dues through accumulated knowledge. 

 Now, you simply pay your dues. 



Right then Brody nods toward a 

 gleaming new Suburban some distance 

 up the beach. "There's a show-boy," he 

 says, with a disgusted spit. "Fifty 

 thousand dollars worth of gear and he'll 

 wait till (someone) like me catches a 

 fish, and then he'll get in my waders." 



That kind of behavior breeds a 

 common complaint among Hatteras 

 regulars. But as we slowly drive the 

 beaches, I see plenty of fishers leaning 

 against ragged old trucks, delivery vans 

 crammed full of sleeping bunks and 

 four-wheel-drive vehicles emblazoned 

 with the names and telephone numbers 

 of plumbers and carpenters and glass 

 cutters. If anything, its plebian appeal, 

 predicated on access to anyone with a 

 pickup truck, is surf fishing's saving 



surf-fishing tournaments offer prizes 

 such as gear and tackle but not the 

 $50,000 jackpots of other tournaments. 

 "Mackerel fishing, marlin fishing — it's 

 all about the money now. Surf fishing's 

 not like that. At least not yet." 



A 



Long-distance caster and common man Zander Brody 

 shares the beach with out-of-towners, but he wonders 

 how many of them are in it for the fish. 



grace. The act of casting meat or metal 

 into the ocean has yet to be cannibalized 

 by commercialism. 



"It's the only thing left where 

 there's no money, you know?" Brody 

 explains. By that he means there is little 

 money to be won by surf fishing, for the 



-NYONE WHO 

 LOVES TO FISH AS MUCH 

 AS I DO CAN ONLY WATCH 

 OTHER PEOPLE FISH FOR 

 SO LONG, AND I HAVE 

 BEEN WATCHING RISING 

 TIDE AND HUNDREDS OF 

 OTHERS FISH FOR A DAY 

 AND A HALF, SO ON FRI- 

 DAY AFTERNOON I WALK 

 INTO BUXTON'S RED DRUM 

 TACKLE 

 SHOP. After a 

 show of knowing 

 what I am doing, 

 I pay $225 for a 

 9-foot Penn 

 Spinfisher Big 

 Game Surf rod 

 and Penn 5500 

 SS reel loaded 

 with 225 yards of 

 15 -pound- test 

 monofilament 

 line. My friend 

 Scott Taylor has 

 offered me 

 bottom rigs and 

 hooks and two 

 fresh mullet 

 stashed in a small 

 cooler for cut bait. 

 At the last minute, 

 I buy a frog's 

 tongue sinker. 

 The drive to Cape Point 

 resembles nothing like the trek I'd read 

 about. My tires are in contact with 

 hardtop until I pull off the road onto the 

 beach ramp near the Cape Hatteras 

 lighthouse, and it is but a 10-minute 

 grind through soft sand to the Point. 



Again I am struck by how closely 

 its name reflects this lanceolate sliver of 

 sand, impossibly frail and ever- 

 changing. Its tip could literally be 

 straddled, and 200 feet back the sand is 

 but 1 20 feet wide, serrated by the 

 rhythmic reach and retreat of frothy 

 waves. A phalanx of trucks lines both 

 sides of the spit, parked door handle-to- 

 door handle close as the teeth of a comb. 

 For a moment, I give grudging consider- 

 ation to the thought of joining in, but I 

 am intimidated by the scores of fishers 

 crowded at the Point, by the realization 

 that my tentative cast will brand me 

 immediately as a beginner or, worse yet, 

 that I will use a 4-ounce pyramid sinker 

 when these waters clearly call — to 

 those who can hear — for a 2-ounce 

 frog's tongue or 6-ounce Sputnik. 



So I drive a couple hundred feet 

 north of the Point and back into a space 

 beside a Dodge Ram truck flying the 

 battle flag of the Confederacy. I 

 assemble a two-hook bluefish rig 

 outfitted with a blaze-orange and lemon- 

 yellow attractor bead and snap to it a 4- 

 ounce frog's tongue sinker. From the 

 mullet, I cut two strips of flesh and push 

 the hooks through, smearing scales on 

 my fingers. Then I flip the reel's wire 

 spool bail into casting position and hold 

 the loose line against the rod with my 

 index finger. 



The flush of water from the first 

 wave is colder than I'd hoped. I drop the 

 rod tip back over my right shoulder, let 

 the lead sinker touch the beach, then 

 snap forward from the waist, pushing 

 the rod tip overhead as the line sails over 

 the water, pulled along by the tumbling 

 mass of lead and dead fish and sharp 

 hook. It disappears beyond the breakers 

 with a satisfying splash, 20 feet farther 

 than I expect. I reel in the slack until I 

 feel the tug of taut line against the fleshy 

 tip of my finger. 



For the moment, I am heedless of 

 the mule's failing vision. At least in one 

 regard I am indistinguishable from all 

 the others on the beach. 



I fish and hope. □ 



COASTWATCH 13 



