Indian Summer continues in the Northeast, as does the practice of chasing bluefish around Long Island Sound. These fish get a bad rap–some people go as far as to disdain them–but it’s hard to beat the visual electricity that occurs when twitching a popper through a bluefish frenzy. For those who say it’s easy, so’s playing a three-chord progression on an acoustic guitar, but it’s still pleasing to the ear. And you still have to find them.
My buddy and I ran point to point and into the backs of bays in search of them. Look for signs of life, I said, until it occurred to me that we were really looking for signs of mean. Find the life–the nervous water–and then look for the mean–pops or busts on the surface where baitfish meet their impending doom. Think of all those little peanuts and silversides swimming to the surface to get away, and that the face above (minus the Boga grip) is the last thing they ever see.