I went back to the dock for some dawn patrol on Halloween. I only had a week left in the derby to catch and submit anything and my girlfriend, with her infinite patience was starting to wonder what I was doing all those nights and hours spent fishing with no fish to show for it, coupled with the fact that while I was blowing off time with her, I was only a few blocks away, down some dark alley standing by the river and studying the water. I was over the fence and through the obstacles well before dawn. Like my last time here, fish were jumping all over, peppering the dark surface with short, quick splashes all around the pilings of the pier. Within two casts I hooked a little 20-inch schoolie and actually landed it. I was feeling pretty good, not so triumphant as relieved, while I admired its shiny gray and white body. I'd caught striped bass before, but this was the first time in a long time I'd worked hard at it and came up empty time after time. The feeling was like finally getting a solid win after an extended, pitiful streak of mediocre losses. I took a couple photos and quickly unhooked the fish and released it. Two casts later I had another hit, but when I set the hook I sort of yanked the fish out of the water and it landed back in the briny river a free fish. Then I lost my trusty orange-bellied plug on a piling in the water and felt a little depressed. The lure had so much history and had become my own go-to lure. I fished until the sun rose and figured hanging around in full daylight was a good recipe for getting busted, so I started packing up. The tide was going out quickly and I swore I saw something orange on a newly revealed piling. Two Polish guys showed up near the end of the driveway and were casting out clams. There was definitely something orange out there just above the water, stuck on a piling. I didn't have much time, so I said screw it and snuck out onto the pier in the dawn light, leaned out off the pier and snatched my lure back from oblivion.

I finally hooked up with Ben, Jamie and their friend Mina a couple of days later. I was eager to show them the prime rib of hobo fishing spots, so I was careful to tell them the cautions and perils of the area. Unsurprisingly, I was the one who fell in the river that night. I was also the only one who caught any fish, but I lost my digital camera and my phone to the river. My first sensation after doing a front flip into the water was "Wow, this is really saltwater." The first thing I said to my shocked companions was, "What expression did I have on my face when I got out?" That's all I want to say about that night.

I went back the next night to get back on the horse and ran into Greg. Fish were jumping further out on the pier, near out of casting range. We needed a new plan and I mentioned a way to get up the pier. Of course, Greg already knew about it, but he'd gotten caught by a security guard the last time he was up there. With a word, however, he was back in. "Fuck it, man. Let's do it," he said. I was just beginning to realize his fearlessness. We were through the fence and sprinting toward the shadows with all our gear in less than two minutes. The pier was in various stages of repair and disrepair, as if it were condemned and then rebuilt just enough so the owners wouldn't have to tear the whole thing apart. It still served no discernible purpose, just an empty pier, several hundred feet long stretching pointlessly into the river. We ducked down to a dropoff on the side of the pier, still covered by the shadows so we could see the shoreline well, but from the shore no one could see us. It was a nice tradeoff. We also didn't see the guy already sitting in the corner and had in fact ran or jumped right past him. He was clearly not happy with us being there, aside from invading his personal space, he also seemed quite content to sit there in the dark by himself and fish. Greg tried to make some small talk with him, unsuccessfully. From here we could sit out on broken wooden planks, the river streaming under the pier beneath us. Fish were literally jumping right below our dangling legs, seeing their shiny black backs crest and then return underwater. There was a mix of striped bass and bluefish in the water and at times if we left the rubber shad lures dribbling just below the surface while we lit a cigarette or tied our shoes, a fish would hit it and almost pull the whole rig in.

"You guys want to have some fun?" the guy said. "Go down to the end of the pier. That's where the big fish are." We took the hint and grabbed our gear and made our way toward the end. The pier was sketchy, not only for the security and old and new planks sagging and booby trapped rotten and soggy, but also for holes hidden by the dark into which you could jump down right into the water and probably die. The end of the pier turned into concrete, part of which for some reason was leaning into the water like a ramp, rolling back toward the shoreline. The rebuilt part of the pier was built over this angled section to keep the surface level even, which created a kind of sideways lean-to with the concrete underneath the planks. Out here the water ran faster and deeper, a constant sound of a drain for some reason. With so much water around and us sitting literally in the middle of the river there was little need to cast. Instead we pitched out 10 to 15 feet and let the current take the lure under the pier, retrieved slowly and jigged. We caught four legal bass in the space of about 45 minutes, alternating catches, one bigger than the last. Greg promised fish to some guys who worked for him, so he'd unhook the fish and just toss them under the pier onto the concrete, where they'd lay wide-eyed and staring. Occasionally they'd flop around and try to find water again. When they got close, Greg would pick them up and toss them up higher on the ramp. The wind was picking up and the tide that was rushing under us just an hour earlier was starting to slack. Greg pulled a clear plastic bag out his sweatshirt pocket and we tossed the fish in. The bag was heavy with fish. We walked casually back to the shoreline. We were through the fence and gathering our things when we heard him. The security guard was apparently waiting for us to come back. "Hey," he said, as we pretended we didn't hear him and kept walking. "HEY!" Then he was talking to Greg. "This is not the first time I've seen you here, is it? We've met before."

"Yeah, last week," Greg admitted.

"Next time I call the police."

"Okay, we're leaving, we're sorry."

As we crossed the demolished concrete slabs Greg explained, "That guy is alright, but his boss is a hardass. I gotta talk to that guy's boss. Maybe tomorrow." I was reminded of a line from the movie Sexy Beast: "Where there's a fuckin' will, there's a fuckin' way. And there is most definitely a fuckin' way." That about sums up Greg's mentality when it comes to fishing.