Island Beach State Park, a seven-mile stretch of barrier island beach left mostly in its natural state, is one place that extends the ocean wilderness past the edge of the water. To be sure there are bathing beach areas and parking lots, but for the most part it is wild open beach backed by the dune-ecosystem. The northern section is even closed to beach-buggy traffic and carefully regulated with designated trails through the dunes.

The surf fisherman fishes the edge of this wilderness; and like Thoreau on his pond, our lines connect us to nature through the earth’s giant eye, the sea. We enjoy walking the beach and fishing, not dependent on vehicles, and closer to the environment in which we are participating. To find fish we “read” the action of the waves as they break on a sandbar and beach noting the sloughs and shallows. We watch the actions of birds as they feed; what kind they are and how they act tells of unseen fish. We constantly scan the surface of the water for fish swirling and breaking in a feeding frenzy. Even stranded of half-eaten baitfish, washed up by the waves, give evidence of fish behavior. Through constant attention to the elements of nature we may even become aware of their significance and appreciate the beauty of the total system.

I personally have collected hundreds of sunrises. Over the years I have watched beaches and dunes build up slowly then to be sliced away to sharp cliffs of sand by a storm. In the spring the low dunes behind the beach bloom a bright yellow from the shaggy beach heather. The fall brings the crops of beach plums on the wind-sculpted low trees. I have even been “stalked” by a fox at dusk while I fished alone on the beach. He paced in half circles behind me hoping I would catch a fish and leave it vulnerable on the beach.

One November morning, dawn broke gray and windy. A northeaster was brewing, the ocean was fishable, but it promised rough conditions. As I fished along my favorite stretch of Island Beach, I was basically alone. The next fisherman was about 2 hundred yards north, and below me stretched an empty mile of sand. The first sign of fish, bloody pieces of bunker, began to wash up on the beach. Flapping halves of fish, bunker, still partly alive washed around my boots as I waded in to cast in the oily-gray crashing surf. Bluefish had begun a feeding frenzy that we call a blitz. I hooked my fist blue and struggled quite a while before landing it. It looked to be about 15 pounds and was engorged like an obscene overgrown football from its late fall feeding. It coughed up pieces of the bunker on which it had been feeding.. I let it swim quickly away to continue savaging the hapless bunker trapped against the beach. Around me the gulls began noisily feasting on the remains littering the beach. A maelstrom of activity and noise mixed with the wind and rain engulfed me. For two hours I continued to catch and release those bluefish on almost every cast as the rain and wind increased. Ultimately the rough conditions caused the school to move off the beach. The wind had picked up making is almost impossible to cast, and I was wet and cold. I kept two fish for eating; later the larger one proved to be over 16 pounds.

Those who fish the surf would agree that this experience was a once-in-a-lifetime thrill. To be alone on a New Jersey beach, in the middle of a two-hour bluefish blitz, with fish in the 15 pound plus range is a singular experience. But the thrill of catching fish was secondary to being within this wild scene. Briefly, I had become a small part of the forces of nature, a part of the chain of natural events. For a moment I was a predator much like the bluefish who were the supreme predators here. During the mile walk up the beach and through the dunes, I savored the experience.

Then I made my way out of the park, past the crowded beach-house developments. Up through the traffic lights and bumper to bumper traffic…. back into the territory of prime real estate, arrogantly perched on the edge of the sea. ----Jerry van de Sande