Massachusetts Time

Jason Aldean twangs through the speakers "...chillin to Skynard and old Hank..." Despite the mercury, the dance floor of the old Michigan barn thrums with post-nuptial celebration. It's a furnace-hot June evening, and while we'd prefer to be out there with our friends and family, my son Blake and I are stuck at a corner table working out last-minute logistics for a fishing trip to Cape Cod.

The original itinerary had our group leaving well before first light tomorrow, but work obligations submarined those plans and now we're scrambling to book him a last-minute flight into Boston. Options are limited, but we finally narrow in on one that arrives around 10:30 PM – not ideal since our place on the Cape is still a two-hour drive from Logan International.

"That's pretty late," I mutter. "You won't get to the house until after midnight."

"Yeah," he replies, "but that's Massachusetts time."

I can't tell if he's kidding. Blake, the younger of my two boys, is 23, Mensa-level smart, and known for witty wise-cracks, so it makes sense that he would be. But a long, awkward pause affirms he isn't. Perhaps smarts don't transfer well from advanced calculus to basic geography.

"You realize Massachusetts is in the same time zone we are, right?" I chuckle.

His dim expression provides my answer and betrays the realization that this faux pas just locked in a lifetime of ribbing at his expense. But what neither of us fully appreciate in the moment is that "Massachusetts' time" will unwittingly become the mantra for the entire excursion.

The planning for this journey east began nearly a year before when a few buddies and I were up at Koz's cabin for our annual Hex camp and happened across a stranger wandering the banks of our favorite stretch of water. One conversation led to another, and The Stranger, whose name was Bruce, ended up joining our motley little crew for a couple days of truly spectacular trout fishing.

Bruce hails from Massachusetts and found himself in Michigan for a work event. Being a die-hard angler, he had packed fly gear and left a few days on the tag-end of his travels to wet a line. It quickly became apparent that Bruce was our kind of people. When we parted ways at the end of the weekend, he invited us to join him next year, in his neck of the woods, to chase striped bass on the fly. If the offer was made as a courtesy, Bruce severely underestimated our proclivity for road trips and hard-fighting fish – it wasn't long before dates were locked down and an Airbnb booked.

Ozzy and Jason pull into my driveway at precisely 2 AM, punctual as ever, and we get on the road. Jason slides into the back of the Suburban to catch some shut-eye coming off late, back-to-back Hex floats. Oz stays behind the wheel, and I run navigation from the side seat while nursing a thermos of black coffee and calculating the hours until my next smoke break.

We cut through Canada in the predawn hours and find ourselves meandering upstate New York's bucolic backroads just as the sun is coming up. By early afternoon we hit the Massachusetts line and four hours later we crunch into the gravel drive of our rental in Brewster, where Bruce is waiting.

It's hot as hell (Boston actually set a 100-year heat record today) and after a quick unpack-and-catch-up session, he drives us to one of his favorite ocean-side seafood joints where we wash down fresh lobster rolls with BYOB beer then make a toast to reconnecting and finding ourselves officially on "Massachusetts time."

This being my first attempt at stripers, the anticipation for tomorrow's outing has my system running at red-line. But deep down I'm just grateful for a few uninterrupted days with Blake and my buddies so I can unplug and reconnect – like a hard reset on a frazzled laptop. Control/Alt/Delete to all the bullshit.

After dinner we mosey over to one of the tidal flats for a quick glimpse at water we'll be fishing later in the week. It's a steamy evening and the tide is in. The elemental aroma of crushed shells, maritime mud, and sea brine hang heavy in the humid coastal air.

"See those boats way out there," Bruce gestures. "That's where we'll be wading the incoming tide."

I strain my eyes. "Where?"

"There, on the horizon."

I squint again and finally find them – boat-shaped specks where the sky meets the water. My Midwest brain can barely comprehend this shift of the tide – eleven and a half feet, according to Bruce. The thought leaves me feeling adrift and, I'm ashamed to admit, mildly frightened – convinced it's my divine destiny to become a shark snack. This is great white country after all, and the dun dun...dun dun...dun dun dun dun dun dun soundtrack plays on a loop in my head despite every effort. But that's a whole different can of worms, and this isn't the proper place to plumb the depths of my saltwater phobias.

After the beach visit we slow-roll back to our patio at the rental. Around the table we mix stiff cocktails and, between catching up on the "what's", "where's", and "why's" since we all last got together, rig up for the morning charter we've booked – tying flies and arguing about knots, each convinced his version is the best version. I light a smoke. Massachusetts time is beginning to feel suspiciously like Miller time, and we quickly fall into the easy rhythm of old fishing friends, despite the many months since our last outing.

My phone pings; it's Blake. His flight hit a delay and he won't be getting in until after 11 now. The hold up, combined with the parade of traffic attempting to leave the Cape and my current state of celebration, clinch the fact that he'll be taking an Uber from the airport instead of the Dad Taxi. I make arrangements and text the details as I pour another round. Blake finally rolls in around 1:30, and we all fall into bed with high hopes for the morning's adventure.

Sun is seeping through the wooden blinds when my alarm chirps. For a brief moment I panic, convinced I've overslept – it's crazy how much earlier it gets light here on the coast. Maybe there's something to this whole "Massachusetts time" after all. I shuffle to the kitchen and get coffee brewing, grab a quick shower to rinse off some of the fuzz from last night's festivities, then snatch a bar for breakfast and stow the gear before we head to the marina – the morning temps are already sweltering.

Today we'll be fishing the famous Monomoy Rips. Due south of Chatham, Massachusetts, Monomoy Island provides a dividing barrier between the warm, shallower Nantucket Sound to the west and the much colder, deeper waters of the Atlantic Ocean to the east. The Monomoy Shoals, located off the southernmost tip of the island, is made up of pebbles, cobblestones and shifting sands. On these shoals the currents create "rips" or wave formations where fish gather. That's the basic idea, anyway.

Dividing our group into two boats to keep the casting easier, we motor through the morning fog. I'm in one skiff with Blake, and Ozzy and Bruce settle into the other. Jason, who is perilously prone to motion sickness, has elected to stay back and try his hand at the flats despite the day's relatively smooth seas.

We arrive at the first spot and though we don't find many seabirds, begin working the water anyway. The method for fishing the rips is new to us, but as it has been explained by the charter crew, similar to surfcasting, but from a boat. We catch on pretty quickly. The captain positions us on the calm side of the rip with the stern end towards the action; we tie on squid patterns and cast out past the fussy water then slowly twitch, tease, and strip them back to the boat.

A few chasers appear and disappear in the swells, like swift, silent shadows, and my pulse quickens. I pause the fly momentarily mid strip, and a bump catches me off guard. I fumble, then completely farm the set. Shit! Conscious of the whiff, I steal a glance at the other boat and see Bruce hooked up and fighting a good fish.

My secret safe, I quickly cast back in and make another retrieve, this one a little more anxious. A darting, dark apparition precedes a violent strike. I set hard this time and the rod folds in half as line begins to peel. Oh shit! Bruce warned us about the fight in these ocean fish, but having landed aggressive northern pike and fresh Great Lakes steelhead on the fly, I waved it off. I shouldn't have – this striper is eating my lunch, even on a stout ten-weight, and Blake thinks it's fucking hilarious. "Put the screws to him, Nancy!"

I crank down hard on the reel and make slight progress on the opponent attached to the other end, which I'm convinced must be some sort of new state record. After a few minutes, I finally gain the upper hand and begin bringing him closer before my rod torques again and he peels off another blazing run. Damn it! Despite the arm burn, I'm grinning ear to ear as I work him back once more. Finally alongside the boat, the captain reaches down. I see the splashy struggle and anxiously await putting hands on my first striper. But when he stands back up there's no fish to be found.

I'm momentarily confused and unsure of the protocol – maybe fish that are too big for the slot are immediately released? Dang! I would have at least liked to have gotten eyes on him; maybe a picture or two. Then the captain holds up the line displaying a telltale curlicue where the fly that I tied on myself should have been. Oh no! NO NO NO! "That was a good fish," he says through a broken smile, promising to keep this little fiasco between us, provided I let him tie on the next one. But Blake is grinning like the damn Cheshire Cat, and I know payback is going to be a bitch when the guys find out. I'm now oh-for-two.

But the action is heating up. Blake strips, misses one, recasts, and immediately comes tight. Now it's my turn to give it back as he struggles against the big bass and the pulling current. "What's wrong Nancy, too much for you?"

It's a bar fight, and Blake is taking more than he's giving. But, miraculously, he manages to stay on his feet through the early rounds, then deliver the knock-out punch when he finally brings the fish alongside and the guide scoops him up, knot intact. His rare smile says it all – this is everything we'd hoped it would be. Not long after I'm into another one and actually manage to land it this time. Redemption. I'm one-for-three, but that's two in the boat for us, and every time I steal a look at our pals just a hundred yards or so down, they seem to be hooked up too.

But as fast as the blitz came on, it ends, and after splitting up, we work the rips without so much as a chase for another hour or so before it's already time to head in. Back at the docks, Jason is waiting. While he didn't manage to trick any of them, he found himself covered in tailing fish all morning, and his excitement is palpable. We tally up. Two in the boat for Blake and me. Ozzy and Bruce count seven.

It's been an eventful start, but I can't get over how damn hot it is – a freak weather system that seems to have aligned neatly with our fishing schedule. After lunch at a local taco stand, we head back to the house for refreshments under the umbrella and quick naps in the AC before heading out to fish the incoming tide for the afternoon.

On the flats, we throw crab imitations, small shrimp, and baitfish patterns to schoolies but the bright sky and high temps seem to have shut them down completely. Aside from a too-close-for-comfort encounter with a giant seal (that definitely could have passed for a shark in my book) our afternoon fishing proves uneventful.

The next morning we're back out before sunrise, but after several hours of casting in steady wind have nothing to show for it but sore arms and bruised egos.

Something's off, Bruce says – I can tell he's starting to get anxious – it's always tough inviting buddies to water you've bragged up. He makes a few phone calls, and all the locals are in the same boat. It's been a slow start this year, and this unseasonable heat is really messing things up. But honestly, we don't care. The change of scenery, more than anything, is exactly what we all needed.

That evening we tow Bruce's small skiff and a couple kayaks to a local estuary to catch the incoming tide. It's one of Bruce's go-to locations. A spot that's given up 50-fish nights. We work the baitfish groups hard, throwing topwater and subsurface options for a couple hours but come up with another goose egg, despite it all.

In a last-ditch effort, we pack up everything and make the long drive out to the point Jason fished the first morning. It's midnight and the tide is shifting. We shuffle through the mile-long walk by headlamp then fish the entire stretch hard for a couple hours with no action.

I ease quietly back unto the shore and light a cigarette. Water gently laps at my feet. I hear Blake casting just down the way. Gazing up into the blanket of stars one last time, nothing else in the world matters. I'm on Massachusetts time.