Rainy Day Record Rock

I avoided my cell phone’s alarm from 4:30 this morning until my wife’s alarm clock joined the fight, forcing me out of bed at 5:00. She was off to the gym for some cardio while I chose a simpler workout focusing on strengthening my right arm. After taking a meteorological look out the window I loaded the pockets of my rain jacket with clippers, pliers, a mini tape measure, and a few extra soft baits and lures. With no available yaking companion, this adventure was to be a light and quick old school fishing trip at the banks of 14th Street.

Happy to see only one vehicle already parked at the Mayo Bridge’s lot, I walked out into the cool and damp Richmond morning, rod in hand, down the familiar path to the James’ fall line. I staked my claim just above the unmistakable rock landmark used for shad season, as the earlier bird had taken roost closer to the rapids several yards west.

“What’s up man?” I asked, having recognized the familiar face from last year’s striper run.

“Oh, hey! How you doin?” The face responded, recognizing me in turn.

Neither fisherman could remember the other’s name, but made friendly small talk while casting blind lines into the river against a slight north wind. A light blue and red reflection from the illuminated Bank of America building’s logo glowed on the river’s surface, providing the only source of light in the darkest minutes before the dawn.

A short time later the sun began making an effort to start the day, and my companion hooked into the first striper of the morning. When the brief fight came to an end the fish was held up against the gray sky. Its silhouette revealed an eighteen-and-a-half inch keeper.

“Nice fish man.” I said, happy to know the rockfish were in here.

“I’m halfway to getting out of here real quick.” The earliest bird responded, referencing the two fish limit.

While he was still busy attaching his catch to a stringer, I hooked up.

At first the fish didn’t offer much of a fight. He swam upriver masking any sort of size. Though my line was taught, I felt nothing more than a few minuscule head twitches. As the fish turned right heading north out of the current and away from me, I got a feeling he was bigger than initially thought. My reel had read my mind and verbally told me I was correct. The contraption buzzed as the striper opposite my end stripped line into the James. I composed myself and braced my feet against the rocks below me for maximum fighting stance efficiency.

Not really.

The surprise made me giddy, forcing me to fight not only the fish, but my desire to horse it in to see just how big it was. I reeled when I had the chance, getting as many as several feet of line back at a time between short runs. When the striper was within ten feet of me, its dorsal and tail fins broke the surface parallel to my position, allowing for a sneak peak. I liked what I saw. Even more important, I knew The Boss would like it more—especially with a nice parmesan-pecan crust. The behemoth again turned and made a final run north and east downriver. From my peripheral, I noticed another fisherman approaching me from the right.

“Looks like a nice one.” The newcomer said.

“I think so man.” I grunted, not altogether happy with the unexpected intrusion causing me to momentarily lose focus.

I regained my bearings and brought the fish in close enough to grab the line with my left hand while my right held the rod, guiding the rockfish onto a shallow rock in front of me.

“WOOHOO!” I yelled, reaching down and grasping the lower lip of my catch, then holding it up for the other two fishermen to see.

My former acquaintance showed little intrigue as my fish was much larger than his, while the latter, most recent offered a “Nice fish!” as he encroached on my location.

“Looks like a nice twenty-five incher.” He added.

I reached for the mini tape measure in my pocket to confirm. Wrong. TWENTY-SEVEN!

I caught and released three smaller fish before the rain set in and three additional late risers emerged on the scene. Happily, I picked up my keeper from the rocks where I’d laid him, walked back to the truck, and drove home.

With my personal record striper in one hand and rod in the other, I was greeted at the door by Casino and The Boss, who’d just returned from the gym. Both parties’ eyes grew large at the sight of our unexpected dinner guest.



Excellent start to the day.

A Swim in the James River

A kayak trip was planned upon the River James
On a beautiful April fifth morning,
Through none of the four acquaintances could a man find rightful blame
Save one for that day not heeding the high water’s forewarning


The Jahnman had toted a great deal of gear with him
In his crate three spinning rods and a five weight fly in stood tall,
Most of the options were for the shad; the chance for striper slim
Though with the possibility, he thought, “Why not bring all?”


This only being the Jahnman’s second trip upon the river,
His choice of anchor: a ten pound dumbbell
To which his fishing companions that day gave a shiver
And said, “That so-called anchor’s gonna give you hell.”


“I used it once already and it worked just fine.”
The boastful Jahnman decreed
“You worry about yours, let me worry about mine.”
He added, though there was no need


Our hero paddled out from Ancarrow’s
With a severe air of arrogance
He’d nary paddled past I-95 where the river narrows,
Though denied any possibility of danger saying simply, “There’s no chance.”


The four men fought the current’s force,
Paddled upstream a-ways before finally stopping
Past I-95, now there was truly no recourse
As on the river’s surface they heard the shad a-flopping


All of the fisherman had caught at least one fish
All except the impatient Jahnman that is,
Who paddled farther upstream with the wish
Of finding the ultimate shad hole to call his


Just past the railroad bridge we went
Before dropping his dumbbell into the abyss
His companions all eventually followed with energy all but spent
With the hopes of ensuing shad bliss


After a short time of catching nothing still
The Jahnman again grew irritated,
And decided to move away from the hill
Nearest the floodwall, deeming it now overrated


Downstream upon the James floated many a vessel
Filled with accountants, doctors and at least one banker,
Keen eyes began to watch the Jahnman wrestle
The ten pound dumbbell he called an anchor


Our champion heeded no Youtube advice on proper anchor readying
He began to pull the line swiftly through the water
His boat turned sideways to the current resulting in unsteadying
Though he pulled and pulled the line much tauter


The Jahnman fought the current all the way to the rope’s end
Where his dumbbell laid stuck just below his yak
He said to himself, “Just one more hefty pull will send,
This dumbbell out of its fixture and back.”


With not one fish yet caught the Jahnman’s yak was tossed
Unpreparedness had led to our poor hero’s demise
The real shock emerged upon realizing everything aboard was lost;
Embarrassingly witnessed by many, many eyes


Well not everything, as the Jahnman is still alive and so is his boat
For which to God, PFD and friend Darren’s tow, he is truly grateful
Heed this warning for those that feel the need to gloat:
The more cocky, tragically, always the more fateful.