The whole adventure began with a phone call from my friend Matt Koenig who, through one of his many fishing connections, had caught wind of a novel event: a one night tournament on Martha's Vineyard, New England's Mecca of saltwater fly fishing. As the magic name "Vineyard" echoed in my mind conjuring images of waters teeming with game fish, I grew increasingly intrigued.

Now fishing tournaments are not my bag, baby. To my way of thinking, fishing is the very antithesis of competitive sport. It's a more of a peaceful, reflective activity, one that's best pursued alone or in the company of a close friend or two. Furthermore, particularly when I'm fishing, I try to avoid the sort of "Type A" personalities that tournaments attract. I'll even go so far as to say that some tournaments give sport fishing a bad name in the public eye, especially the heavily sponsored, big-money events you see on television.

This event, however, the annual Martha's Vineyard Catch & Release Tournament, would start at 7:00 in the evening and run until 2:00 in the morning (although participants could and would keep fishing as long as they liked). Striped bass were the target species and all fish would be released! It all sounded tempting, but how would we get around the island and how would we know where to fish? That was the really unusual part: each visiting angler would be paired with an "islander"-- a local angler with intimate knowledge of the Vineyard shore who could take us to the best fishing spots. A personal guide for the night! What better way to fish unfamiliar territory? Sign me up!

On a sunny afternoon in late June, Koenig, brothers Matt and Tom Hawkins, and I loaded a considerable amount of gear into the back of a Volvo station wagon and drove to Woods Hole on Cape Cod. There we clambered up the metal gangplank of the Vineyard ferry, laden with waders, rod tubes, wading boots, stripping baskets and sundry other fly fishing items, plus a few coolers. We bumped, squeezed and apologized our way to the top deck and slung our stuff down in a collective heap. Upon looking around cautiously to see what sort of attention we had drawn, we noticed that we were far from the only fly fishermen on board. Anglers of all ages (easily recognizable by their Polartec garb, Teva sandals, and equally jumbled piles of fishing gear) leaned casually against the railings, stealing glances at their supposed competition. One particularly professional-looking group appeared to have brought 20 rods. These guys looked serious, ready for battle.

As the ferry plowed across Vineyard Sound we talked excitedly about the night's prospects. Weather was of prime concern: it was a typical hazy summer day, but the wind was honking out of the southwest, blowing whitecaps down Nantucket Sound. On the bright side, we would be fishing on an island, so there would always be a lee shore. By the time we pulled into Vineyard Haven and bumped and apologized our way off the ferry, all of us were imagining a fish-filled night in paradise.

At 5:30 we arrived at the Martha's Vineyard Rod & Gun Club, where a crowd of 100 or so anglers had gathered. The locals, looking supremely confident and dressed in blue jeans and T-shirts, chatted and laughed in small comfortable groups, no doubt sharing intimate jokes. The humid air was alive with talk of things piscatorial, and I thought I recognized a few "luminaries" milling about.

Around 6:00 PM, Nelson Sigelman, a reporter with The Martha's Vineyard Times and one of the tournament organizers, asked for silence and began to explain the rules. Each person would carry a notebook and measuring tape in order to record his or her partner's fish. All fish had to be released, and teams could only fish in areas that were publicly accessible -- no venturing onto the private property of a friend who gave you the key to his gate. By the time Sigelman had finished, the audience was champing at the bit to get out there and start fishing. Overhead, the sky was growing dark, and an eerie, wind-blown fog began to obscure the setting sun. But there was one final, all-important step: the pairing ceremony.

Everyone instinctively glanced around at his fellow anglers, wondering who would be paired with whom. I hoped for a real sharpie, a grizzled veteran who knew where huge linesiders were feeding and on what…and I was not alone in my hope. Moreover the islander mystique is rooted in fact: last year 1,233 stripers were caught and released during the tourney, 415 by the 54 registered islanders. That works out to an average of 7.6 fish per islander and 3 fish per off-islander…and everyone fished in the same spots! Must be something in water.

Names were called and the partners met at the podium, shook hands and fairly sprinted to their vehicles. Finally, my name was called and after greeting my partner -- a heavy-set, middle-aged man dressed in blue jeans (a savvy islander, no doubt) -- we strode briskly for the parking lot.

"So where do you think we should start," I asked eagerly.

My companion suddenly stopped in his tracks and stared at me. "Well, I figured that would be up to you. You're the local, aren't you?" As fate would have it, I had been to the Vineyard once or twice, although not to fish, and hence had checked the box indicating "somewhat familiar with the island" on my tournament application. I didn't know the tournament organizers would interpret this to mean that I would be able to drive a stranger to the local hot spots, in the dark no less. We soon worked out the problem, however, and I was matched up with none other than Pip Winslow of the Orvis Company. If this guy couldn't put me on fish, nobody could! Our first stop was Edgartown beach on the lee side of the island. When we arrived, the high fog was blowing ominously overhead, but the evening had a distinctly fishy feel.

Naturally, we weren't the only ones to seek shelter at Edgartown. The shoreline was crowded with anglers packed in at 30-foot intervals, flailing away at the water intensely. A few hundred feet down the beach someone was playing a fish. I couldn't wait to get started, so after rigging my tackle with shaking hands, I waded in and began to cast. Within 20 minutes I had my first strike, and it felt like a good-sized fish. However, just as I called out "Fish on!" to the considerable crowd, the line went slack: an ominous beginning of what was to be a long evening.

Over the next seven hours we visited several spots, including State Beach, Big Bridge and a blur of others whose names I'll never know, and I was sure we had driven the entire length of the island and back again. I was discouraged, and disoriented. Around 1:00 AM, Pip decided that we would end the tournament at Tashmoo Pond (wherever that was) so we set off, jouncing our way through a maze of narrow dirt roads and scrubby pines. As I trudged wearily along the soft sand, my legs moving like lead stumps, I felt like the most pathetic excuse for a fly fisherman ever to walk the planet. I had no business being in this thing -- in fact I was an embarrassment to the sport. At Pip's suggestion I made my way to the jetty and dug out my fly box. I gazed blankly at the selection before me, having long since tried every single pattern in my meager selection. Finally, I settled on a Martha's Vineyard Squid fly.

I tied it on and began to cast half-heartedly into the current roaring through the mouth of the pond. Suddenly, a tap! I pulled back on the line and felt the throb of a fish. At last, I was on. I played that fish like my life depended on it, and eventually brought it to the rocks at my feet. I wanted to cry for joy. Seven hours of fishing for a 16-inch striper, but it was still a fish, damn it, and I would not be skunked on this night.

Then, of course, I lost the fly. Convinced that it was the only pattern that would work, I frantically searched my vest for another. Then it dawned on me that I had left two brand new squid flies, purchased earlier that day, in the truck. Why I hadn't put them in my box I'll never know, but I resolved to fetch them. As I slogged back along the beach, a lanky figure emerged from the gloom. I had encountered many fishermen on this long night, but there was something familiar about this person's gait.

As we approached each other, I ventured a tentative, "Matt? Is that you?"

"Tom? Is that you?" came the surprised reply.

We pulled ourselves together and packed our belongings, then took a taxi to the awards breakfast at the Rod & Gun Club. Bleary-eyed anglers were straggling in from near and far, many having fished all night. Judging by the conversations swirling around us, the fishing had been poor all around the island. We also learned, however, that my partner Pip Winslow had managed to secure second place for most fish caught…admittedly at the same spots I had fished.

After some coffee and food, Nelson Sigelman stepped forward to begin the awards presentation. The award for the largest fish caught and released went to Ken Reeback, a biologist with the Massachusetts Division of Marine Fisheries, who took a 40-inch fish. Fittingly, the award for most fish caught, named in honor of Roberto Germani a legendary island fisherman, went to Cooper Gilkes, owner of Coop's Bait & Tackle in Edgartown and one of the founders of the tournament. Gilkes received an Orvis Odyssey reel along with his plaque, then promptly surrendered the reel to his partner, Paul Sexton, for making such an extreme effort to fish the tournament. Sexton had bicycled 80 miles to Woods Hole from his home in Dedham, Massachusetts. After taking the ferry to Vineyard Haven, he pedaled to the Rod & Gun Club, then proceeded to fish until dawn with Gilkes. No one wanted to think too hard about how Sexton was getting home.

While such anti-materialism may be anathema to many tournaments, it's standard operating procedure at this one. At the the prize drawing for the 1996 tournament when Russell Mello had lost an expensive outfit consisting of a Sage rod and an Aaron reel, James Stewart of Marston Mills, Massachusetts, and Doug Kerr of Glenville, New York gave Mello the rod and reel they had just won.

The years since my first tournament have brought a few changes. Except for the winners in the "Big Fish" and "Most Fish Released" divisions, all of the prizes are now handed out in a random drawing. The Roberto Germani award for most fish caught and released is now presented to the team with the highest total number of striped bass caught and released, and only fish over 20 inches are counted in an effort to discourage anglers from "pounding" schools of tiny fish. In addition, to honor the legendary fisherman and lure creator Arnold Spofford, a new One-Fly division was added: anglers are limited to a single fly for the entire evening.

Fortunately, some events manage to escape the notice of even the most tuned-in tourney official. I'm not referring to my lackluster performance in the 1992 event, but to my even more disastrous return engagement. Oh, I had high hopes for 1993, all right. After all, I figured that I couldn't do any worse than the previous year…right?

In 1993, I was paired with a very nice guy who lived on the Vineyard for a few weeks each summer. Unfortunately, he didn't know many places to fish, so we spent most of the evening at crowded Lobsterville Beach, where the water was packed with both baitfish and fishermen. Right at dusk, bluefish began slashing the surface close to shore, but I couldn't buy a strike. After trying nearly every fly in my possession, my line came tight to living weight. Yes, I thought, this would certainly be the start of some non-stop action. I battled the oddly sluggish creature with expert angling skill, and eventually succeeded in beaching a one-pound skate. A fellow who was fishing nearby heard my groans of anguish and came to investigate. Upon seeing the cause of my dismay, he produced a camera and snapped a photo of my "prize," hoisted sheepishly in magazine-photo fashion. I never saw the guy again, nor did I catch another fish that night. Furthermore, I could now fret over the fact that photographic proof of my less-than-glamorous catch might someday be used as blackmail. Unfortunately, I made the stupid mistake of telling this story to my "friends," who quickly gave me the moniker of "Skate Boy," which I have worn ever since. 

In 1996, our team came in fifth for most fish caught (fifth place is not usually awarded, but somehow there was an excess of trophies that had to be used up) but 1997 was my best showing so far. I had the great fortune to be paired with Tom Robinson, an excellent Vineyard fisherman, and together we landed 45 fish to place third in the Most Fish division.