This is a long story, but read it when you can. It's a great story about the world record striper, 78 lbs 8 oz, being caught from the surf in New Jersey. I believe stripers of this size are in freshwater too.......not necessarily in Lanier, but in freshwater somewhere. Enjoy.
PART ONE
The story begins in Atlantic City, New Jersey, in 1982. The day is September 21 — the first day of fall. I am living in a summer rental a couple houses from the beach, near the boardwalk. It is the right time to start fishing for striped bass. The finger mullet are in the surf, swimming in the breakers along the beach. I am filled with emotion, saying, man, this could be it. This could be our night. This is the right time.
My friend picks me up in an old Jeep and we head down to the beach. When we pull up to the beach it is around 7:30 p.m. We sit there for a few minutes and look out at the water. All we can see are stripers splashing, their tails coming out of the water and their bellies rolling in the breakers. And the finger mullet are jumping and running for their lives, running up on the beach and jumping up on the rocks. I turn to my friend and tell him, “This is it.”
We get out of the truck and work our way onto the jetty, the same jetty I fished as a kid, on the street where I was born and raised. We get out there and within moments my friend hooks a nice fish. I keep casting but can’t do much.
My friend lands his fish, casts again and gets another one, but I still haven’t gotten a hit. I wind my lure in and check to see if it’s okay, ’cause one time I was fishing with a lure and saw that it had an eye missing on it. And I remember that a fish won’t hit a lure if one of the eyes is missing, for some reason. So I think about changing the lure, but then I say, no, my lure’s all right, and I start casting again. By this time my friend has landed another fish and is fighting a third. I lob my lure out, with the wind at my back. As I wind in real slow, the water erupts and my rod jerks down and line starts coming off the reel.
And I have my Florida white boots on and my rain pants on. The wind is coming north-northeast and the weather is getting real ominous. And the waves are picking up and it’s starting to get dark. I fight my fish and land it. It’s a 15-pound, nine-ounce weakfish, just off the state record of 17 pounds. I unhook the weakfish and go back to the same spot and start casting again.
The water is a beautiful green with white foam, lit up by the lights from the boardwalk. It is chilly, that fall temperature where you need a hooded sweatshirt or a jacket. It’s the greatest time of the year to be surf fishing.
As the fish start to mount up, I look south along the beach. I can see the casinos of Atlantic City with everybody inside, gambling, going to see the entertainment, the shows — Johnny Mathis or whoever else is in town — and people are having buffets and trying to win money in the casinos on the slot machines. And here we are, out here fishing. A lot of people said to us, “Are you crazy? Are you nuts?” ’Cause we fish in bad weather, when it’s storming or raining. It doesn’t matter to us.
Now the waves are starting to splash up on top of the rocks, and we’re casting. I throw the lure out and it hits the water and I take about two or three turns. I feel something stop it, and it’s shaking its head, jerking it. I pull up and it doesn’t even move. I pull again and its tail comes out of the water. I see a silver swirl and the silhouette of a fish, and it goes straight down to the bottom. My friend says to me, “You got ’im?”
And I say, “Yeah.” I tell him it seems like a nice fish, but nothing out of the ordinary.
All of a sudden the reel starts turning slow and the fish is going away, heading for deep water. I’m standing there trying to get leverage on the fish, trying to stand on the rocks and the moss and the slime. The fish isn’t running fast. It’s just running deep and slow. And the rod is bending all the way down to the grip. I have the rod locked in my hip, one hand on the foregrip and the other on the reel handle. And the fish gets out there until almost all the line is off the spool. I can only see a couple of wraps. So I grab the spool, which is the worst thing you can do, to try to stop it. The rod keeps bending and bending. Then I turn the rod to the left and the fish turns and starts coming right at me.
I start winding for all I’m worth because the fish is putting slack in the line and you don’t want slack when you’re fighting a fish ’cause they can shake the lure. So I’m winding, and my friend says, “What’s happening man? What’s going on? When you get done playing with that one, man, let me know if I can help you.”
Here I am, 36 years old, been fishing since I was eight. It was like the Good Lord had me go through a period, tutoring me, grooming me to fight this fish, which is the biggest fish I ever had in my life on a rod. Years of fishing experience, all the tricks I knew, all the things I was taught and told, were going to come into play this night.
It’s after 8:00 and the battle hasn’t begun yet. This is just leading up to the fight of my life. The fish swims right up in front of me, but down deep, and stops for a second, then turns around and starts going back out again, real slow.
I’m using one of the finest reels ever designed, a spinning reel. Ten years of research and development went into this reel. I call it “the old workhorse.” It isn’t the fanciest reel, but I would put it up for strength against any other reel. The rod is a brand-new 9 1/2-footer. The lure is a Rebel, what was made to look like finger mullet: 5 1/2 inches long, and silver. It has three sets of treble hooks on it. I put an oversized hook on the tail to make it wiggle more in the water. The line is 20-pound Ande Tournament Green. It’s the greatest fishing line in the world. It has taken more world records than any line ever developed or manufactured. Later, some people tried to say that I was using the pink Ande, but I didn’t use that. That’s not sanctioned by the International Game Fish Association (IGFA). The green line is.
I get excited when the fish starts going away from me again, out to sea. I yell to my friend, “I don’t even think this fish knows he’s hooked!” Here I am, I think, no boat, no 50-pound test, no tuna rod, no big gear. I’ve got a light spinner with 20-pound line and I’m fighting a fish I can’t do anything with.
The fish gets the line down to where there’s only a couple of wraps left, then it stops out there. It’s just laying there. With each surge of the waves, line clicks off the reel — click, click, click — click, click, click. The rod bends and comes back up. I’m standing there trying to figure out what to do, what’s going to happen next. And then the fish turns and circles back toward me again. This time he comes by me a little faster and goes all the way in to where my friend is fishing and turns in front of him. And my friend yells, “Oh my God, man! He can’t be that big!”
I say, “What are you talking about?”
He shouts back, “I just had something come by me about six feet long. It looked about the size of a torpedo!”
Then the fish goes in towards the beach and turns and starts heading back out. It goes about halfway out this time, not like the other two times. And it stops. Dead stop. I have pressure on him. I can’t do nothing, and the fish is laying there. I’m getting pretty exhausted. Now it’s about 9:00. I’ve already been into this fish for over an hour. The waves are starting to come up around my ankles, almost up to my knees. And it’s starting to spit rain. The wind’s blowing so hard it’s blowing the rain sideways. When it hits me in the face, it stings. I’m wearing a hooded sweatshirt and pull the hood up to try to block the wind and rain is still hitting me in the face. I start switching the rod from one hand to the other to give my arms a break because I’m starting getting cramps and spasms.
My friend hooks into another fish, and it’s a monster. But I’m concentrating on my fish. Neither guy can help the other guy. We don’t know if my friend’s fish is as big or bigger than the one I have on, but he loses it. From all the yelling I can tell it shook him up because it was a monster.
Next thing I know, this wave comes, and it’s pretty big, the biggest one of the night. It comes roaring up on the rocks and almost takes my legs out from under me and fills my boots with water. Now I’m soaking wet and it’s starting to really rain. And I’m worried about seaweed building up on the line and breaking it. Or having the fish go into the rocks and cut the line, ’cause I had no leader on.
The fish is working its way out, taking the line slow again, trying to head out to the open ocean. I’m trying to apply pressure, and I’m thinking about all the other battles I’ve had with stripers. Before this one, my biggest one was around 39 pounds, which is a nice fish in Jersey. The fish gets out there and stops. And I say, well thank God he stopped. I can take a break here.
All of a sudden, something scares the fish. It takes off, really screams this time. It almost runs off all the line and I have to cup the spool again. I turn the rod and the fish turns left and comes back toward me again. Now it’s about 9:30, getting on to ten o’clock, and I’m saying to myself that I don’t think I can land this fish at all. The fish is just too much fish.
I get the fish coming towards me again and it comes about halfway in and stops. And I say, I don’t know, man. I don’t know what’s going to happen here.
My friend comes walking out to me with a flashlight. He says, “When he gets up here this time, or one of these times, let me shine that light on him. I want to get a look at him.”
“Yeah, man,” I say. “I’d like to get a look at him too, just to see him. Is he really as big as what you said he was?”
My friend looks at me and says, “He’s big, man. He’s big. I couldn’t really get a good look because he was down deep, but what I seen of him, he’s huge. He’s the biggest fish I think I ever seen.”
Then I start thinking that maybe I should work my way off the jetty and try to fight him from the beach, but my friend comes over and says, “No man, don’t give up what you got. Just stay where you’re at and take what he gives you, and try not to give him but a little.”
So about a half hour goes by. The fish ain’t moving. He’s just laying there. And now the rain starts pouring. It’s pouring so bad that I can hardly see. And the waves are coming up. I have to brace myself against a rock, a tall rock in front of me, because the waves are coming up almost to my waist and surging. It’s getting dangerous now. It’s getting really scary.
It gets to 11:00, maybe later, I’m not sure. It seems like I’ve been fighting this fish for an eternity. And I say to my friend, “I’m going to try to start applying pressure to him. Maybe I should tighten the drag a little more so I can gain on him.”
And my friend says, “No, don’t touch the drag. You got him where he’s stopped for some reason and he can’t go. Try to work him to the right or to the left or something and apply pressure.”
By now the wind’s blowing so hard that the line is whistling in the guides. That’s how intense the storm has become. It’s turning into a full-fledged Nor’easter, and here I am with the biggest striper in the world on the end of the line.
All of a sudden the fish takes off, but it goes in a different direction this time. Instead of heading out to sea or into the beach, it swims south, heading “down beach.” It’s taking drag and taking drag, and then it turns and goes in towards the breakers, toward the surf. It didn’t do this before. And I’m working the rod and watching everything with my hand on the reel handle. Then I bend and lower the rod — what we call bowing to the cow — and come up, and I actually feel the fish turn over. And I get three, four, five, six wraps. I wind again and get five, six, seven, eight more wraps. I’m picking line up now.
The fish is coming towards me now, heading to where my friend is standing. My friend says, “Is he close?”
And I say, “Yeah he’s close.”
And my friend says, “How close is he?”
“He’s right in front of you. He’s down right in front of you there, maybe five, six feet out from the rocks.”
My friend shines the light in the water and he sees him. And he actually says, “Oh my God! Albert, he’s unbelievable! He looks like he’s about three feet round his chest, his belly. He’s longer than I can reach my arms lengthwise. I even seen the lure. It’s on the side of his face. It looks like you’ve got him hooked in the corner of the mouth. And the other hook looks like it’s up near his eye, and your line’s feeding off one of his eyes.”
I said, “Well that’s good. Maybe that’s what’s stopping him. When I apply pressure to him, he’ll stop or I’ll pull his eye out.”
Now I have a decision to make. The fish is in toward the breakers, to my right, and it’s out off the rocks about six feet. I figure I got to make my move. I gotta drag him towards me to get him to roll over belly-up so I can get a gaff shot at him. I sit down on the rocks, and it’s all green moss and purple moss. I start sliding a little bit and get the gaff. Then I reel and pull on the rod. I’m gaining line inch by inch, a couple inches at a time. I tell myself it doesn’t matter that I’m only getting a couple inches. If I get anything on something like this it’s beneficial.
The fish starts to come right up in front of me, then it turns and goes to the right. I grab the gaff and take a greenhorn shot, and hit the fish in the tail. The fish takes off and takes almost half the line again, all the way back out into the deep water. I say, “I’m stupid! I’m dumb, man. I shouldn’t have touched him with the gaff unless I can get a clean shot.”
Now I have to fight him all the way back in again. The fish is going to the right, going to the left, staying down. I’m winding and winding. Now it’s almost 12:00. The fish is coming, and I holler to my friend. “I got him! He’s coming! I think I broke his back! I think I got him beat!”
The fish is coming towards me, and it’s down deep and I’m gaining an inch of line at a time. One inch, two inches, upward, upward. All of a sudden the fish comes up in front of me. I can’t believe there’s a fish like this. The tail on it is humongus. Its back looks round as a beer keg.
I try to get into position to land the fish and I hit the moss. The next thing I know, I’m sliding feet-first into water up to my chin. I’m in the water in a Nor’easter, at night, with a big fish right in front of me. My friend comes over and tries to grab me with the gaff hook or whatever he has to do to save me. He grabs the hood of my sweatshirt and pulls. At the same time the fish is laying in front of me and a wave pushes it right towards my face.
I have to go for it or forget it. I reach my hand out to grab the fish’s gills, and my hand goes through his gills and out his mouth. My friend has me, and I have the fish. And here we are, with the waves surging and splashing. I’m swallowing water. A wave goes over me and I go under, but I’m still hanging onto the fish. I pop to the surface and get one hand on the rocks, and start pushing with my feet. Inch by inch, I manage to get up the rocks to the top of the jetty.
I collapse on top of the fish. My friend is standing over me, sucking air, exhausted. He says, “Al, get off of him. Let me see him.”
My friend comes over and shines the light on this fish. I’m laying on the rocks, soaking wet, beaten, exhausted, hurt, cold, shivering. And when the light hits the fish, it’s the most beautiful fish you ever seen in the world. It is almost too big to believe.
The fish is laying there, looking around, the lure stuck on its face, opening and closing its gill plate. I look at my friend and say, “I got ’im.”
My friend says, “I don’t know, Al. I don’t know who got who, man. But he’s beautiful.”
I say, “Is he 50 pounds?”
“Albert, I read all the fishing magazines, and looking at this fish, he’s the biggest striper in the world. He has to be a world record.”
Now I say, “Get me a knife and I’ll gut him. He’ll be easier to carry.” And my friend says, “No, no, no, man. We’re going to weigh him.” So now we have the task of getting all the other fish and this fish off the jetty, so my friend gets the Jeep and brings it close. We carry some fish up to the Jeep. Then we come back and get our rods and tackle bags and put them in back. Next we get an old army blanket out and carry it down to the jetty. We put the fish in it and carry the monster up to the Jeep. We climb in and have some coffee, and we’re so excited that we’re laughing. We can’t believe this. This is greatest night of our lives.
I get a five-gallon bucket and fill it with water and pour it all over the blanket. My friend comes down and helps me lift the fish, and we lay it on the hood of the truck. It stretches from one side of the hood to the other.
We get back in the Jeep and put some music on and sit there drinking coffee. We can just about see out the window of the truck with the fish laying on the hood. We’re talking about still fishing, maybe making a few more casts. Then our favorite tape comes on, and we’re listening to Lynard Skynard’s “Freebird” and having a smoke. My friend starts the engine and we drive down the beach and over the boardwalk. And then we’re driving up the street right past my apartment where my wife and kids are sleeping, but it’s too late to wake them up, so we keep going.
We get to the main avenue in Atlantic City, Atlantic Avenue, and make a left. A police car pulls up and the cop says, “Okay, what do you guys have in that blanket there? A body?”
Then the cop recognizes my friend, who says, “No, Al here just caught a huge fish, man. You ought to see it. It’s unbelievable.”
The cop says, “Yeah, I figured two nuts like you would be out on a night like tonight.”
We drive to my friend’s house, get some dry clothes, some more hot coffee, and take a couple pictures of the fish. We’re thinking about which tackle shop in the area will be opening the soonest. Then my friend says, “I know a guy who’s gonna be opening pretty soon. He usually goes in earlier than anybody else. I used to work for him as an outboard mechanic. He should be there, and we’re gonna go down there now.”
We drive down to this marina and tackle shop. It’s really raining. My friend goes up and knocks on the window, and the guy’s in there. He’s a weighmaster for the IGFA, a certified weighmaster, and he unlocks the door and says, “What’s up?”
My friend tells him what we have, so the guy gets his jacket and comes outside. They unfold the blanket and he looks at the tail of the fish and he goes, “Oh my God! What a fish! Then he walks around and looks at the belly of it. He says, “By Jesus, man.” Then goes around to the other side of the Jeep and looks and sees the head of it. He says, “This fish is unbelievable. Now look, there’s my scale over there. You guys get a hold of the fish, drag it over there and put it on. I think the record for New Jersey is 69 pounds. I’ll set it at around 65.”
He sets the scale at 65 and the scale bangs down. He takes the scale and moves it up to 67, 68, 69. The scale won’t move. He goes to 70. He says, “Well I think you got one record here, the state record. But I have to stop. I’m gonna have to call the proper authorities and the proper people to witness this weigh-in. I know how to do the procedure with all the paperwork. It’s going to take a while. If this is what I think it is, this is going to be exciting. I’m gonna call a sportswriter and a couple other weighmasters to witness this. I’ll explain everything to ya, Al. Now come on inside and tell me about the story.”
Part Two
The Morning after
Al McReynolds continued
It got to be just about almost daylight, the crack of dawn. And the tackle shop is on a road where all the guys are going to work — construction workers, roofers, plumbers, carpenters, guys who work at the casinos and build the casinos in Atlantic City. And people start pulling up when they see this fish hanging on the scale. All of a sudden the Fish & Game people show up, the local TV people, the radio people. It turns into a crowd. Guys are asking, “Who caught the fish? Where's he at? I want to talk to him.” Guys are lighting cigarettes and putting them in my mouth, pouring Budweisers on my head, drinking beers. It's turning into a festival. Now, in order to qualify for an IGFA record, I had to surrender the lure, the rod, the line, the reel — everything. I had to explain the catch, how I handled the fish, how it was hooked and where. Everything in detail. Nobody tells you when you land a world-record fish that there's going to be an investigation. And this investigation is supposed to be handled very quietly through the IGFA. Nothing's supposed to be divulged until they reach a decision at the conclusion of their investigation and tell you if the fish qualifies for any world records. You need a lawyer immediately because you shouldn't open your mouth or tell anybody anything. The press calls it “freedom of press,” but what you're actually doing is robbing yourself and your family. Because when you divulge everything it becomes public knowledge. The tackle companies feel they don't have to pay you nothing. And they're going to get a million dollars' worth of publicity. What they're going to do is give you a hat and a T-shirt, and that doesn't feed your family. Well, we wound up with everybody there, and the fish is put back on the scale. And this weighmaster guy gets out the record book and he says, “Okay. Cape Cod, Massachusetts, 73 pounds. Caught by a guy named Charlie Church.” He moves the scale and it goes 71, 72, 73, 74. He says, “You got one record. You beat the 73-pounder what was caught by Charlie Church.” Then he says, “Now this is for all the marbles. Montauk, Glen Cove, Long Island, 76 pounds, the all-tackle world record.” Then he goes, “Seventy-five, 76, 77, 78, 79.” It teeters and balances out. He taps it back. 78, 8. He says, “Albert, to my knowledge you just won everything, and you may have the record for 20-pound test.” He says to me, this guy who's the weighmaster, as he's shaking my hand, “You just won the state record. You beat the Massachusetts record. You beat the New York record. Thank you for bringing this fish to my shop.” We wound up going back inside his office and signing the proper papers with witnesses and everything. And the phone rings, and the secretary comes over to me. She says, “A man's calling, says it's absolutely urgent to speak to you.” She gives me the phone and this guy comes on. He says, “Albert, you don't know me. My name is Nelson Bryant. I'm an outdoor sportswriter for the New York Times. I live up here in Martha's Vineyard.” He says, “Listen, are you sitting down? Sit down for a minute.” I sat down. He says, “I'm in touch with the king of Sweden. I'm trying to reach a man who owns Waterford Crystal in Ireland. There's a fishing contest on. A lot of people don't know about it. We're trying to track it down and find out how to qualify for it or how to file for it, or get an application, or find out what the rules are. You just might have won a whole load of money. You stay there now. I'm gonna call you back as soon as I hear something.” After that I walk outside, and here comes my wife through the crowd. She says, “What's going on?” I tell her, “I caught that fish.” And I'm pointing to the fish. She says, “Wait a minute. You gotta be to work pretty soon. We need the money 'cause it's going to be a long winter.” I say, “I just got off the phone with a guy who told me I might've won a lot of money or something here.” She says, “Yeah, I'll believe it when I see the check. How long is all this going to take?” Soon the weighmaster guy is talking to me again. He tells me he's gonna take the fish and put it somewhere safe. My rod's gone, my line, my lure, the tackle and everything I had is gone. Now even the fish is gone. I'm standing there with absolutely nothing, and I'm groggy and tired beyond belief. My feet are still soaking wet and I'm trying to figure out what's going to happen next. Then this guy pulls up with a truck advertising this tackle company.
They're one of the biggest companies that make fishing reels. He says, “Congratulations, man. Listen, get the reel and put it in the picture so it goes in the magazines or in the newspapers. Now, I'm gonna authorize right now to you a lifetime supply of fishing tackle. And you'll probably get cash too. I'll get back to you.” Then he gives me a hat and a T-shirt and asks me to put them on for the photos. I say, “Yeah, why not?” Next thing I know, the secretary comes back out. I'm in the parking lot, posing for pictures with people. She says, “That man's calling again from the New York Times. Says to get you immediately.” So I go back inside and pick the phone up. The guy says, “Albert, this is Nelson Bryant again. I got some information for you. Listen to this. There's a ‘chance of a lifetime' fishing contest. It's a bounty. It's being handled by Lloyd's of London. The Blair Mail House Nebraska people are handling the applications. We're having a private courier pick one up and bring it to New York, for you to claim one of the prizes. The contest, from what we understand, awards a prize for breaking the next IGFA world record for four species of fish. Rainbow trout, largemouth bass, king salmon. And what do you think the last one is?” I say, “Striper?” He says, “Striped bass. You just won, to our knowledge, $250,000. Me and you, Al, are going to become good friends. I'm going to take the New York Times and point it at their head, like a double-barrel shotgun. And if they don't give you your money, I'm gonna blow it all over the newspapers. They're going to send representatives down from the tackle company that's sponsoring the contest. Now have a good day. I'll get back to you if anything changes. Just watch yourself. Be careful. You're dealing with some people that I don't think you're used to dealing with.” After that, the tackle-shop owner tells me if I want any tackle, anything at all, to take whatever I want. Just let him know what I need. He also tells me he has been in touch with an insurance company, since a prize is involved. He's gonna take care of the fish and insure it for $100,000. He releases this to the news media, tells them he is insuring the fish and that he'll be holding it for safekeeping. By now I'm late for work at the Beach Patrol. Dozens of guys offer to give me a ride. When I get to the lifeguard station it's about 10:30, 11:00. And the chief walks up to me and says, “What are you doing here? Go home. You're suspended. We're docking you for the day. You never called. You never showed up.” As I'm standing there, some of the other lifeguards who want to heckle me are saying, “Wait, you can't go anywhere. Ted Koppel's calling. NBC's calling.” They're breaking my balls and humiliating me and treating me terrible. My head's pounding. I'm upset, tired, frustrated. All this stuff is happening and it's overwhelming. Your feet leave the deck and you're floating on cloud nine, and the next minute you're walking into mean, jealous people who want to treat you terrible. The chief also tells me to have all these phone calls stopped because they've been getting over 50 phone calls an hour from people who want to talk to me. Then the assistant chief says, “What is all this bull— over a fish? All it is is a stinking fish. I don't know what everybody's getting excited about.” I walk home on the boardwalk. I finally get back to our little rental apartment. I see the bed and I collapse. I must have passed out. I wanted nothing to eat, nothing to drink. I just wanted to get some rest. I don't know how long I slept, but my wonderful, beautiful wife, she wakes me up with hot chicken noodle soup and tells me to get up, it's time to go to work. I must have slept 24 hours. I get to the lifeguard station, put on my uniform and go down to the beach. Before I know it, I get a call at the station. They tell me that the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute showed up and was examining my fish. And that the people handling the $250,000 contest were in town checking the fish, and wanted to know if I used any of their tackle. Which I didn't. I didn't use anything of theirs. But the application for the contest said you didn't have to use their tackle. I don't know how many phone calls I got while I was working on the Beach Patrol the last couple weeks there, but it was unbelievable. I mean, I didn't have a minute's peace. There was always somebody who wanted to talk to me, somebody who wanted to meet with me. They wanted me at the Elks, the Moose, the VFW, the American Legion, the fishing clubs. All these so-called new friends wanted a piece of me. This fellow who's the weighmaster and is holding my fish, now he wants to see me. He asks me who I would like have mount the fish. I said I'd like to give a local guy a shot. One guy comes to mind, and I tell him to get a hold of him. So this taxidermist took on the task of making the mount for me, and the agreement we reached was that I was to get a skin mount. And there was supposed to be a right-facing mount and a left-facing mount. And I was assured this would be done. When the mounts were finished, they were delivered to the weighmaster's store. I went to see them and there was a right mount, a left mount and a full mount — but they were fiberglass! I asked him where the skin mount was, the original fish, and he says the taxidermist told him it was destroyed. The world-record fish is destroyed! Now I know he has a $100,000 insurance policy on it, but that doesn't matter in the sense that what I really want is the world-record fish, the only one of its kind in the world, the largest caught on rod and reel. I want that. That's mine. That's my trophy, but I never got one. Eventually the lure company comes forward. They give me a hat, too, tell me I'm on the advisory staff. The deal is they will get a mount of the fish. They will also give me $2,500 and tackle boxes filled with my choice of tackle from their plant. Then the guy who weighed the fish, insured it and kept it at his store, he's also asking for a mount to display in his tackle shop. Now here I am, a fisherman all my life and a lifeguard in the summer. I have no education. I can't read or write. I never took a course in business. I'm really in a mess here, and it's starting to get worse and turn ugly. But I don't have any money to pay for an attorney. Anyway, I get laid off from the Beach Patrol. I'm going to collect unemployment or try to find work in Atlantic City with the teamsters. I work there part-time with guys who I grew up with, who were friends of mine. I'm also a book holder for warehousemen, chauffeurs and truck drivers. Around this time I start getting hate mail. I think I know who it's coming from, and we track it. But I refuse to prosecute because it's a family member. The hate mail says that I am a cheat, a fraud, that the catch is a hoax, a scam, that I devastated the striped bass population by killing the queen bee. The guy who was with me when I caught the fish, he stops seeing me, talking to me, coming over to visit or going fishing with me. He starts becoming very scarce and evasive when I try to reach him. Everything starts to go nuts. All kinds of stories are flying around. If I rounded up all the people who said they seen me catch the fish and was with me, they would fill a 70-foot party boat. Guys are telling me they seen me jump on the fish's back and ride it to shore. They were there. They caught a 69 when I got the 78. Years later, a guy tells my son the story. I walk up and say, “I'm Al McReynolds.” The guy tells me, “Al McReynolds is dead. He drank himself to death.” My family and I wind up moving out of Atlantic City, over to the town of Brigantine. We move into a hotel called the Blue Marlin for the winter. I'm trying to find work. It's getting toward Thanksgiving and I'm still waiting to hear from the IGFA what their decision is. I go up to the Atlantic City Convention Hall to find work with the Teamsters. I'm standing in the bullpen, as they call it, with all the other guys, and this friend of mine walks over to me. He says, “Hey, Al. What are you doing here, man?” I say, “What? What are you talking about?” He says, “I can't put you to work. You're worth $250,000. I gotta put these other guys to work.” I say, “What do you mean? I didn't get no money yet. I haven't heard anything.” But I go back home to the hotel. I get there and I'm looking at my three kids and my wife. We have a 21-inch TV, remote control. I wind up taking it out and getting in touch with some lifeguards I know, tell them I have a TV for sale. The chief winds up making me an offer. I sell him the TV — I guess it was about 100 bucks — so we can have some food. By Christmas I still haven't heard anything from the IGFA. Christmas Eve comes and I'm in the hotel with the kids. We're eating peanut butter and crackers. Ain't much going on. The manager of the hotel comes by and says there's a phone call for me in the front office. I go out to his office, 'cause we didn't even have a phone in the room. They shut them all off. I pick up the phone and the guy comes on. He says, “Albert, I'm Elwood K. Harry. I'm the president of the International Game Fish Association. There's no more fitting time for me to call you than Christmas Eve. We reached a decision. We unanimously voted to give you the new all-tackle world record, as well as the 20-pound-test record. There's a limousine coming down from New York from the man who owns the tackle company. He's bringing you to New York, to Rockefeller Center. You're going to stay at the Hilton. He's flying in on the Concorde from Paris. He's bringing you your money and he's going to pay you the $250,000. Congratulations to you. Job well done on catching that fish. If you ever get down here to Florida, come and see us and say hello. Now God bless you, Albert, and merry Christmas.” Well, we make arrangements to have someone look after the kids because we don't know how long we're going to be in New York and what's going to happen. I wind up having somebody buy me a jacket and a tie. We get in the limousine and the weighmaster guy is in there, along with his wife. We all head off for New York. We arrive at Rockefeller Center and check into the Hilton. In the room are bottles of champagne and a basket with every type of fruit in it. My wife and I look outside and there's the building where the ball comes down on New Year's, that wedge-shaped building. And we're looking at each other, and we're saying to each other, “Can this be real? Is this a movie? What is this?” The next day we take a limo to the Explorer's Club in Manhattan for the ceremony. That's where they made the movie The Verdict with Paul Newman. Members include Admiral Byrd, the astronauts. They have moon rocks there. They have stuffed polar bears, elephants, Cape buffalo, lions. It's a real men's club. When I get there they take me to a room and give me cognac and a cigar. After a while, a couple of gentlemen walk in and say, “Al, are you ready?” I said, “Yeah, let's go.” We walk up to these big sliding doors, must be 12 feet high, and I see all these people sitting at tables with tablecloths and napkins and crystal and waiters. There's a woman representing the governor from the state of New Jersey. I see my wife. She's sitting with the Guinness Book of World Records people from Niagara Falls. There's sportswriters all the way from Oregon, Maine, Florida. They bring me out and I stand next to the podium. The owner of the tackle company walks up and says, “Albert, I really wish you were using one of my products. Couldn't you tell them you were wearing a hat or a belt buckle with my logo on it or something?” I say, “No, I can't.” “That's all right,” he says. “Now, if you'll turn around and look at this, you're gonna like it. I turn around and this check comes down from the ceiling. It's about 12 feet long, five feet high, has my name on it, and it has the $250,000 up there with all the zeros on it. And as I'm looking at it, it's dawning on me that this is real. This is absolutely real. When we get back from New York, I deposit the money and rent a car. We take the family to Disney World. But before we leave I go to see my friend who was with me that night on the jetty. I hadn't seen him in a while. I don't know why he wasn't invited to New York, to the award ceremony, but it wasn't my place to invite anybody. And I still don't know what arrangement he had made with the guy who owned the tackle shop. I don't know what they worked out. When I get to his place, I say, “Hey, what's up, man?” He says, “Well, if it isn't the millionaire! What's up champ?” I say, “Hey, I brought something for you. I wanted to do something for you and your family.” And I give him a check for $10,000. That's the last time we ever spoke. So we go down to Florida to get out of the snow and ice. When we get there it's 70 degrees. It's fabulous. Palm trees, beaches. The kids are having a ball. We see Mickey Mouse, the Disney parades. We stay right next to Disney at one of the hotels there. I just want to mend my wounds. I'm feeling pretty beat up. And we are scared, nervous. Nothing like this has every happened to us. My wife's parents are both dead. She doesn't have anybody to hold her in Jersey. I really don't have anybody to hold me around either. My grandmother is dead. My grandfather is gone. It's just us and the kids. When we get back to Jersey, I get a note saying that the Sportsman's Federation of New Jersey was making me Sportsman of the Year. I also get invited to the New Jersey Game & Fisheries' annual event. They want to give me a plaque for catching the New Jersey state record striped bass. I wind up going up there, driving up with my sister and my brother-in-law and my wife. When we get there, I'm sitting at this table and this guy's talking to me. He identifies himself as a publisher from New York. He says, “You know, man, you robbed your kids and you robbed yourself and your wife.” I say, “What are you talking about? Who are you?” He says, “You gave everything away for free, and they didn't have to pay you. You didn't get a dime. You're a fool. You're stupid.” Just as I'm getting ready to stand up, my brother-in-law grabs me by my arms. When I get up to the podium, this guy has a plaque for me. He says, “Albert, we want to present this plaque to you for the New Jersey state record.” But they have the date wrong and they have my name spelled wrong. He says, “Well, this is close enough, man. Here, take it.” By spring I feel that New Jersey is closing in on me. I don't want to be there no more. It's time to leave. I tell my wife that I'd like to move up to New England, where I used to fish commercially. We wind up looking for property up there. I find a beautiful saltbox home, three bedrooms, three baths, a two-car garage, five acres of land. I buy it for my family. We also decide to travel some more, to take the prize money and enjoy it. We travel extensively. We do what we want to do with our family. Sometimes we see people on hard luck and having tough times and we give money anonymously. We can't let people know that we help people and give money to charities. We don't want our names mentioned, because everyone will have their hand out. They think we're rolling in money. People don't realize that if it wasn't for the $250,000 prize, I would have gotten next to nothing for catching that fish. But everybody throws that in my face — with $250,000, what am I crying about? It's the principle. I mean, come on, man. Ted Turner didn't stop at one million, Donald Trump didn't stop at a certain amount of money. You're supposed to make money and share the wealth. One of the things I can't understand is when you have these news reporters come up to you and tell you they want to do an exclusive story, or they're freelance writing and want a story. As soon as you ask them what they're going to pay, they tell you that they have to talk to their editor about it. And then they come back and tell you that the editor says they can't pay you anything. Here these people are, traveling, getting their expenses paid, hotel, meals, a salary. Their newspapers are selling millions of copies and they start crying poor. They don't want to give you a dime. I hated that. I had people try to coerce stories out of me. Guys come down from New York telling me they're writing a book and they want an interview. Then, when I go to look for the book, the book never even came out. You know, and I ain't joking when I say it, if I ever hooked another world-record fish I would think of cutting the line and letting it go. My oldest son says to me, “Dad, you should never pick up a rod ever again. It ain't worth it.” I hope this story is going to open the eyes of anyone who thinks that catching a world record will make everything fabulous and wonderful. Let's talk about reality here. I had people following me, watching me. I had all sorts of crazy things happening — phone calls, cars pulling up on our property with the lights off. People would pull up while I was fishing. I'd go to walk over to the car and they'd take off. When I went back fishing, they would pull up again. I'd try to walk up to them again and they would take off. I don't know what these people wanted. I have no idea. I wish I could have gotten a good attorney to advise me. One time I went up to Maine on a trip and I walk into this bar there. It's like a little hunting bar. And I'm sitting there, and I had a jacket on with these patches for the tackle companies. Being a fool, I'm wearing these patches and these guys ain't paying me for them, but I'm advertising for them. They don't give a damn about me. This guy sees the patches on my jacket and he says, “What's all that stuff about?” I says, “I'm the world-record holder for striped bass.” He says, “That's a damn lie. If you say that again I'll come around the bar and break your jaw. I'll fracture your skull. The world record was caught in Maine. You don't know what the hell you're talking about.” And the bartender's standing there. Well, I got my stuff and I got the hell out of there. It shook me up. I mean, here I am, the world-record holder for striped bass, and somebody wants to do me bodily harm because of it. I started thinking about what I did wrong. I didn't understand it. I'm just a regular guy. I learned. I would never wear any patches on any jackets, hats or shirts, or anything advertising these companies. Never again. Not for free I wouldn't do it. I've had guys ask me, “You're the world-record holder for striped bass? Why are you so quiet, man? Why didn't you tell us who you are?” Because of things like this: One time I'm in Brigantine, New Jersey, and there's a fishing tournament going on. I thought I'd go over and see what they are catching. There's a whole bunch of guys there, and they're having a little fish fry and beer bust. I walk up and this one guy's glaring at me. I never met this guy before in my life. He comes over to me and says, “You're the world-record holder for stripers?” I say, “Yes.” He says, “How many stripes does a northern striper have and how many does a southern striper have?” I say, “I really don't know. I didn't know there was a difference.” He says, “Yeah there is, you stupid ass. I told people that you don't know what you're talking about. You don't even know how many stripes there are on a striper!” After I moved out of Atlantic City, I tried to go back just to visit. I pull up to the boardwalk and get out of the car with my two sons and we start to walk up the ramp. I get up to the top of the ramp and there's my cousin. He comes down the boardwalk, starts shoving me, poking his finger in my chest, telling me I deserted him. He said I was going to build him a tackle shop, said I was going to give him $10,000 like I gave the other guy. He's telling me my grandmother and grandfather would roll over in their graves if they knew what I turned into. I ought to be ashamed to show my face in Atlantic City. And he's doing this in front of my sons. We start backing down the boardwalk. He shoves me real hard and I go back against this rock. I laid the whole back of my foot open about five inches. We get back in the car. We drive out of there. I should have had him arrested for assault. This is what your family can do to you over money. My sister calls me up and tell me she needs money. She's cheating on her husband with her minister and says that she found religion. The woman's out of her mind. When I won't give her the money, she tells me I should shove the money, and she wishes that I would die. I've got an older brother who lives in Hawaii. He's a retired E9 Chief from the Navy. He married a Japanese girl from Okinawa and has a couple of kids. He finds out I have money and he contacts me. Tells me he's losing his home. And here he is with a chief's pension. God knows how much a chief gets after 30 years in the military. I break down and send him $10,000. He tells me he owns land in Bakersfield, California, and that he'll give us that as collateral, or he can give me a sword owned by his wife. It's a Samurai sword, worth thousands of dollars. But I don't take anything from the guy. I just want to help him out. Later, I come to find out he's a used-car salesman, working part-time, and he's an alcoholic. When I ask about my money, he tells his kids and his wife that I'm nuts. He changes his phone number, his address, never pays me a dime. Think about lending money to your family! It gets worse. I get a call from a former lifeguard who lives in Cleveland. He's in the money-management business. He deals with people like Mario Andretti, Arnold Palmer, Dick Butkus, Barbara Streisand, Johnny Mathis. This guy wants to take me on as a client. Well, he had me invest some money in stocks and bonds, stuff I know nothing about. I wound up getting wiped out. I lost money. Now it doesn't give me any pride to tell people what eventually happened. This is the seriousness of catching the world record, winning the richest prize, and all these other things. We actually wound up losing our home. We lost all our money. We have no life insurance. We have no medical insurance. We wound up living in a car and living in motels with our children. And I was too embarrassed to ask anybody for help or tell anybody what our situation was. But I think it should be told. This is real life. This is the truth I'm telling you. Was it all worth it? Yes. They say life is a roller coaster. You have highs and lows. If you don't get on the roller coaster you never enjoyed life. Jackie Gleason said that fortunes are to be won, fortunes are to be lost and then won again. He says life is terrific. And he's right. Life is fantastic. If you get to Florida and visit the IGFA headquarters, the new Fishing Hall of Fame, the replica of my world-record fish is hanging there when you come in the door. It's right above the world-record largemouth bass. There's also a painting of me standing on the rock jetty, and it shows the world-record fish coming up and taking the lure. The artist is a famous painter. He donated the painting to the IGFA. It's a $20,000 painting. It's called “The Moment of Truth.”
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