I was standing in the back of my friend Stan Gold's 24-foot walkaround, Blind Date, when I felt my braided line vibrate nervously. Then a violent tug followed, and my line went tight. I fed line through the rod guides while slowly counting to myself. One, two, three¿The line steadily disappeared from my reel. Four, five, six...The striper took my croaker, turned it around and swallowed it. Seven, eight, nine...I flipped the reel into gear. Ten! I lifted the rod tip, cranked the line tight and jammed the rod butt into my gut.