I Wanna See The Dock Lights Tonight

A broker is blocking the boat ramp, but, in fairness, he’s entertaining customers who can presumably afford the six-figure leviathan that floats in the way, as my buddy rapidly backs down his skiff that is totally beautiful and totally shitty and totally perfect for tonight’s escapade, as debauched as it might be. I hear discussions of upholstery selections while unfolding my rusted beach chair in our ride’s cockpit. We’re gone before the deal is sealed.

It’s one of those summer nights when the twilight lingers long enough for you to ask what time it is twice. The channel markers and backyard floodlights illuminate the waterway like a slope during a night ski. Enough light reflects off the water to run the skiff as God intended but we’d run it the same if it were darker. Our speed feels twice as fast. The first dock is a few miles away.

There’s decorum in flyfishing until there isn’t. Yes, I love fishing a dry on a western freestone, a long swing in big water, a picky eater roaming a flood tide. But occasionally, subbing in the redneck for the refinement is necessary to keep it all interesting. Dredging mops through private water stocked with impossibly large, Purina–fed rainbows comes to mind. As does trespass-bass-fishing a golf course pond. 

Dock-light fishing, I argue, deserves a seat at the table of irreverence. Casting flies in the night to fish hypnotically entranced by overhead LED isn’t exactly dignified recreation. No, it’s the kind of practice you might sheepishly assure your friends you only do “once or twice a year.” Even so, less-than-sporting ventures have the potential to remind us it’s all just stick-whipping, whether simple or difficult, sacred or profane.

We cut the motor 30 yards short of a glowing dock. The water under the gazebo is a shade of green like a Holiday Inn pool in the evening hours. And in the light are dark shapes. Everywhere. Fish of all sizes. Cycle-feeding. Loud, violent eats. Water thrashing in irregular but steady intervals. There’s an honest-to-God aquarium at the end of a millionaire’s dock. And it’s ours.

With three chirps, the trolling motor kicks on and we begin an ambush: “Ride of the Valkyries,” but in slow motion. I brought a seven-weight with a cheap die-cast reel that has been slowly dissolving from years of salt baths. The black paint flakes off the spool in a stiff breeze. Dress for the occasion! With no spot-lock, my buddy makes micro-adjustments against the quick, falling tide and keeps us just within striking distance.

Casting in the dark is a practice of feel. Think Luke Skywalker with the blinders on in A New Hope. You’re forced to anticipate the loading of the rod with no visual feedback from the front or rear. It makes for poor casting. But nothing about this is supposed to be elegant. The first three casts splash behind me before landing in heaps of line and leader, well short of the gap between dock deck and water. The fourth overcorrects and the hook embeds in a railing—the first (technical) trespass of the evening. We abandon the fly and, with a few more chirps of the trolling motor, move closer.

The skiff’s rub rails scrape barnacles from pylons before settling on the other side of the dock’s walkway. I imagine sheepshead scrambling under us for a free meal. Because of the tide’s direction, we’re forced parallel so that the boat’s starboard is stationary against the old telephone poles supporting the whole structure. “Don’t worry about the skiff” is whispered as I think about our second (technical) trespass. I have a clear backcast line to the The Glow. With a new fly and a decent cast, we watch as half a dozen fish—trout—surround the small splash at the end of my leader, like ducks on Wonder Bread. My stripping is too fast; eats are considered but nothing more. I throw again, a little further this time, into darkness on the edge of the green light, and everything immediately comes undone.

I don’t see the take. I don’t see anything. I only hear a “damn!” or some other appropriate cuss from behind me just as the line goes static. I give a tug and something tugs back. The rat’s nest of line resting on my feet begins to levitate. By pure luck, just before reaching the first guide, the tangle frees itself and line cleanly shoots out of the rod following a Big Fish. Sand and salt crunch in the reel’s disks as the leader cuts water with a whooshing sound. In a single breath, I have most of the line recovered to the reel just as the fish reverses course and rushes the skiff. The rod tip straightens for a moment before arcing into black water toward the keel. The fish under the boat, I dump the stick, praying it’ll force the fight to open water on the port side. Instead, the fish goes starboard. “There is no God… It is all a dream, a grotesque and foolish dream.”

The fish, seemingly purposefully, spins a web under the dock, each pylon acting as a fulcrum for fly line to wrap around. The force of the fight pulls the rod against the nearest pole, and four inches of tip section instantly snap with a familiar pop. Then, silence. I drop the rod and slowly pull the twisted mess back into the cockpit feeling every nick of the the cheese-grated line before reaching a weightless leader. As feared but expected, frayed 12lb reveals the cause of unseen evasion. My back of the envelope math: no more than 15 seconds of fight, no less than $120.00 of damage, and, of course, zero fish. I turn to face my pal for his thoughts. He offers, “Well. That was a big red.”

The punishment fits the crime. Ultimately, it’s dock-light fishing—disappointment isn’t justified. “There’s no crying in baseball” type of shit. But I’m only human. I wanted it. After a few more missed shots, we discuss the possibility of returning tomorrow night. My night is free. My following night is too. I’m certain the fish will still be here. Maybe even that fish. There’ll be a good tide and the wind doesn’t look bad. We could take my skiff. What time should we meet? 

But I only do this once or twice a year.