A Living Rock

It was finally a nice May afternoon in Richmond. The temperature was in the upper 70’s, no clouds blocked the sun, humidity was at a bearable level, and a slight breeze blew from the southwest. It was about 1:45pm when I arrived on the scene at the top of the hill at the Mayo Bridge. I looked down the path to see two other fishermen on the opposite extreme ends of the bank; one fishing the water under the bridge, the other fishing the rapids of the Fall Line. My spot behind the big rock was vacant, so that’s where Casino and I headed.
Because of her fascination with watching the river, I decided Cas would be fine unleashed. I set her free and she took a seat right next to my feet to stare at the water. I then laid my smaller rod down out of our way and took my tackle bag off my shoulder; placing it on a tall rock closer to me should I need it in a hurry. I reached up to unhook the two-ounce diamond jig from the third guide on my surf rod in preparation for casting when I noticed something I’d only read about in fishing literature, and seen on youtube videos.
About 40 yards directly out from the big rock in front of me I saw the water churn. I adjusted my eyes to make sure I wasn’t just seeing the current strike a rock I’d never noticed before, or a tree limb washed downstream with one end stuck to the river’s floor and another end projecting up to the surface creating a riffle. The churning moved slightly up, then downriver, starting and stopping abruptly with intermittent large splashes. This was no inanimate rock, or branch. It was a striper, or several of them, it had to be. I took a few deep breaths and looked around to see if the other fishermen on either side of me had seen what I had. Nope. I opened my mouth to yell for them to look out in front of me, but I couldn’t speak. I was dumbfounded for a good few moments. I tried talking again, this time opting to share my exuberance with my dog.

“Cas, did you see that girl?!”
She looked up at me with a face that said, “Yeah idiot, what are you doing just standing there? Throw your damn lure out and get some!”
I took her advice and steadied my shaking casting arm and nervous index finger holding the line from my spinning rod, aimed slightly upriver from where the water boiled, twisted my torso 180 degrees away from the water, and uncoiled, launching my offering at whatever it was that frenzied in front of me. The cast landed too far left and just short of the mark. I reeled in fast and cast out again. Same spot.
“Focus Zach, FOCUS.” I told myself in nervous anticipation of landing my lure in the correct location, and uncertainty of what to do should I succeed in hooking something. I had spent many childhood days casting a rod just like this, with a lure just like the one I was currently using, up on the shores of Cape Cod, Plum Island, and Plymouth, Massachusetts, to no avail. I had no idea what it was like to catch a striped bass from the surf, or bank as it were. My luck had to change today.
I reared back again for another cast, holding everything more steady this time. As I turned my body from the bank to the river and released the line from my index finger I took a step forward, allowing more power into the rod which guided my two-ounce diamond jig like a piece of small artillery at high speed in a perfect arc. The arc ended slightly left and behind the still churning water with a small splash; a 9.5 had my diamond jig been in a diving competition.
I quickly reeled in the slack from my 50 yard cast so the line was taut. Not two seconds later, the line I’d just returned to my reel was heading back out into the water.

A Rocky Beginning

A couple of weeks had gone by since the infamous day of 53 as it had come to be known, at least in my mind. The shad were few and far between having now either traveled far upstream to lay their eggs, or having completed their spawning mission, were now on the way back downriver to the Chesapeake.
Small herring remained in the area and white perch began to show up in good number. Cormorants still hung around but not as thick as they had been when the normally brown water ran silver with shad. Above the river’s surface, blue heron and ospreys continued to feast heavily on wayward baitfish. But below, new predators stirred up the river during feeding frenzies, eating anything they could fit in their mouths.
There were new kings of the food chain in the James—striped bass, or striper, or rockfish depending on one’s latitudinal demarcation. According to several nameless locals and the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries, (VDGIF) striper follow the shad’s lead, weeks later, into tidal tributaries to spawn; feasting on their predecessors and really anything in the way. In the James River, the striper made the 80-or-so mile trip from the Chesapeake to the James’ Fall Line where they dispersed their progeny and chased herring and white perch with reckless abandon.
A rainy May 1, signified the official first day of striper season in Virginia. Schoolies, (small young striper) had began showing up here and there in the river weeks earlier, but the talk down at 14th Street centered on the anticipation of when the moms, dads, and grandparents would make their journey back to the River City. During the first two weeks of the season, only fish over 32” could be kept, officially deeming this the Trophy Season. The rain lasted a full week making fishing impossible for the most part since the James was at an early flood stage. Once the water had cleared and its level subsided enough to make fishing realistic, May 15th had already arrived. Though I wouldn’t mount a fish and keep it on my dresser with my old hockey awards, I decided I wouldn’t mind a trophy striper, so I set out to the Mayo Bridge at 14th Street with a new bag of tackle.
I kept one heavier freshwater rod with me just in case, while my med/light rod stayed on the bench. A sub entered the game in its place—standing at nine-feet tall and weighing at least seven ounces…coming out of a tackle shop in Sunset Beach, North Carolina, a medium action surf rod by Shaaaaaaaaakespeare! And the crowd goes wild. I’d purchased the rod 11 years ago, somehow still hung onto it. I figured this rod was my best bet for casting my late mother and step-father’s heavier Cape Cod striper gear across the river close to the James’ opposite bank. Rod in hand, gear strapped around my shoulder, and dog (Casino) on leash, I embarked on my first river-striper adventure.