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Fishin’ with Crazy Al
Surfrats Editorial #8 Part I
By Paul Melnyk
11-26-07

Everyone needs a good fishin’ buddy. There is a camaraderie that is formed between two guys over the bass hunt that can envy a marriage. If you don’t believe this, just ask your wife’s best friend. Your wife won’t tell you this. As a matter of fact, she will lie about her feelings. This is one issue where a woman will never speak her mind. They know who will win the argument (this is only true of marriages of 10 years or more) You can just take my word on this one. She is jealous.

A good fishing partner will do wonders for your piscadatious skills. (I know, I made up another word…) A worthy confederate will tell you where the fish are, egg you on, and make you work harder than ever to out-do his own personal best. This pal will lead you to grounds where you have never been to participate in the great adventure.

It is important that you realize your place in this relationship. You will have to reciprocate in your abilities. If you can not add to the chemistry of the relationship through profound ability and skill, then humor, determination and ardency will often suffice. Forget about beer and bait… this only goes so far…

Al and I have just such a relationship. I know Alberto adds to my fishing skills. He is the best fisherman in the country. What my contribution is, I can not say. If I contribute at all to the mix, it must be my eccentricity, determination or energy.

Everyone always asks why Al is called “Crazy”. This is easy to explain. Alberto Knie is deranged in his searches for BIG FISH. Al will travel to the ends of the earth for fish. He will skip work for fish, weather rain, snow, wind and the dead of night for the chance to satiate his obsession to possess a cold- blooded aquatic vertebrate of substantial size. His energy level is such that he will search for big bass for forty eight hours at a clip. Like an addict, one striper of mass and girth is not enough for Al. He will plain, not stop fishin’ till hunger and exhaustion overtake him. Then, with a small respite of four hours or less, he is primed to repeat the process. This is why he is “Crazy Alberto”.


The emprise started with a cryptic call from Alberto.

“There are fish in your area, bub…. I’ll be out at 10pm… I’ll be in touch…”

My choice was to say yes or no. I always jump at the chance. We converged at the rally point, Paulie’s Tackle, (located just south of the circle on South Edgemire Street, in Montauk…. Bingo… free bucktail!) I pulled in to park and noticed Alberto perusing his vast quantity of tackle and gear, which never leaves the back of his pickup. He saw me pull in and he quickly hid a lure behind his back.

“Lemme see that!”

“No. It’s my secret weapon!”

“GIMME!”

“NO.”

“You suck!”

There, we had gotten that out of the way.

[No matter how much fishin’ stuff you have, you always need something new for the expedition. The local tackle shop is the place to go. New stuff, consumables and intelligence are gleaned from the place.]

“Where are we goin’?” said I.

“You’ll see…”

I know where we were going. The tide was dropping. The wind was from the North West. We’re going to the “Wong”. This recontre is part of the modus operandi of these encounters. It is part of the script. With fresh reports, and sharp hooks, we were off.

The trip to the Wong was spent in building suspense.

“Big fish out there last night, Bub”

“I know, Toad weighed in a 35.”

“ It’s gonna be packed…”

Sure enough, the wash at Shagwong was loaded with casters. A slow pass along the bar showed not na thing had been caught. One of our many minions walked up to the truck to share the good news..

“Nothin’ happinin’, dude..”

“Looks dead."

“Ýeah…”

This is the vernacular of fishermen on the hunt. The facts, please… Just the facts…

We moved out to the end of the point to make a few casts into the meat of the rip. Fifteen minutes later…Nothing…

“This sucks…Let’s go…”

We headed east. The trip was uneventful as we pass Oyster Pond and Stepping Stones.

“They gotta be here someplace, bub.”

Cigarettes, a beer, 3 miles of ten casts and scoot brought us to the False Bar. It was deserted. The wind was in our faces… 15-20 mph. There was a great sweep as the tide and waves surged towards the Point. The formula was complete… Where are the fish? Where are the googs?

We stepped into the surf, maybe twenty yards apart and waist deep into the wash

“Put on the secret weapon….”

I made one cast with Alberto’s concoction, and felt a bump.

“THEYA… HEEYA….”

“I…. KNOWWW…..”


TO BE CONTINUED……


(c)Paul Melnyk 2007, written exclusively for Surfrats.com

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