September is probably the hottest month in South Florida. Days are a humid 96 degrees and the nights drop to a sticky 78. People love it. You know, those die hard Floridians that wear a ski jacket when the nights dip below 70. Personally I hate it. Don¹t get me wrong, I¹ll take 5 months of heat any day over 5 months of winter, but come September it is time for a break. I dug my old sweatshirts out of the bottom of the closet, and jumped a flight last week to hook up with Jeremy in Rhode Island. He has been dying to show me more of the fishery in New England, and the weather was setting up well for a run of fish, or at least we hoped. I arrived to 60 degree temperatures and a stiff 30mph wind out of the northeast. I think they call that a nor Easter or something in New England. Undeterred, we launched Jeremy¹s little 17ft Boston Whaler wanna-be and pounded around until we crossed the line, the line where no matter how many fish you catch it is not really fun. We caught a couple bluefish and got a bit beat up, but no visible damage done. Not bad, step off a plane to shit weather, and still catch a fish. Worn out, we headed back to the fish camp to re-group and establish a plan according to the weather. We figured our best bet was to fish around the house in Rhode Island for a couple days, then bomb over to Montauk for the fishing party, and then chase albies in Jeremy¹s boat for the last few days. The plan started promptly the next morning when we met up with Ryan Sansoucy. Jeremy really wanted me to fish with this guy, as he poles a Maverick skiff around the flats and shorelines up there looking to sight fish striped bass, and although the fall is not prime time for that, he figured it would be right up my alley. It definitely was. It was like snook fishing with a hint of permit. I got lucky and landed a couple. I¹ll be back for more of that next spring. Montauk can be seen from the boat ramp in Rhode Island on a clear day, but to take a car over takes about four hours of driving and ferry time. We arrived on time, did some prep work, and got ready to throw down. The party was an overall success, but as it progressed, our hotel room turned into a sausage fest, about 6 dudes, and our fishing plans for the next day were falling apart. My friend from Staten Island drove out to hang, and offered me a place to stay, and a tour through the New York City (which I have never been to). I took him up on his offer and two and a half hours later I was shoulder to shoulder with people in times square bullshitting with a chick who couldn¹t stop telling me that she had been drinking since 10am that morning. It was a fun detour, and that slice of pizza ³that I had been preparing my entire pizza eating life for² was ok. I still like Chicago deep dish the best. Madison Square Garden is a strange place at 4am. Some people are going home, some people are going to work, and others, I guess, live there. I chatted with a few residents as I waited for a train back to Rhode Island. I think I heard one guy mention something about hard tails, but maybe I was just tripping. My train showed up, I climbed aboard, and the next thing I remember, the conductor was waking me up so I didn¹t miss my stop. I got off the train, at the wrong station, and looked around for Jeremy. The right station was right up the street, so with boat in tow, he picked me up 15 minutes later. It was slick calm, and we knew it was going to be “our day”, We raced offshore full throttle and were instantly into fish. This was too good to be true, the day we dreamed of, a bunch of fresh albies showed up from offshore, and only a few other boats were there to witness it. All high fives and smiles, Jeremy and I motored from spot to spot having the time of our lives. We carved turns in the glassy ocean, but as we neared our next spot, the curves became very straight. So straight in fact we weren¹t even able to turn at all anymore. Our elation instantly turned into that kind of rage where all you want to do is kick and throw things. Jeremy had been in this same position last week and found zero humor in the situation. I found it kind of amusing. The new helm he had gotten installed a few days prior looked fine, so we made the assumption that the steering cable had snapped. We needed to get back to shore. I did my best to hold the motor straight with a bear hug technique that I have all but perfected, while Jeremy figured out a way to get in a little faster than an idle. He tied one end of a rope to the bow cleat, and another to the metal rod on the engine that actually steers the thing (whatever it is called), and made a makeshift tiller. It worked great, to go left I would pull and to go right he would pull. Our smooth carves were now more of a jagged zig zag, but we got in quickly. Although we got the boat fixed that afternoon and back out on the water the next day, the conditions changed and put an end to our brief run of great fishing. Strangely enough, we both seemed satisfied. We had set a simple goal from the beginning, experience as much of the fishery as we could cram into one week, and enjoy the start of fall. We did just that, caught a few fish, and I even got to wear my old sweatshirt.