There's a New Shadmaster in Town

My rod bent and I felt the now familiar tug on it. I watched a shad with a barely noticeable orange dart in its mouth hurdle out of the river one-hundred feet in front of me. He landed with a sizeable splash, also seen by Charles.
“There you go!” Charles shouted from downriver. I smiled while adjusting my drag to facilitate a prolonged fight from the fish. It was more fun to allow the poor man’s tarpon some running room rather than horse him in quickly to be added to the growing tally.
“There will be more.” I told myself. “If he gets off, he gets off.”
As I brought the slightly-larger-than-average fish to within feet of me he made one final run upriver instead of down, which would have been more beneficial to saving his energy while expending mine—causing him to tire out and concede the fight. I set my rod down while the fish flopped about my feet. While being unhooked, the shad sent scales flying, many of which landed on my bare legs and feet as I was wearing shorts and flip-flops. I disregarded the adornments and gently dropped him back in the water where I was thanked with a splash of river water in both eyes courtesy of the shad’s strong tail.
In just under an hour the count was now up to nine. I repeated nine, nine, nine, in my head so I wouldn’t forget what the tally was at and risk losing a possible record to a miscount. I chose wipe the shad juice that was saturating my hands all over my shirt instead of rinsing them in the river, then reached for my rod.
Three consecutive casts produced as many fish. Twelve, twelve, twelve.
I turned around to see another fisherman making his way down the path towards Charles and me. In the seconds it took him to walk down to our location I had another fish on. The new fisherman, an older man, scrutinized my catch for species confirmation from a short distance away and decided to stay close, roosting on the upstream side of me.
Fish 15-18 came quickly and before I knew what was going on, the new fisherman was standing feet away from me, now on the downstream side between me and Charles.
“Boy you really found the hole didn’t you?” The stranger asked.
“Yeah I guess so. I don’t know for how long though.” I said, hoping the stranger would take the hint provided by the tone of my voice that I didn’t appreciate being encroached upon. Common sense and etiquette eluded him.
I had number 19 on when the stranger decided to introduce himself—a step in the right direction following blatant fishing hole infringement.
“If I’m gonna be fishing next to you guys I should probably know your names.” He announced, loud enough for Charles to hear downstream. “I’m Thomas.”
“I’m Zach,” I said, “And Charles is on your right.” Number 19 got off.
“Charles,” he said turning to Charles who nodded, “And Zach.” He said turning to me. “Nice to meet you both.”
“You too Thomas.” I replied nonchalantly.
The new number 19 made his way onto the end of my line. After a few nice jumps to show off, he was successfully landed, recorded, and released. I noticed Charles had one on as well. I took a short break to watch his fight and congratulated him after it was over and the shad was back in the water.
“Nice fish man!” I yelled.
“I have about a dozen to go to catch up with you!” Charles yelled back, smiling.
Thomas interrupted our banter, “Charles I’ll keep those if you don’t want em.’ That roe is too good to throw away.”
“Oh I usually keep a few too. That was one too small though.” Charles noted. I didn’t know that he ever kept any fish, but it seemed as if he would today just to keep his catch from the infringing fisherman who was now also a moocher.
“That goes for you too Zach.” Thomas informed me. “If you don’t want em,’ I’ll gladly take em’ off your hands.”
“Okay, sure.” I said half-heartedly. Taking a shad’s life for the sole purpose of eating only its eggs bothered me. I don’t really have a tendency to keep anything outside of the realm of walleye, flounder, or striped bass. Even then it’s difficult for me to actually kill the fish at first; however I always get over the trauma once my prey emits a heavenly aroma after being grilled and lemon-peppered.
Record tying number 20 hit with the force of a shark. I chuckled loud enough for Thomas to take notice of my bent rod, and looked over to see Charles smiling back at me.
“Man you got the lucky stick today.” Charles yelled.
“I guess so.” I acknowledged, while taking the whole scene in. Many times I had witnessed one guy amongst a crowd catching fish like it was his job while everyone else including me, caught none. There were days when no matter what I threw at the fish or how I fished those lures, I couldn’t entice a single hit. Today I had the right lures at the right spot. Sure an occasional fish was caught by Charles, and now even Thomas had one on, but I truly had the lucky stick.
I snapped out of my shad-induced euphoric daze. Just under two hours had gone by since my arrival this morning, when I released number 20. Record breaking number 21 came on the next cast and before I could celebrate being the new title holder, numbers 22-24 followed. Nearly every cast was producing beautiful 13-18 inch silver sided hickory shad. While unhooking them I made sure to fumble around with the fish so it could fall back into the water safely, free from Thomas’ roe-coveting greed. With each new fish Charles looked over and shook his head while laughing.
“This is ridiculous.” He said. “I’ve never seen anyone pull them in like this before.”
By now Thomas had begun to cast right in my spot, it wasn’t enough for him to just be standing on top of me.
“He has the gift today Charles, you’re right about that.” Thomas said.
I asked Charles to come closer and fish where we were. I respected him and would rather he catch a share of the shad that seemed to be destined for me rather than Thomas having them. After some goading he agreed to come slightly closer which, in turn, improved his catch-to-cast ratio.
I ended up surrendering to Thomas a few fish that looked particularly ill from fighting the current and other shad. These several unlucky female hickorys had gashes new and old around their sides and backs, looking as if they might not make it upstream to discard their payload of eggs. I didn’t necessarily agree that I should be the one to decide their journey was over, however I reasoned that if Thomas were to eat their eggs, I would take their carcasses home to freeze for eventual use as cut bait for surf fishing in North Carolina’s outer banks this summer. The lives of the shad would not be taken in vain, and I could still sleep at night. We all won, sort of.
My number was soon up to thirty when I texted B, politely telling him his record had been obliterated and the count was still rising. I didn’t receive a response, go figure.
Eventually the dart stopped working; at least I felt it had after a ten minute lull in the action. I switched to the rod with the gold spoon already rigged up and relocated the hickorys. With each new fish came new laughs and feelings of disbelief. I have been told the sun shines on a dog’s ass every now and again. Today I got to be the dog’s ass.
I decided just before 3:00pm that I shouldn’t be greedy. Allowing new fishermen (who began to show up in good numbers) to enjoy some of the good fortune the day had brought to me and those around me would give me good karma. I packed up the few shad I’d kept for future use (sans roe) into a small water cooler I’d brought down for refreshments, said a quick good-bye to Thomas, secretly hoping he and I wouldn’t cross paths again, and made my way over to Charles who looked like he was calling it a day too.
“How’d you end up man?” I asked my new friend.
“About twenty-something.” Charles said. “Great day for me and monumental day for you huh? You had to have beaten your buddy’s record pretty badly.”
I smiled modestly as possible and said, “Yeah man. Fifty-three altogher in five hours.”
Charles shook his head and laughed. “Fifty-three. Good day. Good day. Hey I’ll email you the pictures from that gar you started the morning with.”
“Yeah, thanks man. I almost forgot about that.” I said, having truly almost forgotten about the sea monster I’d snagged four hours prior to putting on a shad clinic, had it not been for the camera hanging on Charles’ neck.
“Well it was great to meet you Zach.” Charles said as he held out his hand for another shake.
“You too Charles.” I said, before shaking the hand of my new fishing buddy. “I’m sure I’ll see you out here again.”
“Oh sure. I’ll be around all the time now that I know how good it can get.” He said.
We exchanged phone numbers and emails for future fishing purposes and so I could receive the pictures of my gar, and then parted ways.
As I walked back up the hill on the path I looked back to the river and smiled, still in shock really. I’d figured I had it in me to beat 20, but two-and-a-half times that, probably not. As Charles said, “It was a good day.” I couldn’t put it any better.