After such a trip, it is a wonder that 

 anyone retained the energy to cast lines 

 of braided linen with rods of bamboo, 

 lancewood, greenheart and even 

 hickory. But cast they did. Hooper tells 

 me about driving to the Point in Model- 

 A Fords, tires slack for traction, and 

 fishing with linen lines that had to be 

 wound around a large wooden wheel 

 after each use to dry. The old reels were 

 bulky and difficult to use because the 

 spools had no drag mechanisms to slow 

 their spin when a fish surged. Anglers 

 used leather gloves and surgeon's 

 plaster to keep from burning their 

 thumbs when fighting a large fish. 



Contemporary readers of these 

 early fishing tomes will recognize the 

 pound of pulse and surf described in 

 unselfconsciously extravagant lan- 

 guage. "To feel the lift, the gentle 

 mouthing, and then the irresistible tug 

 and run of a thirty-pound channel bass 

 " such was the allure of surf fishing, 

 intones Van Campen Heilner and Frank 

 Stick in The Call of the Surf, a splendid 

 book published in 1924 and considered 

 the first on American surf fishing. "At 

 the end of the line may be a fighting 

 demon of the deep which no linen ever 

 twisted is strong enough to halt, and one 

 can but grasp the straining rod and pray 

 that his antagonist may turn before the 

 thousand feet of line is exhausted." 

 Packed with breathless prose about the 

 runs of red drum, "the coppery comet's 

 rush," The Call of the Surf also contains 

 a glimpse of surf fishing's increasingly 

 technical future. "The systems of our 

 father's time are now quite passe," the 

 authors write, "and quite likely present- 

 day ideas will be scorned by the next 

 generation." 



I leave Hooper and his memories 

 of how things used to be and call on a 

 Hatteras surf-fishing legend. Zander 

 Brody is 43 years old, with wrists 

 freckled by the sun and a small blue 

 tattoo on his right ring finger. When 

 those hands are wrapped around a 

 13 1/2-foot-long surf rod, Brody can 

 heave 5 1/2 ounces of lead more than 



The Cape Hatteras lighthouse has been therefor it all, from the days when fishers arrived 

 via steamer line to the caravans of four-wheel-drives, whose tire tracks score the beach today. 



600 feet. That is twice the length 

 of a football field, and while it was an 

 impressive enough cast to win Brody 

 title as North Carolina distance-casting 

 champion six years in a row, it is still shy 

 of the best in the world. English casters 

 can lob their metal an astonishing 800 

 feet and more. 



Within moments of sliding into his 

 weathered Jeep Waggoneer, Brody tells 

 me that he is "a fanatic about distance." 

 When Brody talks, his bottom row of 

 teeth flashes in a way that brings to mind 

 a bulldog, which is not surprising, for his 

 are brash, scurrilous opinions delivered 

 with a grin. "Oh yeah, you can fish 

 where other people can't," he explains. 

 "One time a guy asked me, 'Man, just 

 how far are you fishing out?' And I said, 

 'In a different ocean than you, bub.' 



"And I was." 



At the time, Brody isn't fishing in 

 any ocean — the flu kept him out of the 

 tournament, but he isn't so stricken that 

 he can't steer down the beach to Cape 

 Point. I sit in a passenger seat awash with 



the detritus of the avid surf fisher: Within 

 reach are a can of bug spray, wool socks, 

 binoculars, flashlight, drink cups, fishing 

 lures loose and still in their plastic wrap, 

 a bottle of Windex to clear salt spray 

 from the windshield, an ashtray over- 

 flowing with cigarette butts, a spool of 

 40-pound-test monofilament fishing line 

 the size of a toilet paper roll, candy 

 wrappers, coffee filters, hooks, a sizable 

 haul of sand and five pairs of sunglasses 

 in various states of disrepair. 



According to Brody, the Hatteras 

 beaches used to be the tramping ground 

 for surf-fishing addicts and eccentrics. 

 "The people that came here, they came to 

 fish," he says, stopping to eye a slough in 

 the surf where terns wheel above a 

 school of bait fish. "Now, it's trendy. 

 Now you can take your Suburban, your 

 mixed drinks. You've got radios blaring, 

 car doors slamming. You've got your 

 gadget show-boys with all the toys. I 

 don't know how much it is about 

 catching fish anymore." 



Used to be, he says, you paid your 



12 AUTUMN 1998 



