T 



.HE POINT AT 

 CAPE HATTERAS IS 

 A DEFIANT CHIN OF 

 SAND THAT JUTS FAR 

 INTO THE OCEAN, 

 A WEDGE OF BEACH 

 THAT SUCCUMBS TO 

 THE SURF BUT PERSISTS 

 SUBMERGED FOR 20 

 MILES IN A SHALLOWS 

 DREADED BY MARI- 

 NERS AND KNOWN 

 AS DIAMOND SHOALS. 

 To the south of those shoals, miles 

 into the Atlantic, the Gulf Stream 

 spins its clockwise current, pulling 

 in warm water and warm-water 

 fishes from equatorial regions 

 north along the Atlantic Coast. 

 Off Cape Hatteras, this river-in- 

 an-ocean veers east, away from 

 the continental verge, its impact 

 on the weather of the mid- Atlantic 

 and the fish of its waters diminish- 

 ing as it is absorbed into the ocean. 



Meanwhile another great 

 ocean river, the Labrador Current, 

 circulates north of Hatteras, a counter- 

 clockwise current that funnels colder 

 water and its migrating denizens from 

 the boreal Atlantic down the continent's 

 northeastern coast. 



Off the shore of Hatteras, eddies 

 spin off of these two great ocean 

 currents, meeting water from both 

 hemispheres and fish from there also: 

 red drum, speckled trout, bluefish and 

 striped bass. 



That is why the fishers are here. 

 Nowhere along the nation's 

 shorelines is the culture of surf fishing 

 so inextricably wound into the soul of a 

 region as it is on the Cape Hatteras 

 beaches, in particular at Cape Point in 

 the cooling weeks of November. I have 

 heard the stories all my life: When the 

 great runs of red drum are in and the 

 news is out, the trucks stack up three 

 and five deep at "the Point," the fishers 

 shoulder to shoulder and front to back, 

 lines crossing in the air and water. There 

 is laughter and shouting, cursing and 



At Cape Point, a few rare moments of relative solitude. 

 Anglers the world over leave tracks on these beaches, especially in the fall. 



fighting, and fish of impossible propor- 

 tion brought to the beach. 



In November along the north and 

 south beaches, where ribbons of sand 

 embrace the Point, currents push schools 

 of glass minnows and menhaden against 

 the shore, the shoaling waters and the 

 sandbars, concentrating schools of bait 

 and the pantheon of predatory fish that 

 draws anglers to stand awash in the 

 waves and hurl chunks of mullet, squid 

 and shrimp off the edge of a continent. 



I stand on that beach on a howling 

 Thursday as the last gasp of a storm 

 lashes the thin filament of Hatteras sand. 

 I am there for the annual Cape Hatteras 

 Anglers Club Invitational Surf Fishing 

 Tournament, to ferret through Hatteras 

 fishing lore and see how the finest surf 

 anglers in the country approach their 

 cryptic, consuming avocation. I tag 

 along with a fishing team called Rising 

 Tide, and I talk to old-timers about the 

 nascent days of Hatteras surf fishing and 



cruise the crowded beach. If Cape 

 Hatteras is, as the English writer 

 Anthony Bailey observed, "fishing mad" 

 during autumn, then it is downright batty 

 during the first Thursday, Friday and 

 Saturday of each November, when 100 

 six-person teams line the beaches of 

 Cape Hatteras National Seashore. They 

 come in spanking-new Suburbans and 

 rusted-out Ford F150s from across the 

 country and from the string of little 

 villages — Frisco, Avon, Rodanthe and 

 Buxton — that drape along the Outer 

 Banks. I am there to watch, but, of 

 course, I want to fish. I want to learn 

 how to cast a piece of cut mullet far 

 beyond the breakers, to know the 

 difference between a red drum merely 

 mouthing my bait and a flounder sucking 

 it down, to know when it is best to use 

 shrimp or squid or whether bloodworms 

 or strips of bluefish are the wiser choice. 



First I watch. I figure I might as well 

 learn from the best. 



8 AUTUMN 1998 



