The Story of a 40-Inch Striper, a Broken Rod, and an Unforgettable Memory

Some fish stick with you—not just for their size, but for the story behind them. Over the years, I’ve caught my fair share, but one stands out above most: a 40-inch striped bass I landed nearly two decades ago. It wasn’t the biggest striper ever caught, but the way it all unfolded made it unforgettable.

Tying the Connection

Like any great fishing story, this one starts at the tying bench. I was in my tying room, where my two young boys, Tait and Jax, would often drift in and out, playing as I worked at the vise. Tait, who was seven at the time, paused to ask what I was tying.

“A Grocery Pollock fly,” I told him.

Designed by Jim Bernstein, this fly had a reputation for fooling big stripers along the Maine coast. Tait wanted to tie one too, so we sat together, step by step. The process took much longer than usual—he’d tie in some material, then run off to play, only to return and add the next piece. More than an hour later, we had two finished flies—one slightly smaller than the other, but both ready for the water.

This was more than just a casual tying session. I was preparing for a trip with Jim himself, the longtime manager of Eldredge Bros. Fly Shop.

I still remember the first time I walked into Jim’s tying room. My eyes were immediately drawn to the doorframe. Lining the wood from floor to ceiling were countless retired flies—every single one a Grocery Pollock. When I asked about them, Jim explained that he retired each fly that had caught a 40-plus-inch striper. The sheer number of flies told me everything I needed to know about its effectiveness. That’s why Tait and I had tied those flies—because I wanted mine up on that doorframe.

The Early Morning Push

The night before our trip, Jim and I sat around catching up over a few beers. At midnight, I finally asked what time we were heading out.

“4 a.m.,” he said.

Perfect. Sleep deprivation and fishing go hand in hand.

I realized I didn’t have a leader, so as Jim tied one for me, I held up the two flies Tait and I had made.

“Which one?” I asked.

“They both look good,” Jim said.

“I’m fishing Tait’s,” I told him.

“Good choice.”

At 4 a.m., we were at the dock, groggy but fired up. I’d caught plenty of stripers before, but none over 30 inches. I’d had my shots at 50-inch fish, but the stars had never aligned. My goal for the day was simple: land a striper on the fly my son had tied.

The First Fish

I was fishing an Albright 8-weight rod with a 300-grain line, casting into the waves breaking along the rocky shoreline. The idea was simple: baitfish would get caught in the turbulence, and as the waves receded, stripers would rush in to feed. The crystal-clear water made for an incredible sight—schools of stripers cruising beneath us, their silver bodies flashing in the morning light. Occasionally, we’d even spot a true giant.

Not long into the morning, my line went tight. The fish fought hard, and when I finally brought it to hand, I realized it was my biggest striper yet. I don’t remember its exact size—just that it was a good fish, and I had caught it on Tait’s fly.

Jim and I snapped a few quick photos and high-fived. My goal was met, and the day was already a success. But it wasn’t over yet.

The Battle of a Lifetime

We continued working the shoreline, casting and stripping. Then it happened.

I set the hook, and instantly, we knew this was different. My line tore through the water, the reel screaming as the fish surged toward the open ocean. I was deep into my backing within seconds.

“That’s a big fish,” Jim said as he reeled up and fired the motor to chase it down.

We gained some ground, finally getting the fish close enough for Jim to cut the engine. I inched it toward the boat.

“Grab it!” I yelled.

Jim stayed calm. “Relax,” he said.

And just like that, the fish made another blistering run.

I fought it back. Then, right as I was about to bring it to hand—snap.

The rod exploded just above the handle.

Suddenly, my rod was sliding down the line, and I was left holding nothing but the grip and reel. I glanced at Jim, grabbed the line, and without hesitation, threw the reel onto the deck. Now it was just me, the leader, and a massive striped bass.

Hand-lining a big fish is a different kind of fight. I walked it up and around the bow, trying to bring it within reach, but every time I got close, it would tear off again. Finally, after another hard-fought run, I gained control and brought it alongside the boat.

Jim reached down and grabbed it by the mouth.

“Come grab your fish!” he yelled.

I gripped its jaw, and it nearly shook my arm off.

Then I noticed something else—while we were caught up in the fight, the waves had pushed us dangerously close to the rocks. Jim fired up the engine and motored us to safety while I held the fish in the water.

Once we were clear, he turned to me.

“Sit down,” he said.

Then, lifting the fish over the gunwale, he held it out in front of me.

It was massive. The biggest fish I had ever landed at the time. We put a tape to it—40 inches.

And I had caught it on a fly my 7-year-old son had tied.

A Memory That Lasts

A framed picture of that fish, with Tait’s fly mounted beneath it, hangs on the wall of my tying room. I see it every day, and every time, I’m transported back to that moment—the fight, the broken rod, the surge of adrenaline.

But more than anything, I think about the little boy who sat beside me at the vise, running in and out of the room as he helped tie that fly.

Tait is 24 now. Jax is 21.

Time flies. The fish come and go.

But some memories—like a 40-inch striper caught on a fly tied by a 7-year-old—stay with you forever.