After transplanting his life from South Africa to Boston, USA for work, when life gets hard Jeff Tyser finds comfort in a striped bass fishery he has dreamed about since he was a boy growing up in Joburg. This story about fly fishing in Boston first appeared in The Mission Issue 46 (May/Jun 24). 

The Beats: Issue 46

Solo DIY fly guy and frequent The Mission contributor Jeff Tyser has been mooching around Boston USA, searching the harbour, the bays and docks for bait-smashing stripers (more on that below). This is the playlist that’s been keeping him company on and between sessions on the water.

“Boston is one of the world’s great urban sport fisheries.” 

The Friday night lights dance hypnotically on the surface of the bay, like an upside-down fever dream. In the city above the surface – inside buzzing bars and bowling alleys, at 24-hour Dunkin’s and all-you-can-eat seafood buffets – families, friends and lovers converge. 

Below, wader-clad and waist deep in the fever dream, a lone figure wields a 9-weight, invisible to them all. An alien chasing natives. An outsider in every sense, seeking solace in this strange new place in the only way he’s ever known how. 

“I picture salt marshes, windswept jetties, 12-inch Fleyes and blitzing stripers. And so, the decision is easy.”

In the old times, before the relentless assault of content the internet now vomits over us, fly fishing dreams were born in the magazine aisle of the local CNA. The glossy spreads of Fly Fisherman, Field & Stream and Fly Fishing in Saltwaters contained images and tales that would, in no small part, shape my identity and the trajectory of my life. It was here, after school one day, that a photograph of a fly angler lifting a huge striped bass from the surf was burned into my mind. 

Cut to 2022. An opportunity to join a Boston-based ad agency lands unannounced in my inbox. Weighing up a move to this corner of New England, one might consider the storied history, iconic brownstones, Ivy League schools, mom and pop trattorias, lobster rolls and people who talk like Ben Affleck. I see an opportunity to wade in the footsteps of Jack Gartside. I picture salt marshes, windswept jetties, 12-inch Fleyes and blitzing stripers. And so, the decision is easy. Much of what follows, however, is not.

“In a world more connected than ever, I am duped into underestimating the profound impact of physical distance.”

In a world more connected than ever, I am duped into underestimating the profound impact of physical distance. Nearly everything that has ever felt familiar and safe suddenly feels impossibly far away. Beneath the veneer of starry-eyed wonder and new-guy exuberance, more sinister undercurrents swirl: self-doubt, exhaustion, grief and loneliness. 

In my new job, things once taken for granted – a reputation, trust, colleagues who laugh at my self-deprecating jokes – become distant memories. Imposter Syndrome begins to consume me. Corporate America’s questionable interpretation of a healthy work/life balance threatens to derail me. 

“Therapeutic benefits aside, fly fishing the ‘Habah’ can also just be wicked good.” 

Crutches take many forms. Mine has always been standing in water, with a fly rod and a box of flies. Fortunately, around these parts, there’s no shortage of water in which to stand. 

Wikipedia and the local bar flies all agree: Boston is one of the world’s great sporting cities. They cite the fabled Red Sox and Patriots dynasties, the aura of Fenway Park, the Tom Brady Effect and the countless championship rings. The city is less commonly talked up as one of the world’s great urban sport fisheries. I’ll go out on a limb here; that’s exactly what it is. 

A quick glance at the satellite image of Boston Harbor reveals a lifetime of exploration – large rivers, tidal creeks, hidden salt ponds, marshy back bays, mud flats, sandy beaches, boulder fields, mussel beds, a veritable archipelago of small islands and, plausibly, the odd suitcase filled with severed limbs. Through it all swims The Great American Gamefish, the crab-crushing, bunker-bashing, shrimp-slurping, gloriously enigmatic striped bass. 

“A bow wave materialises at the channel edge and accelerates aggressively through the grassy shallows. This sends terrified sprats spraying into the sky.” 

Short on human connection, my relationship with these fish and their hunting grounds becomes heightened. They punctuate complex and confusing times with moments of clarity, familiarity, meditation, comfort. Even companionship. It’s a cliche, but when the stripers roll back into town each spring, it does kind of feel like being reunited with old friends. 

But, it’s not always that deep. Therapeutic benefits aside, fly fishing the “Habah” can also just be wicked good. Its sheer scale, the diversity of habitats and the huge tides are overwhelming at first. Put in the time, however, and she’ll begin to divulge her secrets.  

Late one afternoon, paddling the upper reaches of a small suburban estuary at the top of the tide, I notice a party of egrets camped in the flooded margins. The birds betray the presence of a hapless school of silversides, seeking whatever shelter they can find. Every so often, a bow wave materialises at the channel edge and accelerates aggressively through the grassy shallows. This sends terrified sprats spraying into the sky. 

“Throwing small flies at sighted fish, on a 7-weight, on a windless spring afternoon, on a deserted estuary half an hour from home, might just be as good as it gets.” 

I join the egrets on the bank, and spend the next half-hour intercepting bow waves with a small floating minnow imitation. Several fat schoolies come to hand, before the ravenous no-see-ums eventually send me packing. 

The potential of a striped bass the size of a farm animal is certainly (very) appealing. But it dawns on me that throwing small flies at sighted fish, on a 7-weight, on a windless spring afternoon, on a deserted estuary half an hour from home, might just be as good as it gets. 

On a sticky summer’s evening, after blanking at a favourite haunt, I stop at a beachfront fish & chips shop to drown my sorrows in deep-fried haddock. Across the road, a security light on a pier spills onto the water. A casual stroll to the end of the pier reveals utter mayhem. An armada of slot-size bass has abandoned all decorum, and ploughs mercilessly through the peanut bunker, shrimp, silversides and whatever else has made the fatal error of congregating in the glow. I hurtle back to the car, throw my box of half-eaten dinner across the backseat, and re-rig in record time. 

Some important lessons emerge from this discovery. 1. Dock lights are goldmines. 2. When it’s on, hooking a fish from a dock or pier is easy. Landing one requires a strong leader, a modicum of luck and some intermediate-level parkour. 

“The health of the fishery is staggering, given it lies at the foot of such a densely populated metropolis.”

Frankly, the health of the fishery is staggering, given it lies at the foot of such a densely populated metropolis. It hasn’t always been this way. As recently as the early 90s, the city’s untreated sewer sludge dumped (quite legally) directly into the bay. For decades, activists and environmentalists pressed tirelessly for policy change, ultimately leading to the construction of the city’s first sewage treatment plant in 1991. 

Don’t expect the azure waters of Martha’s Vineyard or Cape Cod. But it’s now safe to eat a fish caught in Boston Harbor, which, I suppose, says quite a lot. 

The lone figure in the bay beneath the city sends a large Bulkhead Deceiver into the night. As he waits for it to sink to the desired depth, his mind strays. 

He can probably now call this his home water, he thinks, even though this place is yet to feel like home. He remembers the schoolboy in the magazine aisle of the Parkview CNA, who is now living one of his dreams. In the darkness, that’s something that is easily forgotten. 

It strikes him that it could be a good idea to write some of this down. Maybe it will be a story worth reading. If nothing else, it might simply affirm that this city and its waters, for now at least, aren’t the worst place to be. 

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This story about fly fishing in Boston first appeared in The Mission Issue 46 (May/Jun 24). You can the read the whole thing for free, below.