Rising from the salon of my sailboat, I found a comfortable spot in the cockpit to sip on my first coffee of the day and take in the sights and sounds of a pre-dawn Lake Texoma. The sun was an hour or so from showing its face and a light fog had settled low on the surface of the marina's waters. The only sounds at this early hour were the occasional slaps of errant halyards against gently swaying masts and the soft splashes made by the landing waterfowl. From my vantage point, the silhouette of a bass boat could be seen gliding through the marina. The fisherman aboard was casting his net for the shad that would be the bait du jour. This was the first glimpse I had of Bob Faulkner, and it would be months after this initial sighting before I would officially make his acquaintance. A charity event at this marina would find us seated at the same dining table. It was then that I realized he was the fisherman in the marina I had been watching. I spent most of the rest of that evening picking his brain about his striper guide service. Bob is a big man with an even bigger personality and anyone will tell you he knows where the fish are. Though I hadn't dropped a hook in the water since I was a kid, the time spent with Mr. Faulkner that evening was all it took to get me excited about pulling a prize-winning striped bass from the fertile waters of one of the few lakes in the nation where striped bass reproduce naturally. A few days later found me making the necessary arrangements to do just that. First, I called Bob, and then I called my oldest brother. Less than 24 hours later, Bob, my brother Martin, my nephew Tyson, Martin's sons-in-law, Elliot and Patrick and, of course, yours truly, were in accord and a date was set. We had agreed on March 5th at 6:45 am. The coldest, windiest day of that week, as it turned out. But, no matter, our intrepid guide kept the appointment and the five of us met him at Juniper Point West to begin our adventure. Our guide was coming up the gangway as we left the warmth of the pickup. We pulled on our gloves and grabbed the coolers from the bed and walked toward, a now waving Bob Faulkner, as he beckoned us aboard. Once our gear was stowed everyone found a seat and we were off. I sat as far astern as possible. On a cold day, that's the best place to be on an open boat -- a lesson I learned riding on US Navy launches many years ago. The big Yamaha outboard cut a deep trench, leaving an impressive wake as our captain stood confidently at the controls. The sun was bright now, but did little to provide any warmth, as was evidenced by the 'chin in your chest' posture the crew had assumed during this ride. Before long, the bow dropped and the boat leveled off as the outboard was eased back to barely an idle. Suddenly, all was quiet. Bob turned to his frigid crew, and one by one handed us each a baited rod and reel. "Does everyone know what a 'pull' is," he asked? None of us did, as it turned out. So began our first lesson from this seasoned pro. He then patiently explained that a 'pull' means pulling the fishing line from the reel to the first eye on the rod. Each 'pull' equals about two feet of line. We were instructed to take 12 'pulls' at this particular spot, meaning our bait would at about a 24' depth. According to the blips on the screen of the fish-finder, that's where our prize was waiting. Our guide and the fish-finder were right, of course. They were there. The problem is, they weren't very hungry. I had inadvertently planned this trip to coincide with a strong front that came in the night before. Shorts and flip-flops worn on Monday were now replaced with earmuffs and muk-a-luks. A strong NNW wind had pushed our warm southerlies back into the Gulf, and it seems the bass were as upset about it as we were. While we sat shivering in the wind, Bob gave us another fishing lesson. "When you get a bite," he instructed "snap the rod straight up and keep it there. Use the reel to reel'em in close enough to the boat to be netted. If you drop the pole in order to gain leverage, all you'll be doing is pointing in the direction your fish went." He went on to explain that stripers have "hard mouths" which made setting the hook more difficult. Releasing the pressure by dropping the front of the rod usually resulted in the "one that got away" scenario. Two of our crew would prove this to be true before the day was out. We continued drifting with the wind and waves for the better part of an hour before our captain decided we might have better luck elsewhere. "Reel 'em in, boys. We'll try a different spot," he said. I don't think any of us were disappointed to hear that. He took us to a spot with a little more protection from the wind and suggested we set our bait at 9 'pulls'. The wiggling shad had barely hit the water when the first catch of the day was made. "I got one!" the fisherman yelled. At that, Bob jumped into action, grabbing his net and yelling instructions as he made his way to that area of the boat. "Keep your pole up! Don't let him go!" The rest of us made space for the guide to get as close to the incoming prize as possible. And like kids waiting for Santa Claus, we held our breath in anticipation of what our companion had hooked. Soon enough, the silvery, white-bellied beast broke the surface and Bob nimbly scooped it from the water. It was the first time any of us, except Bob of course, had seen a striped bass. As fish go, I must admit, they are a handsome lot. Over the next couple of hours, 16 of his friends would join him in the cooler, the largest of which measuring some 29 inches. Several others came close and none would have embarrassed the fisherman that landed them. Between helping us land our quarry and keeping the boat in line, Bob shared fishing and hunting stories that kept us in good humor and our minds off the cold. Around two o'clock, we headed back to shore. The ride was short and uneventful. As much fun as we may have had, I believe every one of us was looking forward to the warmth of that pickup's cab. We followed our guide to his cleaning station a few minutes away. Once there, our catch was hung on hooks that provided the perfect photo-op. The moment was captured for all time and our guide went to work cleaning our catch and dividing the meat into five plastic bags. I learned a lot that day. But, what I think I learned the most was this: You don't have to be a fisherman to enjoy striped bass fishing. In writing this article, I purposely left out some details of our trip in the interest of protecting the knowledge our guide has spent decades collecting. Spring is just around the corner and a repeat of this trip on a warmer day has great appeal. If anybody's looking for me, let' em know I'm down by the lake practicing my 'pulls'.