WORLD RECORD STRIPED BASS
Al McReynolds wasn't happy, but kept casting. He and his partner, Pat Erdman of Ventor, had spent much of the night dodging big waves on the Vermont Ave. jetty off Atlantic City. Days of Northeaster storming had churned up a huge surf. Howling 25-knot winds knocked the tops off 8 to 10 foot surf which crashed and boiled around the jetty. Mullet driven inshore by surging waves smashed into the rocks. Stunned, they would flutter down to the bottom or flip across the surface. This dead and dying bait attracted big stripers, and the slicker-clad surf and jetty fishermen who stalk these fish from the shore. It was nearly 10 o'clock on a night better suited to Poe than piscatorial pursuits, but McReynolds kept casting on a "dark and stormy night" fit only for a Snoopy novel.
As McReynolds remembered it, "Some of the swells were so big they broke over the jetty up to our knees, but conditions were just right. We knew there were bass there. We had to stay."
His buddy Pat Erdman had already landed four stripers that, when later weighed, ran up to 26 pounds. This was in addition to a weakfish that nearly went to ten pounds. Erdman wasn't bashful about slipping McReynolds a needle or three about "pilgrims" and such. Erdman's comments became more caustic after each fish he landed.
Erdman and McReynolds had cast their lures and hopes into Atlantic waters for years and they took turns with gibes and quips to pass the slow time between hits. This night Erdman had it all his way, but McReynolds kept casting. He took what little comfort he could in the knowledge that things could be worse. At least the wind that whipped around his ears was from his back. That beat rain and wave spume in the face, the usual pattern along the Atlantic coast in September.
McReynolds, an employee of the Beach Patrol, and, like Erdman, a member of the West Ghost Striper and Brigantine Sportsmen's Club, really knew it wasn't his day when Erdman hooked another fish. McReynolds had spent years on and around the beach and more nights than he could remember casting off Atlantic City jetties at the end of streets with names familiar to Monopoly players. McReynolds seemed to face a night of "Go directly to Jail. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200."
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