Thoughts on Confidence and Hope … from a Fisherman

On this chilly grey day my boat, CONFIDENCE, waits ... tied alongside a pier in the protection of Southeast Virginia’s Lynnhaven Inlet. The graceful sweep of her gunnels set amidst the dreamlike drizzle of early winter, however, belies her alert state of readiness to intercept this season's migration of Striped Bass as they make their mid-Atlantic appearance. 

Everything about the boat has purpose and is intended. Constructed of multiple layers of fiberglass, high-density foam and gelcoat, CONFIDENCE is a heavy boat that can handle rougher seas than I would ever personally wish to endure. Her Yamaha 225 HP 4-Stroke engine is, in my opinion, the most reliable engine on the planet. Over the years, the boat has proven worthy of her name, giving back everything that I have put into her. And today she is fully outfitted: rods in holders, down-riggers checked, tackle stored and primed for quick switch-outs, gas filled, and ice loaded. With the added weight she rests low in the water, as if crouching. With the turn of a key, all she’ll need is 5 minutes for her engine to warm to the task of pushing us out into the cold uncertainty of winter fishing off Cape Henry.

But CONFIDENCE is only one part of the equation for fishing success. The fish are the other, and they are the least certain variable. 

The Striped Bass is a migratory species native to North America’s Atlantic Coast. They follow the menhaden from as far north as Nova Scotia to as far south as the Carolinas. Broad-shouldered, they offer a good fight for the sportsman, and their flaked white meat is of equal delight at the table. The seven black stripes upon their silver and white bodies distinguish them from other fish. They are exquisite works of art and are worth pursuing; but, their willingness to participate in this game known as fishing varies greatly on any given day or any given year.

In cold years, they beeline through the area towards Cape Hatteras, following the bait to warmer climes. Affording only a narrow window of opportunity for intercept, anglers who work for a living are the ones who suffer most. Hearing of the onset of the bite on a Monday from a buddy whose home and work life are twisted beyond recognition but whose fishing routine remains an admired model of perfection, the working class will monitor the weather throughout the week as a sedative in their anxious anticipation of the weekend. And often in these years when the bite is fleeting, Saturday ends up too late. 

In other years, the fish just seem to get smart. I know their brain is the size of a pea - but I don’t care. How is it that in some years their level of knowledge about fishing regulations and geography rivals the level of knowledge about spelling displayed by the 2019 Scripps National Spelling Bee champion, Karthik Nemmani? It's as if the Striped Bass have acquired an acute sense about the location of the 3-nautical mile boundary beyond which fishermen cannot legally catch and retain them; and, it's not hard to imagine they might be passing this wisdom to future generations and migrations via gene evolution. I've heard plenty of supporting evidence during these years from Black Seabass and Wahoo anglers returning from their offshore forays, speaking of the masses of striped bass they encountered: “We couldn’t get our baits down to the Black Seabass we were trying to catch! The Rockfish [another name for Striped Bass used in Maryland and Virginia] were so thick! All in the 30-pound range, too. Of course, we had to throw them back because we were well outside the three-mile limit.” 

Then there are the good years. The ones we fondly remember and hope for the return of today. One year I recall was in the winter of 2003-2004, when unseasonably warm temperatures brought the bait and the bass in close to shore. That year, the fish decided Virginia Beach was as far south as they needed to travel before making their north-bound spawning runs up the Chesapeake, Delaware and Hudson in the spring. One particular day I'll never forget: flat-ass calm conditions, water temps in the high fifties and air temperatures breaking into the high eighties. We took off our shirts (in January!!!), and the bite was sizzling hot! The entire population from Virginia Beach, Norfolk and parts of Portsmouth seemed to be out there getting in on the action, with the fishing fleet resembling something out of a Dr. Seuss book: band-wagoners dragging lines from powerboats, sailboats, windsurfers, jet-skis, paddle-boards, and skaddle-doos … all catching fish. 

So which year will today be? Unfortunately, for the past few trips the fish have been smart; and my dog, Valerie, who is going with me, looks about as bleak on our prospects of catching fish as the grey skies about us are suggesting. 

Casting the negative thoughts aside, I proceed toward CONFIDENCE. Her flared bow, her smooth lines … rods in place, down-riggers checked, and full of gas … ready to go. She’s ready. I’m ready. Maybe the striped bass will come to play today.

And with that, I turn the key and take in all lines. We head out into the cold, drizzly day – confident and hopeful.