Angelo Peluso - Fly Fishing the Surf: A Comprehensive Guide to Surf and Wade Fishing from Maine to Florida

Disclaimer: Fly fishing, like all other water sports, involves a certain degree of risk. It is highly recommended that you practice the sport in a safe way at all times, exercising appropriate and necessary caution. Using your acquired skills, judgment, and common sense is essential when in or around water, especially in areas where there are boulders, jetties, or strong currents. Always exercise caution when operating watercraft or when wading. If you are unfamiliar with an area, it is strongly recommended that you utilize the services of a professional guide or captain. And always wear a personal floatation device.

Fish Consumption Advisories: Various state departments of health and environmental conservation maintain up-to-date health advisories pertaining to fish consumption. Please check with those authorities for the general and most current advisories.

Copyright 2013 by Angelo Peluso

All photos are copyrighted to Angelo Peluso unless otherwise noted.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN: 978-1-62087-596-4

Printed in China

T his book is dedicated to all who share a passion for fly fishing, and to all who are intrigued by the edge of the surf line and the glorious gamefish that swim in salt water. And to my Labrador retriever, Bailey, who was at my side every step of the way throughout this entire project.

Contents

Preface

At Waters Edge

S ome may refer to the condition as an obsession, but there is no doubt that I am addicted to salt water. Aside from the love of family, close friends, and my Labrador retriever, nothing quite touches my soul or invigorates my spirit like being physically part of a coastal ecosystem. Were I forced to chose only one water-based activity to pursue for my remaining days on this earth, it would be wading in salt water with a fly rod in hand, casting to some magnificent gamefish. It matters not the species nor where I fish but rather the scene and how the complete experience unfolds. Fly fishing is truly a sport that is all about the journey of discovery and not simply the destination where one arrives. There is something magical and captivating about being in the water with a direct connection between the end of your fly line and a creature of the sea. To set the hook and feel the vibrations of throbbing life move straight from the water to your hands is as good as it gets. The connection is holistically aquatic when the angler is standing in the same environment as the fish. After making the acquaintance of your opponent, you get to hold it, one hand gently beneath its belly, the other firmly grasping a thick tail. For a moment in time, angler and fish are one, until a quick sweep of a powerful tail propels it back home. From that moment on the connection cannot be broken. In my mind this is the pinnacle of sport fishing.

When I was a kid growing up in New York City, I would often venture to City Island or Orchard Beach on the outer reaches of the Bronx to cast a baited hook as far as I could with the expectation of enticing any fish willing to eat my modest offering. Usually it was a piece of sandworm or bloodworm or a hunk of clam. If my grandmother had any leftover bits of fresh squid, shrimp, or scallops that werent transformed into some Neapolitan culinary masterpiece, Id stick them on the hook, too. While I waited for flounder, tomcod, striped bass, or bluefish to bite, I would often contemplate the possibility that someday I might own a boat and be able to fish well beyond my longest cast, in places where I knew the trophies had to be. Surely, fish were out there in distant secret hideaways, not in here where I stood wishfully waiting for some straggler to intercept a deceptively free meal.

Eventually the day came when I was able to afford my own boat. Rigged and ready for action, I pointed the bow toward the mouth of Port Jefferson Harbor off the Long Island Sound, mashed the throttle forward, and broke free of the shackles that had bound me to shore. Freedom from being landlocked was the gift this hull and engine would bestow upon me, an emancipation that would translate into more and bigger fish. I glanced back well behind the boats wake and waved goodbye to the shoreline, a big smile stretched across my face. My sights that day were set on a fabled offshore haunt in the center of the Long Island Sound, aptly called the Middle Grounds. I had heard all the stories of supersize striped bass and gargantuan bluefish that roamed the grounds and the nearby shoal, all too willing to eat ones bait. Cow bass and gator blues would soon relent to my liberation from the land. Upon reaching this storied fishing hole I set anchor and began to cast, and cast
... and cast. After several hours of fishing, not a single fish was tempted by my artificial offerings. Reluctantly, I pulled up anchor and slowly worked my way back toward port feeling defeated. Disappointment would mark my first offshore adventure.

But a funny thing happened on the way in from the legendary fishing grounds that had just served up a major-league skunk. As the shoreline came into view, I noticed a long line of boats fishing directly off one of the beaches I often fished. I pushed forward on the throttle and steered in the direction of the growing fleet. Much to my amazement most rods on all the boats were doubled over, and those anglers who had not yet hooked up were casting. They were in their boats and casting toward the beach; a beach from which I had just escaped. Striped bass, bluefish, and weakfish were blitzing along the entire stretch of water precisely where it met the land and the sand. Despite my desire to seek new fishing haunts way out yonder, the temptation of fish literally at my feet was too great. I quickly joined in on the action Talk about the ultimate irony. With my dreamboat now underfootmy platform to the deep blue seahere I was casting toward a beach I had longed to flee. But catching a variety of prized gamefish at a rapid rate had me swallow my pride. The next few days found me back in the same location, at times fishing but a cast away from the sand, and waving to beachcombers as they strolled by. I remember thinking: I could have waded out this far. That great shoreline bite continued for about a week, until fish moved off the beach and into deeper water. I was glad then that I had a boat so I could follow those fish around, but the memories of that in-close fishing lingered and to a great extend were catalysts that molded the future direction of my angling habits and preferences.