That night I got a call from B, one of my fellow participants in the shad initiation fiasco. After being dropped off at home, his frustration had apparently been at a higher level than mine, (sans torn waders) or it might have been that he was just more persistent than I felt like being at the moment. Whatever the trait may have been, he said he’d decided to scout the city for a new potential spot several restless hours later. Without rod or reel, but with much determination, he set out to prove first and foremost to himself that there were fish in the James River. This is his story.
It was now early evening as B drove determined through the desolate streets of Shockoe Slip not knowing where he was heading, using only his recently discovered shad sense as his guide. That very shad sense told him to turn right on 14th Street and continue towards the Mayo Bridge, on the way to the famous floodwall erected to protect Richmond from the mighty James during its angry flood stages.
Onward he pressed, disregarding cautious yellow stoplights that ripened to a halting red before he had the slightest chance of scurrying under their commanding presence. He didn’t care. He drove—drove like a man possessed by the power of an empty hook void of a fish’s mouth; a man possessed by a straight rod standing unbent by a fish’s fight. Over cobblestone and railroad tracks he drove, straight towards the Mayo Bridge.
His shad sense suddenly began to calm his strained nerves as his eyes scanned the curbs lining the bridge’s four foot walls. His right foot rose off the gas pedal and the car decelerated to a mild jog. Fishermen. His pupils dilated, his hands twitched, and he began to salivate like a Pavlovian canine. Dozens of fishermen. They stood upon the sidewalk running parallel to 14th Street atop the very bridge he was crossing casting from high on their perch to the river yards below them. “Where there are fishermen, there’s got to be fish” he said aloud to himself. Feeling as giddy as a child overdosed on Pixie Sticks, he snapped out of his daze and reintroduced the gas pedal to the floorboard of his Altima. Racing across the bridge he frantically scanned the area for available parking. “LEFT!” His shad sense thundered in his head, as he turned to find a questionably legal patch of gravel to park in next to an abandoned Southern States warehouse.
Overly excited, B neglected a safe method of stopping; thoughtlessly hurling the car dangerously close to peril as his right hand yanked the emergency brake like a parachute’s rip cord. Having ignored the floor brake altogether, the Altima’s wheels locked, sending the sedan skidding recklessly over the loose rocks before coming to a jarring stop in cloud of dust and smoke from the burnt tires, inches in front of the warehouse. Not even comprehending the potential harm he’d almost caused to himself and his car, B hastily twisted the keys out of the ignition with one hand while simultaneously opening his door with the other. He leaped out of the vehicle in a single bound and ran towards the bridge. Across what used to be 14th, now Hull Street on this unexplored side of city and river, he found a path leading down to the banks of the James.
Standing even with it’s height, but west of the Mayo Bridge, B looked down to see the path twisting from left to right and left again as dirt replaced pavement and the trail leveled out even with the river. Here more fishermen stood mere feet apart from one another casting off the bank into the churning water. Rods bent in half as men leaned back using their staffs to leverage themselves between the fish they’d hooked and the currents the fish were using a
gainst their predators. Brilliant silver sided fish jumped feet into the air. “I was right. There are fish here!” B chuckled to himself. Choosing not to take the latter left, B stayed on the paved path taking him under the bridge then up a mild incline between boulders lining the bank of the James on one side and the wall on the other.
It was now early evening as B drove determined through the desolate streets of Shockoe Slip not knowing where he was heading, using only his recently discovered shad sense as his guide. That very shad sense told him to turn right on 14th Street and continue towards the Mayo Bridge, on the way to the famous floodwall erected to protect Richmond from the mighty James during its angry flood stages.
Onward he pressed, disregarding cautious yellow stoplights that ripened to a halting red before he had the slightest chance of scurrying under their commanding presence. He didn’t care. He drove—drove like a man possessed by the power of an empty hook void of a fish’s mouth; a man possessed by a straight rod standing unbent by a fish’s fight. Over cobblestone and railroad tracks he drove, straight towards the Mayo Bridge.
His shad sense suddenly began to calm his strained nerves as his eyes scanned the curbs lining the bridge’s four foot walls. His right foot rose off the gas pedal and the car decelerated to a mild jog. Fishermen. His pupils dilated, his hands twitched, and he began to salivate like a Pavlovian canine. Dozens of fishermen. They stood upon the sidewalk running parallel to 14th Street atop the very bridge he was crossing casting from high on their perch to the river yards below them. “Where there are fishermen, there’s got to be fish” he said aloud to himself. Feeling as giddy as a child overdosed on Pixie Sticks, he snapped out of his daze and reintroduced the gas pedal to the floorboard of his Altima. Racing across the bridge he frantically scanned the area for available parking. “LEFT!” His shad sense thundered in his head, as he turned to find a questionably legal patch of gravel to park in next to an abandoned Southern States warehouse.
Overly excited, B neglected a safe method of stopping; thoughtlessly hurling the car dangerously close to peril as his right hand yanked the emergency brake like a parachute’s rip cord. Having ignored the floor brake altogether, the Altima’s wheels locked, sending the sedan skidding recklessly over the loose rocks before coming to a jarring stop in cloud of dust and smoke from the burnt tires, inches in front of the warehouse. Not even comprehending the potential harm he’d almost caused to himself and his car, B hastily twisted the keys out of the ignition with one hand while simultaneously opening his door with the other. He leaped out of the vehicle in a single bound and ran towards the bridge. Across what used to be 14th, now Hull Street on this unexplored side of city and river, he found a path leading down to the banks of the James.
Standing even with it’s height, but west of the Mayo Bridge, B looked down to see the path twisting from left to right and left again as dirt replaced pavement and the trail leveled out even with the river. Here more fishermen stood mere feet apart from one another casting off the bank into the churning water. Rods bent in half as men leaned back using their staffs to leverage themselves between the fish they’d hooked and the currents the fish were using a
gainst their predators. Brilliant silver sided fish jumped feet into the air. “I was right. There are fish here!” B chuckled to himself. Choosing not to take the latter left, B stayed on the paved path taking him under the bridge then up a mild incline between boulders lining the bank of the James on one side and the wall on the other. Here he saw more of the same; fishermen doing what fishermen were supposed to do—catch fish. Only knowing what a shad looked like based on internet research, B could only assume that was precisely the species he was witnessing due to their marvelously acrobatic moves. After spectating as long as he could take it, (not having his equipment to join in the catching) B walked proudly back to his car calling me in the process to relay his discovery.
…
“Who was that?” My wife the runner asked after my conversation with B was over. She could see I was getting riled up.
“It was B” I happily announced. “He said there were guys all around the Mayo Bridge downtown catching all sorts of stuff, probably shad! He said something about a trail running the length of the river down there and you can fish right off of it!”
“You never listen to me” she said.
I was dumbfounded, as I’d expected a more positive, albeit most likely sarcastically positive, “Really? That’s great honey.”
“What does this have to do with me not listening to you?” I asked.
“I’ve been running that trail for two years now. I told you about it at least a dozen times.”
Needless to say, at least for this past month I have listened more closely to my wife.
…
“Who was that?” My wife the runner asked after my conversation with B was over. She could see I was getting riled up.
“It was B” I happily announced. “He said there were guys all around the Mayo Bridge downtown catching all sorts of stuff, probably shad! He said something about a trail running the length of the river down there and you can fish right off of it!”
“You never listen to me” she said.
I was dumbfounded, as I’d expected a more positive, albeit most likely sarcastically positive, “Really? That’s great honey.”
“What does this have to do with me not listening to you?” I asked.
“I’ve been running that trail for two years now. I told you about it at least a dozen times.”
Needless to say, at least for this past month I have listened more closely to my wife.
No comments:
Post a Comment