As a young girl, summers were filled with fishing, crabbing and clamming along the Jersey shore. The only traffic congestion back then was the tugging of local boats along the lagoon on Painter Point in Lanoka Harbor, NJ. After high school, I moved inland for college and career life, and left the delicate clanging of the sailboats' masts behind for the invading honks of Philadelphia suburbia.
I've begun to settle quite cozily in my newly purchased home blocks from the Delaware river, but now, more than ever, I felt the longing for shore-tamed gull calls, dune grass and salted sand - a nostalgic filament. Hearing that we might have a chance to catch some Stripers, my guy purchased a new surf pole. He was determined to have the biggest rod on the beach and we joked immaturely about its size as he trudged to the counter with it. That same week he brought it to a buddy's house and sat with it proudly, basking in the glory of his big-poleness. We were ready, less than a week away from our planned outing. I was ready to be reacquainted with the surf again, following a four-year beach hiatus. The anxiousness built during the next several days. I was going to come face to face with her again, and the thought of her surf frightened me - like the fright of being reunited with a long lost love. Will she be gentle, will her tide be high and violent, or her surface calm and reflective? It's unscathing beauty; it's quiet, early Spring shoreline - I awaited with bated breath.
Good Friday:
Although we had not planned to leave early in the day, my guy and I were up before dawn. "I am my father's daughter," I laughed. I had felt the way a child does the night before Christmas, awaiting the treasures my precious sea might have to offer. About 3 hours later, we were East on 37, headed to Island Beach in Chuck's street-sign green Ford Mustang, and by eleven o'clock in the morning we were at the top of the beach path - seats, poles, bait in hand - ready to cast into the unknown.
My first few casts were sort of a disappointment. I hadn't even cast beyond the second wave of three, by fault of a set of early releases. Tangoing with the reel, I tried not to draw attention to my frustration. But, it was no use. I took a break with my single-lense reflex for some beach photography. I needed to break in my polarizer filter, and it was the perfect time to do it. I cleared my head and when I felt ready again, I went back to find my rhythm.
My last two casts of the day, about an hour apart, were satisfying. Long and smooth, it had begun to come back to me. I felt like I was soaring up, up, up aside the lure.
We stayed all day, nothing was biting except the undertoe, but I think that was good enough for us. We sat contently smiling at the vacant beach and each other, hoping for a catch but not caring about the outcome - we would have all summer for that. I didn't have the largest rod on the beach, but I felt powerful. Like I had taken back a part of my long-lost life. Although, we had not been blessed with dinner, we were blessed with a beautiful day.
By late-afternoon we had had our fill and the shore became ultra brisk, we decided to head out. After 10 months without seeing my father, I decided it was time to stop by. We swung by his house in Lanoka Harbor. On seeing my father, for the first time he looked like an old man, yet fit and strong. We talked about fishing, golf, and track and field over some Johnnie Walker Black on ice. I could feel the tide change again.
