I spent the first few days of the derby doing reconnaissance, scouting out potential fishing spots along the East River. While I'd eavesdropped good things about Valentino Pier in Red Hook, I thought it was too far to get to without a car. To the north was Gantry Pier and already there were rumors floating about someone in the derby who'd caught a 40-inch striper the first weekend. However, I focused mainly on the stretch of the river I could reach feasibly by bike and close enough so I could fish before and after work. Not so long ago there were many access points in Williamsburg, mostly of the surreptitious variety that required hopping fences or looking for a hidden but well-travelled path through the trees or grass. But here in 2009, the Williamsburgh waterfront has finally given way to developers and order. The East River Park, once a junkyard for trash, abandoned cars, and homeless camps, is now a playground for Williamsburg hipsters² and flocks of geese, which leave their plentiful stool en masse camouflaged in the grass or simply piled neatly and high on the concrete. More importantly though, despite its enticing 80 yards or so of waterfront, there's now a tall fence surrounding it restricting access to that waterfront. To its left is one of the biggest condominium projects in the neighborhood: the 1000-unit Edge and Northside Pier condos, each of the three hulking shimmering towers casting long shadows in the afternoon. This too was once "publicly" accessible land. But like the fate of the nearby North 5th Pier (one walks under a Northside Pier building to get to the pier), this area is also now closed to the rabble (though it will supposedly "reopen" when the condos are finished being built³), and it's all but a matter of time until more property is swallowed up by new development. I decided to bypass the piers and parks, figuring most derby members would focus on them. Instead, years of sneaking around in covert, nighttime operations told me there were other less obvious places that would produce just as well, if not better. I might have to walk through some trash or scale razor wire, but old, dilapidated and forgotten Williamsburg was still there. And in the city, the hobos will always find the best fishing spots.

I decided to head to an end street my first night out. There are some streets that end literally at the water's edge, with only a curb and maybe a barrier to keep one from drunk driving into the river. I picked this particular street because the aforesaid hobos had set up camp at another spot a block away, and the previous night while attempting to fish, I was shouted out of there by a couple obnoxious drunks mistaking shadows for ghosts. This street, cobblestoned and lined with broken glass, weeds, and old sleeping bags, was a popular spot to do drugs and bring prostitutes, even if it was occasionally patrolled by police. Kevin, my friend who stayed on my couch for a long time, and my brother came along. We cut an intimidating presence at first, pulling rods and plastic bags full of beer out of Kevin's car, or at least we thought so since everyone who was hanging out at the end of the street left as we arrived. "Maybe we should just vibe everyone like we're going to rob them," Kevin said. "Then they'll all leave hahaha." I should have known something was amiss with my team-fishing idea when I saw Kevin's setup, which was a four-and-a-half foot spincast combo, like the one I used when I was 5. Not good for hooking into a striped bass on the river. He was also using flies. I hooked up a bucktail and sent a short but respectable first cast into the dark river. About 20 feet out I hung up on something, a rock, trash, grass, or industrial waste. "What the hell," I muttered. "First cast?" If only I knew it would be the first of many many more.

Kevin on the other hand was busy trying to figure out how to cast. My brother was perched on the concrete barrier drinking beer. It took me a few minutes to break off and another five to re-tie my line. Kevin was having trouble with the wind: every time he'd try to cast the wind would blow it back in his face and he'd lose sight of the fly somewhere behind him. My second cast was uneventful, though I was thankful I didn't lose the lure. My third cast changed that for me. After ten minutes our collective track record went like this: three casts for me, two lost lures. Kevin I'm not sure got his line in the water. "This place is too rocky or something," I said, cracking open another beer. Kevin was already on his third. Drinking beer was the only comfort on this brisk fall night, with the full view of the city ours for the taking, at least until a Hasidic Jew pulled up with a faint female shadow in the passenger seat. He stayed there for another couple beers worth. A little feral cat ran past us under a rusty fence. Our first night was a complete and utter hilarious failure. Later while writing in my notebook, I scribbled: "Realization that I looked close to what I wanted at the beginning: bum fishermen in a shady fishing spot. Looking crazy and dangerous. Drinking cheap beer and feelin' good. Just needed a 50-gallon drum with some fire in it. Not a total loss."

²One of the trademarks of hipsterdom is, of course, believing one's self to be somehow outside the group designation of "hipster." For example, towards the end of the derby while catching a ride home with Ben he told me, "Robert was asking me about you today at the shop. He just couldn't believe a hipster kid could fish."

³As of this writing (December), the pier is still closed.