Dawn at Sandy Hook, October light cutting low across the bay. The striped bass move inshore with the tide, chasing bunker into the shallow cuts between the jetties. You've seen the same run for decades — same rocks, same birds, same silhouettes of anglers in waders spreading out along the beach at first light.

This is a collaboration with Tackle Box, the coastal outfitter that has quietly supplied the peninsula's fishing community since before tourism rewrote the shoreline. Their storefront sits a mile inland from the Hook, stocked deep with terminal tackle, local tide charts, and the kind of institutional knowledge you can't buy online. We asked them to help us draw the striper — Morone saxatilis, the Atlantic migratory that defines spring and fall on this coast. The fish that appears in colonial account books and WPA murals and every conversation about what the bay used to hold.

The illustration runs wide across the chest in black ink on sport grey heavyweight fleece. Left sleeve carries the joint lockup. This is a cold-morning hoodie, mid-weight and built to stay soft. Ribbed cuffs, pouch pocket, drawcord hood. The kind of thing that accumulates salt and sand and memory without complaint.

Wear it on the rocks. Wear it on the deck. Wear it when someone asks if they're running and you already know the answer.