Salty Breakfast: A Montauk morning on the road with Running the Coast
Words and Photos by Jamie Howard
3 A.M. I roll over to the soft sounds of Sturgill Simpson milking a mournful note on my iPhone alarm. I open the curtains to reveal a pale, glowing, windy parking lot on the farthest eastern edge of this remote island.
I was in the surf fishing capital of the world, and all I could see out the window was darkness and fog.
Welcome to Montauk.
Friend and surf guru Bill Wetzel had suggested we meet him by 3:30 a.m. in the hotel parking lot to get a jump on first light. Bill spent his mornings on the same sands Montaukett Indians started their days on centuries ago. It was a sporting ground before there was even an America. A big buck was lazily consuming breakfast in the thickets as gulls bounced on the glint of pale moonlight. It would be hours ‘til the Porsches and rental cars jockeyed for a spot at Bob’s Pancakes, and cooler-fronted pickup trucks backed into prized spots on the cliffs over cold Atlantic wave sets.
This was mile 600 of our 1,000 miles with the striped bass migration for our filming of Running the Coast. No morning was ever the same. Here in Montauk, it was like queuing up early for a rock concert and waiting for the main act to hit the stage. There was a buzz in the air as anglers all tried to get there at the right time for a good seat to the show–on the rocks, sand or boat–yet here, there was no guarantee what time or if the rock stars would show.
We had to pack up with the cameras and gear in 20 minutes, but the percolating coffee our crew member Todd requested each day proved to be impossible this particular morning. Red Bull and Marlboros would have to suffice. Breakfast was six hours away.
I had been to the fabled Atlantic Coast cliffs at the end of Long Island with my dad back in my school days, and on a few weekend fishing trips by boat when I worked in the city. The sights and sounds never leave you. But we were going deeper today, into the waves from ground level, through yards, past barking dogs and along paths invisible without a flashlight. We were dizzy but full of anticipation as the sea hummed just out of range.
This was a place that had seen its share of excitement–on and off the water. In 1942, these cliffs housed a World War II military installation disguised as a fishing village. Yes, that’s Montauk in a nutshell. Beauty and paradox. Nothing is exactly as it seems. And rookies are encouraged to watch and learn before running headlong into the surf.
This is a place so lush and remote, famed developed Carl Fisher planned to invest millions in the 1920s in its thousands of virgin acres, intending it to be the sister to his development success in Miami Beach. This northern outpost in the cold Atlantic was hit by a wrecking ball of a hurricane that took down much of Fisher’s work. The stock market crash ended any remaining thoughts of further investment. One couldn’t be sure of the fish or anything else in Montauk except it’s unique beauty. But maybe that was the lure that brought us out here, 100 miles into the Atlantic. Nothing was certain.
Veterans that fished these waters paid their dues before they shared their stories. And here, in the middle of the night, an anxious Bill Wetzel was one of them, waiting in the parking lot, ready to go. The fish we hoped to intercept lay somewhere out there in the dark surf.
The late, great veteran Jack Yee, featured in Running the Coast, had his line cut by locals when he caught his first big striper. He then bought a wetsuit and vowed to not let anyone get in ahead of him again. And so it goes on The Rock.
I could see the truck’s red taillights and the mist of his exhaust swirling in the thick fog. We gathered cameras and sound gear and stamped across the cold gravel driveway. Bill Wetzel mentioned there was no time to chit-chat, and we crammed into his already overstuffed pick-up. The back had a bed and extra clothes (this was his day home in between his guided trips). The front was a light mix of survival leftovers: water bottles, food wrappers and waterproof flashlights. We squeezed in our gear and swung down the curvy back roads until Bill told us to get out and follow him. We were working our way through the tangle of wild scrub and sand paths cleverly preserved by Robert Moses, who left large swaths of the Long Island outpost wild and untouchable by eager developers descending in the 60s and 70s.
As we walked through the night with waders on, cameras slung over shoulders, we moved as fast as we could. Bill would only pause once, to have us pick a wild grape for good luck from a bush he lit with his headlamp. It was just enough of a break in our pace to hear growing sound of surf over the hill.
The dark foam of pre-dawn Montauk was home to generations of fishing stories for the intrepid. The fraternity of the shore guys was a shared bond of bumps, bruises, sleeplessness and an unexpectedly lavish menu conjured from camping grills and coolers in the off hours. Every cooler and every grill was expected to bring rich rewards for those balancing on rocks at all hours. And as tough as anglers were expected to be on the beach, they were surprisingly civilized in their tastes off of it. Two guys we would later interview for the movie were heading back to their truck after an all-nighter to enjoy baked ziti, fresh mozzarella and grilled vegetables.
The boats were just as obsessed, but it was a wary stand-off, as they were perceived as taking a shortcut to the fish with dry feet. They were not pure Montauk surf chasers to some, but at the end of the day, each was just as committed and taking their own set of risks. Those that practiced catch and release were held in the highest regard on shore. With a declining population, the shortcut could be tolerated if respect was paid to the fish. Party boats and commercial boats and netters had a job to do, but they were never going to be considered sporting to the guys wading in the surf. And their point was not lost on us.
Striped bass pass by Montauk in spring and fall, but the fall migration is fabled for its blitzes of stripers and albies massing here in pursuit of bait before the cold of winter.
It’s all timing. The legend of Montauk includes “the blitz,” and it’s the bait coming in and the ensuing explosion of fish on them that brings so many to make the trek year after year.
“Jamie, which one of you wants to wade out to the rocks with me?” Bill yelled over the crashing waves in the cove.
I shone the light on the guys and they both smiled. Ok, I get it. I was the one going into the surf to the rocks today. I followed Bill through the waves and switched on his mic under his wetsuit. The wireless microphones were vulnerable to saltwater, but were hanging in there. The sun was rising, threatening the night’s cover. We could see anchovies darting through the now brightening waves but didn’t see any fish. This was a beautiful bummer. Stripers were nowhere to be seen on the incoming tide.
Still, Bill kept casting as the light crept in. I kept filming.
Suddenly, there were splashes in the calm water behind the violent waves.
The fish were on the bait. I stood my ground in the surf next to Bill on his favorite rock. We were in a blitz. And we could only see parts of it in the glare. I was working on finding the best angle in the dawn glow, until I lost my footing and was upside down in the wash. A wave had gotten under my feet. I kept the camera dry over my head and popped up with a salty brine sliding back out of my teeth. I found my way to a gravel bar and kept filming. The rush of the sea was what made Montauk so special and thrilling to so many. It was much stronger than in other parts of the migration.
Bill had been guiding on Montauk for a couple of decades and today he had a client as well. He fished right alongside them, and it was as real as the experience could get. And for those willing to walk and wade and take their chances next to a pro, it was worth it.
Montauk was still asleep behind us. Those not in the fishing community were not chasing tides and lunar tables and sunlight. Were we the crazy ones or them? In the 1600s, Native Americans (Algonquian Indians) still inhabited this eastern tip of Long Island. The water and croplands were all fertile and proved irresistible for new civilization to encroach. Today, much of the acreage is private and secluded for high dollar residents and their salty estates. But, if you know where to walk, real nature can still be found.
Bill went tight. “They’re all around us! Whooo-hooo!”
Bill and his client were hooking up now on almost every cast. It never ceased to be a jolt when the fish appeared. The allure of striped bass is that they are everywhere and nowhere. One is always prepped for a close encounter and then the inevitable disappearance. They willingly range to our major cities under a skyscraper and then into six inches of water by a wetland dock. Then, they could be gone the next day. They amaze us, seduce us, then disappear until the next year’s migration. Now we had found them as the sun signaled a new day in the growing light. The dark fish tails squirmed and splashed in the surf. Bait jumped and fish followed, unfazed by the size or timing of any wave. A Bunker (aka Menhaden) rolled right through a wave in front of us, backlit by the sun as it went through the barrel. Bill cast behind the wave set with a darter. His client was heaving a classic bucktail jig. Soon, they both had a double. Bill was yelling over the waves–at no one in particular. We would now get about 40 minutes until the game slowed down as the tide shifted. The light would fill every space. The fish would retreat, like those WWII soldiers back into their sandy bunkers ‘til the afternoon tide. But for now, we were in them.
The dawn sun was now warming the ocean spray on all of us. The surfers would soon paddle out from the point in the sparkling purple dawn to catch the bigger waves hitting an offshore breeze. It was perfect for now. Thousands come to the point to car camp and live half-awake and eat (often like kings) until the next good tide when water moved into and out of the high and low tides, preferably in low light. The day was opening up and the low clouds were exploding as the sun met them and reddened the gold that was forming in a glow around us.
Above us, signs on the bluff warned of “Danger” and to to stay back from the steep, eroding edge. Up above, car doors were opening in the dawn light as anglers looked 100+ feet down into the crashing surf of the blue Atlantic. They were ready–but just a little late. There are some rewards for following Bill at 3:30 am. Behind the coffee clutching anglers was the old radar installation that served as a WWII bulwark as the US readied for invasion.
Now the military base was prepping for a striper invasion. At the moment, the best radar was below them in us. “Cast over that wave!” Bill yelled as he and his client went tight again. His client’s rod bobbed quickly a few times. He still had to work on his timing. But, on the next cast he went tight. His bucktail was getting slammed. Bill yelled again. A big fish tore line off his reel and we could hear the zing over the surf. We we were in deep with legs scraping. The birds were circling. Waves were smashing. Microphones were getting doused. Cameras were dripping. It was the apocalypse. And we wouldn’t have had it any other way.
To see the entire 1,000 miles of the Running the Coast film for yourself visit: www.HowardFilms.com
