Down to the Watery Crossroads: Night Fishing for Blues...Circa 1974-1984

..Bluefish have the blood madness. They continue to kill long after their appetites have been satisfied. They kill as long as there is anything there for them to kill. They will stuff themselves to the gills, then disgorge and start all over again. As long as you can see the fish you will get strikes. It’s thrilling, it’s hard work, and it’s damn good fun...Salt Water Fishing, Campen Heilner, Published, 1937

Blood Madness indeed...Night Fishing for Bluefish off the New Jersey Coast was nothing if not a profoundly visceral experience. Almost everything about it was connected to blood and pain: oily rank Mackerel chum, bursting muscles, burning lower backs, numb hands, Baitfish hooked through the eyes, stray hooks in thighs and palms, fish bites on fingers, gaffs, clubs and needle-nose pliers ripping crude sharp hooks from the bleeding belly of a chomping Monster Blue as it flopped wildly on deck. And all of this on a good night back in the day.

The gang that I fished with were usually five or six guys (all close friends) who were either in their middle-twenties or early thirties. All of them were formal atheletes in pretty good shape and they embraced the Night-Action as if it were just another neighborhood Rough Touch Game. But they never took the Night Blues too lightly as opponents. They spoke of them in terms of respect and amazement. These fish had an inordinate amount of testosterone, aggression and blood-lust. These fish had cojones. Many of us, including Captains Joe Nelson and Albert Sherretta, often speculated that if the Blue could grow to three or four times its current biggest size it would then truly be a Monster Blue and a force to be reckoned with even among some of the more formidable species of Shark and Barracuda. In the end, we saw the Bluefish as a princely underdog-a fish that we could relate to but would take in vast numbers nonetheless.

Night Fishing for Blues was like the Altamont of fishing compared to the Woodstock of a four hour Flounder Trip on some dewy Spring morning. The Gear and Tackle used on the Night Trips, especially the rods, were essentially fiberglass cue sticks with a long cork handle. These rentals were very basic and no-nonsense like an old World-War II Era M-1 Rifle. The Penn Reels on these rods were equally Spartan and practical. They consisted of a big crank and a metal button to reel in or let out the 30 pound test spool of monofilament that could reach ocean depths of thirty or fifty feet with plenty to spare. And at the front of the line was a crude lethal combination of piano wire leader attached to a 3/0 miniature meat-hook. All of this plus a shiny wafer thin Butterfish or Mackerel chunk weighted down by an eight ounce gun metal grey dipsy. And yet when trapped and painfully hooked by this deadly ugly bumper-jack of a set-up the Blues fought on most wildly.

...The Bluefish is a carnivorous animal of the most pronounced type. It has been likened to an animated chopping machine moving through the water like a pack off hungry Wolves. It is certain that it kills more fish than it needs or can use... Van Campen Heilner

Does that last sentence sound familiar? Back then we fished on the night boats out of Wildwood Crest. Our favorite boat was the recently built Starlight. The Starlight was some seventy-feet long and state of the art. She was cut and trimmed out with all the Headboat amenities in mind. No matter the weather or the seas you could stay inside on a padded bench or visit the well-stocked snack bar. The Heads were always fresh and hosed-down early on and the spacious passenger area was clean, well-lit and air-conditioned. All of these basics could be a great deal of comfort, especially to the Freshman Angler, for the Sunset ride to the watery grounds could take as long as two hours. During some of these trips the Captain would play the music that he was listening to in the Wheelhouse over the P.A. system. One miracle of a summer dusk as the sun sunk beneath the great rolling swells and horizon behind us we listened to King Crimson’s in the Court of the Crimson King...I felt like we were in able if not familiar hands.

Night does not fall at sea. It rises from the depths of dark waters toward the fading sky. Then-in one Satori breath-high above the black waves, stars swarm in the vast oceanic night...If you are lucky there will be a full moon that lights the surface gently, then climbs higher and inscribes itself in the supple water. At its Zenith it electrifies a whole corridor of sea creating a mesmerizing river of blinding mercury that streams down endlessly toward you across an eery yet beautiful abyss of North Atlantic Ocean...The Captain throttles back as the boat drifts and heaves to the rhythm of whatever kind of sea you are in. Bells ring, blinding flood lights flash on and the tiny anchor is dropped.The Captain makes a few announcements and the mates go to work with the bait in the stern and the chum ladle at the bow. Everyone is gearing up and getting into position. Engagement with the Monster Night Blues is about to begin.

After the chum-slick has been laid out aroma-like for forty-five minutes to an hour-sometimes less, sometimes more-another miracle occurs in the form of a fireworks of sea life on the surface of the night ocean: skates, squid, anchovy, minnows, dog sharks, jellyfish- maybe even a sea turtle. And this bodes well since this advance column of smaller feeding creatures is an indication that the slick is working and that the marauding Blues are onto and making their wolf-pack way to the light and the boat at Blitzkrieg speed. Many of the Anglers on board know this and are all but scanning the moon-lit horizon with binoculars as they anticipate the attack.

Usually there are one or two hits at the bow, the stern or amidships. They hit hard and they are big. With the boat endlessly rolling and heaving to one degree or another everyone gets up on their feet including the mates who are at the ready with long sharp gaffs or nets. The Captain leans on the rail outside of the wheelhouse observing. Someone can be heard throwing-up overboard. Several others can be heard moaning in the cabin and they are green around the gills. Then there are several more hits off the stern and around the boat. The sea slaps the hull loudly; a cloud of diesel smoke wafts over the boat. The Angler next to you washes down five more Dramamine caps with a beer. This first wave of Kamikaze Blues could be a probe or the beginning of an all-out assault...In a flash-fire second we are there with the Monster Blues all over us and the whole scene moves from intense high-pitched excitement to the brink of pandemonium.

Except for the Dog Sharks, the smaller surface creatures scatter as the Blue Night Riders swarm in. Rods are bending and reels are zinging all over the Starlight. Everyone is shouting, gasping, hooting, laughing, cursing and begging for the mate with voices at the edge of panic or rage. When some of the biggest fish strike it feels almost like an electric shock. To some of the clean-head Anglers it is indeed shocking and you can see it in their body language and on their faces. They aren’t sure about what they have gotten into or why. On the other hand, Aficianados of the Blue are gaga. They are often the first ones to hook, play and land a big fish, subdue it, rebait and get back in the water all within five or six minutes. For they know that this kind of Bonanza won’t last as the fish at this point are in a full bore frenzy. In the aqueous light of the floods you can see them cutting through the water and the particle-cloud of chum at several different levels. A handful of the beautiful brazen brutes flash brilliantly beneath the surface. If they take it any further they’d be leaping out of the water and dive-bombing into the boat.

Then there might be a lull in the action...It might come the way it started after a few sporadic hits or it could drop off all at once leaving everyone secretly relieved and a little mystified which was an aspect of this Rodeo Angling that I always enjoyed-What happened? Why did they stop? Where did they go? Will they be back? Is there another squadron waiting out there or bearing down on us as we light-up and crack beers for the first time in a very long hour? There may or may not be answers to most or all of these questions. I know I never found out much but now realize that I didn’t want to know and that I preferred to dream and obsess a little about the secret life of these fierce majestic fish who roamed the World’s Watery Crossroads from the Malay Archipeligo and Madagascar to Central Brazil, the Gulf of Mexico, Nova Scotia and of course, the Atlantic Ocean just off of Wildwood by-the-Sea, New Jersey.

ALL LINES UP ~ This is a familiar command given by the Captain of any headboat when there are little or no fish to be caught in the microscopic speck of Ocean his high-tech instruments and or deepgut instincts have led him to. I have not fished for Blues, day or night, for at least twenty years. Neither am I knowledgable regarding their stocks or presence in our area. But when I was fishing for them on a regular basis they appeared to be fairly abundant. At the end of any given three a.m. August morning a weary 30 or 40 people would shuffle onto the dock lugging a trash bag full of whole Blues or several clear bags jammed with bloody filets. I always questioned this overkill but kept it to myself back then. Several seasons from the end of my Night Blues decade I was taking a short-cut to Pier 80 in South Philadelphia via a dead-end street behind a supermarket. As I turned onto the dead-end street an iron-heel of stench kicked me in the face and engulfed the car like a ball of napalm. Then came a sticky cloud of fat black flies. I slowed down then rolled by a big black smashed-up lump in the street. It appeared to have been run over by several tractor-trailer trucks from the Supermarkets loading dock. As I gagged and held my breath I realized that some miserable drunken one-time urban anglers had ditched some fifty pounds of whole Bluefish when they realized that they would not eat nor could not give away an ounce of it. I went back to work in the lower hold of an old Grace Line Freighter. We were busy that afternoon but I thought about the rotting and mutilated Bluefish all day. What an ignoble end for such a magnificent creature. From the Archipeligo of Malay to a trash-strewn dead-end street at the empty perimeters of one of my favorite provinces, South Philadelphia-All lines up indeed...

Jon Van Blunk		Vincent Fiorentino

Joe Van Blunk is a Freelance Writer who has written for the Olde City Times, the Jewish Exponent and Chris Mottola Inc., a national Media Consulting Firm. He is the Co-Creator and Producer of three Documentary Films: including Boardwalk. For the last fifty years he has spent part of every summer with his family and friends at the Jersey Shore. Mr. Van Blunk resides in South Philadelphia where he supplements his income as an I.L.A. Longshoreman.