There is an edge to night fishing which involves a more tactile approach, one affected by current flow and wind, but the reward is priceless.

Throughout history, sunset and the ensuing nightfall have been regarded suspiciously. There was no reason for it. After all, the world changed when God said let there be light and there was.

To stave off the darkness, cavemen enjoyed fire, and the light provided some sight of their surroundings. The flames also offered heat, and ultimately raw meat became fairly obsolete.

The Greeks knew the power of fire and light; just look at Prometheus. He had an eagle eat his liver, his punishment for taking fire from the gods and passing it along to mortal humans.

My first experience in the dark was going after fish but not fishing. I would sneak out at night and meet up with a few neighbors and we speared suckers as they moved out of the reservoirs and into the feeder streams. We’d carry our gear and walk silently through the darkness to the stream. There we’d pull hip boots and flashlights from our backpacks. We’d pull on our boots and wade upstream, one holding the long handle with the gig tip and the other holding the light.

Nowadays the setting sun takes me into the salt. There is an edge to night fishing, and I feel it when I pursue striped bass at night. The more civilized way to go night fishing is to arrive at your beach, estuary, salt pond or rocks at last light. As the yellow ball turns orange and the sky lights purple, it will slowly drop below the horizon line. In doing so, the amount of light dwindles, leaving a gray surrounding that turns to black. The transition is progressive and deliberate, and it’s a nice way to ride away into the sunset.

The tides don’t always cooperate with that approach however. Sometimes we are limited to setting an alarm clock and contending with the jarring of the ring at an otherwise ungodly time. Turning on a light to pull on your clothes is painful and the temporary blindness that accompanies the darkness when you turn off that very same light is disruptive. My eyes get bounced around with the turning on and off of lights including those in the car, but I shake it off when I get to my spot.

Striped bass are nocturnal, and 3-footers are easier to catch than they are during the day.

The day-timers are gone. There are no families listening to a ball game on the radio, guys playing touch football or girls in bikinis getting a tan. No surfers, no kayakers, no kids boogie boarding or building sandcastles. Just animals and lots of them. There are dogs prowling around, with coyotes and red foxes passing through salt hay, cord grass and salt pannes as they search for food.

Whitetails bounce around, too. Once, an eight-point swamp buck with a thick but low rack came out of the brush behind me. Though it had a low basket, its brow tines and G-2s could be used as a stiletto in hand-to-hand combat. It jumped into the water, swam across the estuary and got out on the sand bar across the way. A few hours later it repeated its swim and I caught a glimpse of it on the way. Sometimes I run into kids partying, but for the most part I’m by myself or with a few pals.

I like the way everything feels at night. With the rare exceptions of fishing near an urban area or around other anglers who land a big bass, it’s quiet. The current runs against my waders and I measure every swing by feel. I can’t see my casts unfold, and instead wait for that tell-tale tug to let me know I should move my rod forward. Night fishing is a tactile approach, one affected by current flow and wind.

On spring and fall nights the wind can blow hard and churn up the water, but good. On summer nights the soft breeze barely creates a ripple on the water’s surface. When it’s in my face the fish are at my feet. Casting is tough, but I don’t need to boom one out like I do on a much easier tailwind. Toss a plug into the air and it’ll sail nearly for forever.

Clouds rolling in at sunset is a good way to ease into the night.

Smells. Walk through a marsh and sulfur emanates from the mud. Walk along the beach and wafts of dried bladderwort permeate the air. Tomorrow, kids bored by building sand castles pop the dried seaweed and laugh at the sound that resembles firecrackers. The aroma of a salt pond is a fragrant mix of salt hay and cordgrass.

When rubber became popular, horses wore big-bottomed galoshes on their hooves. They wouldn’t sink into the mud while the drivers mowed the hay. Mr. Paine, my 90-year old neighbor, has one remaining set from his earlier days.

It all ends at False Dawn, the hour before the sun pops back up to start another day. The temperature drops making even a hot, summer night cool. The first-light bite can be better than the night, so I’ll stay as long as I can. Then I’ll head to the coffee shop to start my day. My complexion is vampire pale and there are purple bags under my eyes. I wouldn’t have it any other way.