A Most Anticipated Season

In January my brother-in-law Henry gave me a book from his library entitled The Founding Fish by The New Yorker staff writer, John McPhee. This, during the winter months when I was not equipped with the proper gear nor testicular fortitude to brave the barely unfrozen waters around me to hoist the yak about the Honda to go fishing. Reading was safer and would heed little or no squabble from The Boss, lest I leave it on the island in the kitchen, bathroom sink, couch. The book had an illustration of an American shad on its cover—just enough of a motivator for me to begin reading.

The fever I caught just hearing about the sublimity of shad season last year before I’d even caught one, came back in force. Before the end of the first chapter, McPhee melted my brain with a recounting of an American he’d fought for over two hours. Regardless of the truthfulness of his account, my hands began to shake as my brain burned; a common symptom propagated by the anticipation of getting back onto the James in search of the poor man’s tarpon. In a daze I laid the book down, unaware that its placement was in an aforementioned prohibited location; for which I’d get an earful later while pleading shad delirium as my defense. I searched high and low in a medicine cabinet, pantry, nightstand, and utility closet for something to break the fever. Nothing. Contrary to what could be construed as good judgment, I operated heavy machinery…all the way to Bass Pro.

Just looking at shad darts, spoons, Tommy Torpedoes and clouser minnows cooled my nervous system. For additional treatment I managed coherent conversation for a bit with the same crew I became acquainted with last year, this time reminiscing about leaps from mighty hickorys and Americans, the fish that got off right at the shore where I stood, and the Infamous Day of 53. I began to feel much better after making some small purchases. Homeward bound with sound mind I went, only to repeat the process in the following weeks with the conclusion of every third chapter. I’m not a fast reader.

I blamed John McPhee for any damage done to our checking account over the next two months; enough so that the man be inclined to take cover if he ever meets The Boss. Two weeks ago, in the middle of March in an attempt to ward off the onset of another episode, I opted for homeopathic treatment. I put our battery powered turkey thermometer in my pocket and Casino in the Honda to make the once familiar trip down to the Mayo Bridge. With my temperature running high, I hoped to transfer some of it to the James, whose surface was reading a bleak 48. Two days later—53. Five days after that—57. And this time the cormorants were back, good news for sure. I had to tell someone the shad were on their way.


“You used the thermometer to do what?!” The Boss asked after I’d stupidly implicated myself in a culinary crime.

“I washed it.” Was all I could offer.

Eyes rolled.

It wouldn’t be long now.