I started fishing when I was pretty young, maybe 5 years old. My dad got me a small Zebco spincaster rod and reel combo and he'd take me fishing at these ponds outside of Rising Sun, Maryland. The funny thing about Rising Sun was that at one time it was considered the Ku Klux Klan capital of the country. In fact, if you start typing "Rising Sun Maryland" into Google, the first autosuggestion to complete the phrase is "Rising Sun Maryland KKK." I couldn't have known it at the time, but my dad had real balls taking me there; it probably wasn't as bad¹ as the time I made him take me to this monster truck car crush/tractor pull/dirt bike race at the Spectrum in Philadelphia, but it was still pretty courageous. Anyhow, I grew up catching bluegills and largemouth bass at these ponds. I remember doing some kind of report in first grade about the first bass I ever caught. I have on my wall in my apartment a stuffed bass I caught at those ponds when I was 8 or 9. It was 4 pounds and 11 ounces and I was convinced it was the biggest fish I would ever catch. I didn't start fishing saltwater until I was older, about 14 or 15, when my dad was regularly fishing the Indian River Inlet in Delaware, but it wasn't until recently that I caught anything out of there, despite all the pictures my dad has of the striped bass he's caught over the years. I didn't catch a striped bass until 2006, while fishing on Peaks Island in Maine with my cousin, with whom I usually used Cheetos as bait whenever we fished as kids. I caught a couple small ones, schoolies, well under the legal limit of 28 inches, but sleek and clean and a shiny white with grey stripes and shimmering black back. I caught them between smoke breaks—we had one rod, so my cousin would smoke while I fished and he would do the same.

I was getting anxious with October 1 rapidly approaching, but I still had no fishing gear since I had to run back to Delaware to borrow some from my dad that weekend. Over the years he had upgraded his gear to two $800 Van Staal reels and a few 8.5' and 10' St. Croix rods. All of the other rods, Fenwicks and other St. Croix rods, and reels like a new old-stock Fin-Nor Ahab #8 and the classic workhorse Penn 450ss and 550ss reels, he relegated to the basement. He also hoarded lures, often buying three or four of the same kind when he found one that worked. So there was a small trove waiting for me in their house in Delaware. Although I felt guilty taking his old gear, he seemed eager to unload it on me when he heard I was fishing again.

I went to the opening party for the derby the evening of October 1, partially to pickup the "derby package" which consisted of a t-shirt with a striped bass on it, a copy of the derby rules, a Brooklyn Urban Anglers Association membership card, and a tape measure, all neatly packed together. I also wanted to see if my hypothesis regarding the hipster nature of the contest was true—I was slightly nervous I'd paid $45 each for my friend and I to watch people drink Pabst Blue Ribbon and play dress-up Ernest Hemingway. Thankfully, I was wrong for the most part. When I walked through the door of Dream Fishing Tackle in Greenpoint I could see that the shop was all business. Fishing poles stacked against the right wall like cordwood, 11 and 12 feet long, freshwater and saltwater lures and tackle mixed along the racks, hooks sharp and shiny, beckoning, different prices for the same lures, a constant dribble sound of a fishtank somewhere in the back, photos of people holding big fish taped to a bulletin board, a little cat darting under people's legs and in between boxes of reels, and there was a seductive and delicious smell of smoking fish whirling lazily through the air.

Earlier in the week I contacted Ben Sargent through the derby Web site and made some loose plans for an interview. Ben, along with his surfing buddy Jamie Potter—respectively the bearded and the Tom-Waits-ish characters I met the previous weekend—were the organizers of the derby and founding members of the BKUAA. For such a unique event in Williamsburg, I anticipated some light media attention, but again, I was wrong. Just after stepping through the front door and making my way toward the back yard where Sargent was finishing up with the smoked fish, I counted two reporters—one from the New York Times—and two documentary filmmakers. As the night went on, I counted three additional reporters from various local papers and Web sites. I finally caught up with Ben—filmmaker in tow—as he was carrying two big smoked fish, a blue fish and a striped bass both about 30 inches or more, from the grill. When I introduced myself he offered me an elbow. Unsure whether this was some kind of surfer or Brooklyn fishing brotherhood greeting, I gave him a soft pound on the extended chevron with my fist. He was clearly overwhelmed with derby stuff to do, as well as acting as the ambassador of the derby to the members who were slowly but steadily streaming in. Reporters converged on him at every turn of the little aisles in the shop and he was constantly followed by a guy with a camera with one of those mikes that look like a cucumber. Still he had a big grin on his face despite the hectic atmosphere. Looking at the other reporters and their notebooks, and looking at the only scrap of folded up paper I had brought, which I mysteriously had reserved for writing a friend in prison and some scribbled notes, I didn't feel very professional. I made plans to interview Ben when things calmed down a little bit. I talked with a couple other derby members and eavesdropped on some conversations about fishing spots, making mental notes about a pier in Red Hook. I was glad to see my hipster hypothesis was mostly wrong—the derby was beginning to take shape with some dedicated veterans, and a lot of inexperienced but nonetheless enthusiastic neophytes. As I left I waved goodbye to Jamie Potter and shop owner Robert Piskorski. "Welcome aboard," Jamie said.

¹ Fishing, I've found over the years, is like Metallica—a great equalizer among disparate people.