 30 yards down the beach, watched the breaching fish grapple his way. He gave an enthusiastic thumbs up. We knew then Cat had a trophy fish, if it didn’t get away. If Cat’s line tangled with that other angler, no one would be happy—not even the fish.
It was time to take drastic action. I tightened the drag on Cat’s reel. The fish would no longer have leeway to pull line off the spool. Cat would have to stand firm against the fish using skill and brute force. He’d have to “horse it” as we sometimes say. “Pull back on your legs, lift up your shoulders,” I coached. “Keep your rod tip up, then reel like mad on the way down. Don’t give the fish any slack at all.” Fingers crossed the line would hold. Rinse and repeat.
Cat was going to stay with that fish until one of them was dead. It was my job to make sure neither happened. After some heroic cranks by Cat, I was able to grab hold of his leader and drag the fish above the water line. Cat was spent. So was the fish. Lying still on the beach, it was immediately obvious, this bass was a slob beyond keeper size. It was well above the slot limit of 35 inches. It would not be anyone’s dinner, nor the subject of an artistic Japanese fish print, which was another part of Cat’s dream. This Moby striper would be released.
There was just enough time to photograph it, and return it to the sea. The fish had been hooked clean through the fleshy part of the jaw, so it did not bleed. We never touched it with bare hands. Freed, it swam away strong. It would thrive and breeding again.
And just like that, in real-time Hemingwayesque, fish-of-a-lifetime style, Cat checked the final box: Biggest Fish! Santiago lives!
Epilogue: There was a bona fide surfcasting tournament going on in Montauk during this year’s Red Hill Gang weekend, one of many which occur throughout the fall fishing season. Neither I nor my Fishing Faithful coterie fish competitively. Cheers to those who do, but it’s not our thing. However, if Cat had been part of the tournament–in which some of the most hard core sharpies fish through the most fearsome conditions, on the most precarious jetties and boulders, in the highest and roughest surf–he would have fared quite well. Second place, in fact, with his 39.5 inch, 25-pound striper. An epic catch indeed.
