Attempting the Sand Eel Bite

Long before sunup, we got the rods in order and walked to the surf line to throw Ava’s with teasers ahead of them.

Attempting to Find Them

I told Jim Hutchinson near the end of our outing that I don’t get discouraged. I’m used to tough bites, especially in the surf. Back when I was with Affinity Federal Credit Union, and my brother Rick talked about throwing a Bomber in the dark after work, I tried much the same. He had caught dozens of bass as large as 20 pounds. Over the course of a couple Novembers, I drove to the shore after work six times and never got a hit. Besides a few sundials about a foot long.

This post isn’t about finding the bass on sand eels—or bunker, for that matter—but attempting to find them, which is a different story.

I think a slow day invites reflection. Successful fishing is realization, and that’s a whole different attitude compared to reflection. It’s not that reflection is failure and loss, but that it steps in so that failure and loss are not the result of no fish on the line. When it occurs to two men sharing the cab space of a truck, it means good conversation ensues.

The beach at Brick gets a lot of traffic.

Beach Traffic

Not much further north of Brick (Ocean County), no vehicles on the beach are allowed, which Jim pointed out to me. I’ve visited more than a few Monmouth beaches in the off season, so what came as the surprise was my question why that is. Jim spoke about deeply engrained policies. What I see now is the divide between North and South Jersey. If the politics of South Jersey is more like that of North Carolina than North Jersey’s is—and that certainly is the case—you can see beach buggies allowed but not to the north.

As you can see in the photo, Brick has heavy traffic. I shot the photo later in the morning, after most of the pickups and SUVs had left. Jim told me the price for an annual permit in Brick; I believe he said it’s $30.00

We covered about two or three miles, riding back and forth, paying close attention to the water. To the best I can recall of what Jim told me, sand eels congregate overnight by burrowing into the sand and become vulnerable to stripers in the surf right at dawn, when they emerge to feed. Bass move in and slaughter them; loads of those sand eels can be found on the beach just above the wash line. They leap out of the water to escape the bass.

That’s what we wanted to find. Tall order.

Beach structure is also essential to the search. A couple of spots involved sharp turns in an otherwise straight surf line. When you think of the beach, you might think of the edge of the wash being straight to the north and south, but especially productive beaches reveal variations. When you look closely, you find most beaches do. These turns I’ve just mentioned—we fished them carefully—are perfect pockets for bass to corner schools of sand eels.

Jim said of the bass feeding on sand eels, “It’s a very special situation that’s rare.” He told me that on one occasion involving them, he caught bass after bass on every cast. I can’t remember the exact number but I believe 15.

Fluke maybe slightly under keeper size (when in season). I caught it on the teaser above an Ava. Jim Hutchinson photo.

Looking for Bunker, Too

We looked for bunker, too. Not only in close to the surf line, but far out where, on seldom occasion, a gannet would dive for something. We saw a few red-throated loons working in close, too, so possibly a few something-or-others existed for them to grab. We saw large commotion a few hundred yards out that proved to be dolphins. Nothing corrugated the surface with white markings of froth as would a school of bunker.

“The bunker like it when the surface is oily-slick,” I volunteered, “It’s textured by that wind today.”

Jim agreed. Out about two hundred yards from the beach, we could see whitecaps worked up by that west wind.

We persisted at throwing Avas with teasers, which sometimes works on a stray bass. Today, it worked on a stray fluke. Not a sundial flounder. The fish surprised me, the size of it near keeper size when in season.

I had hooked up and said, “It feels like a fluke,” the way the headshakes rapidly bounced against the rod tip.