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It was mid October, when Steve and I visited Martha’s Vineyard for the first time. Looking back I’m not sure why we were there, it was probably the lure and legend of the great fishing island that drew us. I had probably read one too many articles written about the fishing there. Steve and I grew into surffishing workhorses together. We started getting serious about surf fishing in our early twenties. Steve had just gotten out of the Navy and I just graduated college ten years earlier, when we started fishing together, probably more out of sheer boredom more than anything. We had found a home in the surf and worked hard at it. We had no teachers or fathers to help us or show us the ropes, we just watched and learned and remembered everything possible. As funny as it sounds, we were self-made bassmen. We relied on what we read, what we experienced and we relied on intuition. On the Vineyard all those things would be helpful for the locals as friendly as they are, keep the information close to the cuff. The first shop we stopped at to gather information was a prime example. We asked the basic questions. Where and with what (for bait)? The answer was friendly and direct. “Southbeach with eels.” Sweet, that was easy enough I thought to myself. So we bought what we needed, eels and ice, and went off to secure our room for the week. You see what kind of fishing nuts we were, right? Notice we got our bait and research done before getting our lodging. We planned our first night expedition to southbeach, and arrived there after dark. We learned quickly our first lesson as we then realized that southbeach was not a “beach” but rather a stretch of beach, a ten mile stretch of beach. Steve and I kind of felt like two donkeys, to put it mildly. Our first session produced a big fat skunk. It is funny what you come to expect and what you actually find when you get there. According to the articles I read I thought for sure that all I had to do was to cast some offering into the sea and there would be a cow waiting there at the end of my first cast.

The skunk followed us into the next morning. Our mutually shared feeling of stupidity turned quickly to determination after some small blues took down our eels like a kid alone with a pencil and an electric pencil sharpener. Every time I would reel my eel in it would be two to three inches shorter. This is not what we came for!

We quickly decided two important things, forget the island resources for information, and that we would do a recon mission of the island and fish the place we thought looked best to us. So for the next two hours we searched and learned.

Before I say anything else I need to tell you that none of the fishing on the island is easy to get to. There are few signs, no directions , and little or no direct beach parking or access points that are apparent. You really need to nose around for things like parking. Being from New Jersey it is something that you take for granted and no parking is something that you really need to get used to.

We decided that the boulder strewn beaches beneath the lighthouse at Gay Head looked like our best bet.

We found parking and walked the beach by day, it all looked so good, we had restored our hope in our expectation and restlessly looked forward to the night session. The tide was perfect for what we wanted. We headed back for some rest and relaxation, and some grub followed by maybe a little shut eye before the night fell.

The night was black as sin. We pulled into the parking lot. Things look a lot different in the darkness. Being from Jersey you are used to ambient light assisting you through the dark, BUT here there are no houses, no street lights. It was an overcast night so even the moon offered no assistance. My headlamp became my lifeline, my enabler, it’s beam cut a pathway through the darkness as we walked toward the sound of the breakers. We hit the beach after a ten minute dune walk, the scene was beautiful. It was a calm night the waves rose and broke gently. The white beam of the lighthouse swept the beach and then the surf and then gone behind the cliffs of Chilmark. And then the red light followed five seconds later, the beach, the water, then gone. The lighthouse shared its light with us. I saw it as a friend, I understood the term ‘beacon in the night’ a little better. Although the night was black around us looking off to the west, just left of the cliffs, an orange sky rested on the horizon, it turned to pink and then rose to purple before disappearing into the dark billowing clouds of night which would be stroked by the beam every five seconds before falling dark again. It was one of the most beautiful places that I had ever been to. The prospects of the linesiders swimming close by made it all that more enticing. Had it not been for them I would never have come to this place… this time.

The cold of the night didn’t faze us, there were bass to be had…so we hoped. I reached into the bucket and chased my first eel through the ice. I hooked him in the traditional method. Out he went into the night. I reeled him back in as slow as possible. The table was set. Calm surf, top of the tide, night. Any second the bump would come and the fight would be on, I checked and double checked my drag. I cast again…and again…and again.

I longed for my first Vineyard bass. I waited patiently for my first Vineyard bass. After a while I began to wonder if there were Vineyard bass. Perhaps all those articles were just made up by the Chamber of Commerce to get me here? I continued to cast.

It was an hour and a half into the night when a bump woke me from my vertical slumber. I immediately was wide awake. I dropped my tip, stepped forward, and reeled up tight. I snapped my rod back and my first Vineyard bass was on. I was excited. “I got one!” My voice pierced the dark quiet. I’m sure Steve was relieved as well. I brought up a twenty inch fish. (It was on a twelve inch eel.) The only thought that came to my mind was, “I came all the way here for this?” I had caught bigger fish on summer nights in the river back home. I didn’t even know that they made them that small up here.

A quick picture and back into the drink. Another eel hit the water. Steve and I had another shot of hope. Another hour passed, we were two hours into the falling tide, when another knock jolted me from the tranquilizing light of the lamp. “Here we go,” I said to Steve. He edged closer to me in expectation. I brought the rod back hard and the water before me exploded, I could see the large white splash as the fish felt the hook set. The fish dove and ran. I held on and watched in the darkness as the line emptied from my reel. I knew this was what I had come for. The adrenaline accompanied by the usual thoughts. “please stay on” and “I hope I checked my knots.” In the occasional flashes from the lighthouse I started to see the bottom of my spool and less of my line. I hope the old girl would slow down soon. “Should I cup the reel?” I asked myself. Momentary panic.

The fish finally stopped although I could take nothing back on her. I held my ground. “Patience,” I reminded myself. I was finally beginning to take back line. Turn by turn she came. I’m not sure who was more excited, me or Steve. As I began to gain on the fish Steve stood at the water’s edge, searching. Finally the fish succumbed and Steve grabbed it. “Holy (cow) it’s big,” he yelled. I ran to see it. A nice 30 pound bass lay on the sand. We celebrated like two little kids. A quick measuring, weighing, and photo session, and I revived the girl to swim another day. I could hardly contain my happiness. I did however feel a little bad for Steve. He has yet to feel the bump on this island. It would be good for him to get one. As I celebrated and tried to compose myself, Steve cast his eel again into the night and while I stood there beaming.

“Here we go,’” yelled Steve, cutting my celebration short. He set the hook. “It’s not as big as yours he said. Oh, hold on a minute.” His reel emptied, the fight ensued. It was role reversal. This time I stood at the water’s edge searching the darkness for movement. Minutes pasted and I finally grabbed the fish and reported, “it’s big.” Steve and I did the same dance again. This time a 33 pounder. We tried to revive this one also, but we were unable to, so we took turns carrying it the mile and a half back to the truck. We bitched, giggled, and smiled all the way. The night at play had ended, and these ol’ boys from New Jersey were extremely tired and couldn’t have been happier.


A Night on the Vineyard by DJ Muller It was mid October, when Steve and I visited Martha’s Vineyard for the first time. Looking back I’m not sure why we were there, it was probably the lure and legend of the great fishing island that drew us. I had probably read one too many articles written about the fishing there. Steve and I grew into surffishing workhorses together. We started getting serious about surf fishing in our early twenties. Steve had just gotten out of the Navy and I just graduated college ten years earlier, when we started fishing together, probably more out of sheer boredom more than anything. We had found a home in the surf and worked hard at it. We had no teachers or fathers to help us or show us the ropes, we just watched and learned and remembered everything possible. As funny as it sounds, we were self-made bassmen. We relied on what we read, what we experienced and we relied on intuition. On the Vineyard all those things would be helpful for the locals as friendly as they are, keep the information close to the cuff. The first shop we stopped at to gather information was a prime example. We asked the basic questions. Where and with what (for bait)? The answer was friendly and direct. “Southbeach with eels.” Sweet, that was easy enough I thought to myself. So we bought what we needed, eels and ice, and went off to secure our room for the week. You see what kind of fishing nuts we were, right? Notice we got our bait and research done before getting our lodging. We planned our first night expedition to southbeach, and arrived there after dark. We learned quickly our first lesson as we then realized that southbeach was not a “beach” but rather a stretch of beach, a ten mile stretch of beach. Steve and I kind of felt like two donkeys, to put it mildly. Our first session produced a big fat skunk. It is funny what you come to expect and what you actually find when you get there. According to the articles I read I thought for sure that all I had to do was to cast some offering into the sea and there would be a cow waiting there at the end of my first cast. The skunk followed us into the next morning. Our mutually shared feeling of stupidity turned quickly to determination after some small blues took down our eels like a kid alone with a pencil and an electric pencil sharpener. Every time I would reel my eel in it would be two to three inches shorter. This is not what we came for! We quickly decided two important things, forget the island resources for information, and that we would do a recon mission of the island and fish the place we thought looked best to us. So for the next two hours we searched and learned. Before I say anything else I need to tell you that none of the fishing on the island is easy to get to. There are few signs, no directions , and little or no direct beach parking or access points that are apparent. You really need to nose around for things like parking. Being from New Jersey it is something that you take for granted and no parking is something that you really need to get used to. We decided that the boulder strewn beaches beneath the lighthouse at Gay Head looked like our best bet. We found parking and walked the beach by day, it all looked so good, we had restored our hope in our expectation and restlessly looked forward to the night session. The tide was perfect for what we wanted. We headed back for some rest and relaxation, and some grub followed by maybe a little shut eye before the night fell. The night was black as sin. We pulled into the parking lot. Things look a lot different in the darkness. Being from Jersey you are used to ambient light assisting you through the dark, BUT here there are no houses, no street lights. It was an overcast night so even the moon offered no assistance. My headlamp became my lifeline, my enabler, it’s beam cut a pathway through the darkness as we walked toward the sound of the breakers. We hit the beach after a ten minute dune walk, the scene was beautiful. It was a calm night the waves rose and broke gently. The white beam of the lighthouse swept the beach and then the surf and then gone behind the cliffs of Chilmark. And then the red light followed five seconds later, the beach, the water, then gone. The lighthouse shared its light with us. I saw it as a friend, I understood the term ‘beacon in the night’ a little better. Although the night was black around us looking off to the west, just left of the cliffs, an orange sky rested on the horizon, it turned to pink and then rose to purple before disappearing into the dark billowing clouds of night which would be stroked by the beam every five seconds before falling dark again. It was one of the most beautiful places that I had ever been to. The prospects of the linesiders swimming close by made it all that more enticing. Had it not been for them I would never have come to this place… this time. The cold of the night didn’t faze us, there were bass to be had…so we hoped. I reached into the bucket and chased my first eel through the ice. I hooked him in the traditional method. Out he went into the night. I reeled him back in as slow as possible. The table was set. Calm surf, top of the tide, night. Any second the bump would come and the fight would be on, I checked and double checked my drag. I cast again…and again…and again. I longed for my first Vineyard bass. I waited patiently for my first Vineyard bass. After a while I began to wonder if there were Vineyard bass. Perhaps all those articles were just made up by the Chamber of Commerce to get me here? I continued to cast. It was an hour and a half into the night when a bump woke me from my vertical slumber. I immediately was wide awake. I dropped my tip, stepped forward, and reeled up tight. I snapped my rod back and my first Vineyard bass was on. I was excited. “I got one!” My voice pierced the dark quiet. I’m sure Steve was relieved as well. I brought up a twenty inch fish. (It was on a twelve inch eel.) The only thought that came to my mind was, “I came all the way here for this?” I had caught bigger fish on summer nights in the river back home. I didn’t even know that they made them that small up here. A quick picture and back into the drink. Another eel hit the water. Steve and I had another shot of hope. Another hour passed, we were two hours into the falling tide, when another knock jolted me from the tranquilizing light of the lamp. “Here we go,” I said to Steve. He edged closer to me in expectation. I brought the rod back hard and the water before me exploded, I could see the large white splash as the fish felt the hook set. The fish dove and ran. I held on and watched in the darkness as the line emptied from my reel. I knew this was what I had come for. The adrenaline accompanied by the usual thoughts. “please stay on” and “I hope I checked my knots.” In the occasional flashes from the lighthouse I started to see the bottom of my spool and less of my line. I hope the old girl would slow down soon. “Should I cup the reel?” I asked myself. Momentary panic. The fish finally stopped although I could take nothing back on her. I held my ground. “Patience,” I reminded myself. I was finally beginning to take back line. Turn by turn she came. I’m not sure who was more excited, me or Steve. As I began to gain on the fish Steve stood at the water’s edge, searching. Finally the fish succumbed and Steve grabbed it. “Holy (cow) it’s big,” he yelled. I ran to see it. A nice 30 pound bass lay on the sand. We celebrated like two little kids. A quick measuring, weighing, and photo session, and I revived the girl to swim another day. I could hardly contain my happiness. I did however feel a little bad for Steve. He has yet to feel the bump on this island. It would be good for him to get one. As I celebrated and tried to compose myself, Steve cast his eel again into the night and while I stood there beaming. “Here we go,’” yelled Steve, cutting my celebration short. He set the hook. “It’s not as big as yours he said. Oh, hold on a minute.” His reel emptied, the fight ensued. It was role reversal. This time I stood at the water’s edge searching the darkness for movement. Minutes pasted and I finally grabbed the fish and reported, “it’s big.” Steve and I did the same dance again. This time a 33 pounder. We tried to revive this one also, but we were unable to, so we took turns carrying it the mile and a half back to the truck. We bitched, giggled, and smiled all the way. The night at play had ended, and these ol’ boys from New Jersey were extremely tired and couldn’t have been happier.