Some Days Are Diamonds, Some Days Are Rocks

Casino had reclaimed her post to the right of me, again keenly staring at the moving water in front of her. I made sure she was clear of my feet before winding up my body for another catapulting cast into the frenzy going on across the James. This time I landed square onto my target like a perfectly punted football going end-first into the ground, or water as it were. My diamond jig had made no splash at all—just the cast I was hoping for as I figured this way, the lure would not spook the fish. I closed my bail and began reeling, anticipating a good game of tug-o-war to begin abruptly. When my invitation was turned down and I’d reeled my jig all the way back to shore, I grew confused. The rockfish were still splashing around so I hadn’t spooked them, plus they were obviously still hungry. What was wrong with that last presentation? The next cast flew as perfectly as the previous one; right on target, barely displacing the water’s surface. Nothing again.

I took a thirty-second timeout and pondered the situation, when out of nowhere a metaphorical Newtonesque apple fell on my head. I should change my presentation entirely, offering the converse of my previous two casts. I coiled up and let fly the jig once more. But this time before the missile found its target I abruptly closed the bail, jerking the lure into a position parallel with the water so it created an easily visible splash adding to the existing surface commotion. The slack had barely been reeled in when fish number two came on the scene. Again my right bicep flexed, pitting a new striped bass against my lackluster, but steady strength. As I brought the fish closer my dog’s ears stood erect as if she could hear my catch nearing her. Casino’s tail began to wag as she got up off her perch and walked eagerly, though yet again cautiously to see another specimen beached on the rocks. This one measured 21 inches and wasn’t quite as built as his predecessor. He’d offered a great fight nonetheless, and was rewarded by photographic recognition before being released.

Next cast, fish number three. Then four. I was having the striper fishing experience of my life. This day seemed to be nature’s way of making up for all the skunked days in New England as a kid.

The more disorder I could get my diamond jig to make, the better my chances of enticing a rock to bite it became. After several more casts fish number five emerged. Following said fish, my unfit arm needed a rest. I laid my rod down to Casino’s impatient dismay who looked at me as if to say:
“What’s your deal man? There are fish all around you. Stop crying and catch more. How often do you experience a day like this?”
I disregarded her questioning glance and continued with my break.

Having been so caught up in the frenzy, I’d failed to notice the two new fishermen on my immediate right, the furthest of which was my new friend Charles. He caught my wandering eyes and smiled while nodding his head.
“Looks like you’re into em’ today.” He stated.
“Man I’ve never had a day like this in my life!” I said.
“Keep after em’ man. They ain’t gonna be around here for too long.” Charles added.
“I will Charles, just need to rest the arm for a minute.” I retorted while rubbing my right upper arm with my left hand.
“That means it’s a good day.” Charles laughed as he threw another cast into the river, but not into the ongoing frenzy.

The other fisherman closest to me looked as if he was skipping work; a guy in his late thirties, wearing khakis and a tucked in shirt with some company’s logo on it, casting a medium/light rod not nearly far enough into the current to entice even an errant leftover shad.
“Hey man, why don’t you take a couple of casts with this?” I questioned, offering the stranger my rod.
“Eh. No, that’s alright.” He responded hesitantly.
“Seriously, I need a break just try it out. You’re not gonna get to where the fish are with that.” I said, motioning to his rod.
“Well…alright, if you’re sure.” He said.
“Yeah man really, go for it. I told him.
“My name’s Mark.” He said.

Turns out I was right; Mark was skipping work. After our introductions, I handed him the Shakespeare and gave up the ghost—showing him exactly where the fish were splashing the surface.
“Cast right into that frenzy, and make sure you close the bail right before the jig hits the water, believe me.” I instructed.

Mark followed my instructions without question and on his second cast was rewarded with a nice 22 incher that he horsed in, more so than enjoying the fight.
“Man that was great.” He said with subdued excitement. He seemed awkward using another fisherman’s equipment, though he had no reason to be.
“Get another one man. It’s fun isn’t it?” I asked.
“That’s the biggest fish I’ve caught in this river for sure. Yeah it was awesome, but here, take your rod back.” He told me.
“No way man. I already have five. Get some more.” I refuted.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”

Mark ended up catching three or four more inside of ten minutes. Each new fish brought Mark further out of his shell. After that last fish, he ended my break with a sincere thank you while handing my rod back. He stuck around for a little while to watch me fish, knowing for sure he couldn’t possibly catch anything with his rig. I caught several more in the 20 inch range before my largest, though not longest catch of the day arrived.

“That’s a big boy you got there!” Charles yelled to me. He’d kept an eye on my progress while he remained camped out on the right of us, content catching an occasional straggling 12-18 inch schoolie outside of the main current the big ones were hiding at. I nodded while focusing on the beast pulling my arm. I could tell this fish was different, but tried not to get myself too excited about it’s projected size before making visual confirmation. This striper was experienced in the art of war, knowing just when and how to align itself parallel to the current for maximum drag, as it swam away from the force pulling it.
“Man, that’s gotta be the nicest one yet.” Mark said, eagerly awaiting a glimpse of my catch.
“Yeah.” I grunted. “It’d be nice to see it before it has a chance to get off.”
I continued to nervously fight the fish; reeling meticulously when allowed to, permitting line to be taken back off the reel when ordered to. I don’t remember feeling any soreness in my arm this time; the adrenaline must have masked the fatigue.
“Almost. Got. Him.” I struggled to say before bringing the fish in close and shallow enough for a first look.

Charles' intrigue got the best of him. He decided to walk over for an official inspection. Mark traversed the path above and behind me to get his own view. Casino performed her now usual routine. I stopped reeling and walked backwards as the fish got closer to the rocks until it was properly landed.
“That is a beauty.” Charles slowly remarked in perfect simplicity, before retreating back to his spot.
I laughed and jumped eagerly over my excited, but still cautious dog to claim my prize. This bass, I believe my ninth of the day, measured 23 inches, and weighed six or seven pounds as far as I could tell. Mark offered to take a picture of it for me and I obliged. I was still not fathoming how amazing this day was; as seen in the goofy picture of me looking like a kid after catching his first fish. That may be the best thing about the sport; no problems in the world exist when you’re out there fishing. Catching just brings excitement to the serenity.

Before leaving to get back to work, Mark vowed to return in days following with his kids and a proper set-up. He thanked me again and walked up the path, back to the grind.

Charles and I kept at it for a little while longer. He eventually got into the frenzy and caught some nice ones--bigger than he’d been catching, before it died out.
“This was a great day man. The most successful striper day I have ever had.” I told him while packing up.
“How many did you get?” He asked.
“Altogether, fourteen.” I said, probably rather immodestly, not having to take a second to tally my total.
“Every now and again you’ll get a day like this.” Charles said. “Makes for some good stories.” He smiled his usual smile. We parted ways as we’d been accustomed to doing in the past few weeks of shad and striper season.

I went out to the Mayo Bridge at 14th Street once or twice more that last spring, catching one or two small leftover schoolies; they were still fun. I’ll always remember that day in May, those fourteen fish caught in two euphoric hours, the cut up fingers and thumbs I sustained from fishing line, lures, and the fish themselves. I wore that scotch tape with pride. As it’s now January, all I can think about are the future spring shad and striper seasons in Richmond; who I’ll meet, what I will or won’t catch. Let’s be serious, me not catch something? Happy New Year, new stories on the way.

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.

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.

A Gar-rulous Introduction

The following Monday came and went with little fanfare. I failed to make it out during the day like I’d hoped to, and B had a previous engagement after work, (quite possibly the threat of separation) so I traversed Richmond City from my home to the Mayo and fished alone. With four or five other fishermen present, I caught my routine dozen hickorys, no Americans this time. I stayed about twenty minutes past sun-down and got back to the parking lot just in time to catch a call from my wife telling me to “Come home now. You know 14th Street isn’t the safest place after dark.” I told her I’d read her mind, “I’m already in the car honey.”
I got home and reflected on the great fishing B and I’d been fortunate enough to experience in the past week. I was overjoyed to finally be catching what I’d set out to catch, in pretty good number too. I felt like an accomplished angler for the first time in a while, but complete shad nirvana eluded me. Trying my best not to look a gift shad in the mouth, I decided I just wasn’t completely satisfied. B held the record for most caught in one trip—twenty. The closest I’d gotten to that record was fourteen landed with about five getting off; the latter of course didn’t count.
In fact, we came to an agreement that a confirmed catch was defined as a fish that was brought to rest on the rocks, if only for a short while. If the creature broke free of the hook at this time, it was okay. Conversely, having never completely removed the fish from its element before losing it was considered a null catch.
B and I began to enjoy the shad unhooking themselves following catch confirmation due to their extreme pungent odor and the gifts of scales, blood, and often spawning fluid, they’d frequently discard on our clothes and persons when handled.
“Man I went home after my record night and Krista (wifey) thought I’d been digging through the garbage and cut myself. I smelled horrible and had so much shad [expletive] on me I had to take a shower.” B told me.
I didn’t feel as adamantly repulsed by the creature’s byproducts, as I’d always been happy to come home smelling like fish; the odor indicated a productive day on the water. Though contact with one shad was enough to smell like one-hundred, and I was getting tired of doing laundry after every outing, so the more fish that could unhook themselves and bounce back into the river, the better. The fewer dirty looks I received after getting home the better as well. “I know, I know. I’m changing,” became the standard response after walking through the door whether the looks were acknowledged or not.
My better (smelling) half and I share a sedan. The following day I decided to drive her to work so I could switch up my regular routine and fish in the morning. I now got a dirty look for my rods crowding her space as she entered the vehicle, and yet another when dropping her off to work all day while I fished.
“I love you honey.” She told me complete with smile showing no hint of sarcasm, before closing the passenger side door. I waved at her through the glass to provoke just a little more steam to emerge from her ears before she turned away in disgust. Giggling to myself, but knowing I’d eventually pay dearly for my smart-assery, I headed down to the Mayo hoping to achieve the highest level of shad wisdom.
After parking and making my way to the water from atop the hill on the walkway, I observed only two other fishermen on the river, both on the favorable left side of the bridge; one fishing for striped bass (stories to follow) at the Fall Line, the other fishing for shad between my rock marker and the bridge. I descended the path making a bee-line for the special spot next to the rock.
Cormorants floated on the surface in good number just outside of casting distance, sharing their fishing grounds with the three of us on the bank. Every few seconds several of the jet black birds would take turns diving, flying underwater now, disappearing from sight for up to a minute while furiously chasing small shad and herring underwater. The talented masters of sea and air emerged with fish flopping side to side clutched tightly in their curved beaks. The prey reflecting the bright sun off of their convulsing silver sides before being shaken parallel by their predator’s bill and swallowed whole, head first. Some birds got greedy, figuratively biting more than they could chew, reluctantly releasing their injured catch back to the water before returning for a smaller meal.
I set my rod equipped with the gold spoon to the side and unhooked an orange dart from a guide on the rod in my possession, arming it for the first cast. Jerk and reel, jerk and reel, nothing. Good. All my previous experiences with catching a fish on the first cast meant no fish would follow, no matter how long I stayed out. The curse of the first case would not apply today.
Of the following five casts, three produced magnificent acrobatic hickorys, one of which was in the two-pound range. It seemed I had picked the right time to come out. Could this be the day I’d become the record holder? I had to strike while the iron, or dart was hot. Ten more casts produced five more fish.
“The count’s up to eight.” I told myself.
Cast. Jerk, reel, jerk, reel, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz went my reel as line escaped. I panicked. Was this a striper? What’s going on? The man between me and the bridge heard my reel scream and noticed my rod doubled over. Being a courteous fisherman, I say him hastily reel in his cast to alleviate the possibility of entangling his line with whatever was at the end of mine.
“You got something nice on there huh?” He yelled.
“Yeah I think so man.” I nervously yelled back. “I don’t know what it is, but it hit pretty hard and took off pretty quickly.”
“Could be a big striper.” He shouted.
“Yeah I heard they were in here right now. Whatever it is I hope it doesn’t break my line before I at least get a glimpse of him.” I muttered while stumbling over rocks as I walked downstream towards the man, lead by the giant on the end of my line. I continued to hope he didn’t make a break for the bridge. “Sorry to get in your way like this.” I said, now right next to the fisherman.
“Don’t worry about me, just get that thing in.” The friendly stranger responded.
“I’m gonna try.” I squeezed out while keeping tension on my line as I finished my walk to a nice flat section where canoes and kayaks could put-in, about seventy-five yards from where I started, now dangerously close to the bridge.
Several minutes had passed with me gaining ground on the fish only to have my hard work lost just when I thought he’d given up, but continued making run after run out towards a channel leading under the bridge.
“He just doesn’t seem to want to be caught.” I said. The man just smiled. He didn’t hear me now that I was farther downstream from him and he was able to concentrate on fishing again. I get a bit chatty when I’m excited, and my talkative nature was not requited so much at the moment. As I had months before at the tackle store, I again took the hint.
Finally I thought I had him beat as I’d gotten the creature within ten feet of me, with just enough time to see his tail turn in my direction and scurry back off to deeper water. It wasn’t a striper. Having only seen a spotted tail like this in a Bass Pro Shops aquarium before, I wasn’t completely sure of my catch, but believed it to be a longnose gar. I’d witnessed the prehistoric looking monster stick his nose out of the water almost like a porpoise on several previous trips to the Mayo, so I knew he, or she was in here, but had never caught it or one like it in my life. I was excited to add a new species to my angling repertoire, as I wondered how its razor sharp rows of teeth in its elongated mouth hadn’t snapped my line. I must be a better fisherman that I’d thought.
After one final burst of energy, the fish succumbed to my ten-pound test line, medium action rod, and incredibly sore right arm, turning its head towards me and the shore, allowed me to beach it. Sure enough it was a gar, and the largest freshwater fish I’d ever caught—sort of caught.
My angling prowess was not quite as good as I’d presumed during the fight. The gar’s teeth never snapped my line because the fish never made an attempt to eat the shad dart I was jerking and reeling through the water. The fish was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught the dart right in the side, past the gill plate, above the right pectoral fin. I eased the small hook out of a particularly meaty area of gar and held it up as the friendly fisherman came over to view my catch, camera at the ready.
“Woo hoo! Look at this nasty thing.” I proudly said, probably smiling like an overgrown child on a sugar high.
“Man. That’s a healthy, mean lookin’ gar you got there. Can I get a picture of it?” He asked.
“Yeah man, that’d be great.” I told him. “I left my camera in the car. Can you get a few and maybe email them to me later?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure.” He said a bit hesitantly.
After measuring the fish against my rod for a future accurate follow-up measurement with a proper tool, (she would measure an even 38”) my catch and I posed for some pictures. Despite what I’d thought would be a fierce disposition due to its ferocious looking demeanor, the gar was very tame—photogenic if you will, it must have been female; because she was full of eggs of course. After some Kodak moments, I released her back to the wild where she swam slowly away back to the depths.
“Man that was awesome! Thanks for letting me get by…and taking the pictures.” I said. “I’m Zach by the way.”
“No problem man, it was fun to watch. I’ve never seen one of those things up close like that. I’m Charles.” He said.
“Charles, nice to meet you.” I said offering my hand for a shake.
“You too Zach.” Charles replied meeting my hand with his. “I’ll get your email before you or I leave today and send you those pictures.”
“Thanks man, that’d be great. I don’t think anyone would believe this catch without proper documentation.” I said, provoking a laugh from my new friend. “Back to the shad I guess right?” I half-stated, half-asked.
“Yeah I noticed you were on quite a streak before that gar.” Charles said. I acknowledged his statement with a nod and a modest smile.
“A buddy of mine caught twenty the other night. I came out to beat his record this morning. They seem pretty thick right now, hopefully I can do it.” I stated.
“Get after em’ while they’re here.” Charles said.
That’s what I intended to do as I made my way back to my spot where my other rod lay staking my claim. The day was off to an uncannily amazing start. It could only get better. Cast. Jerk, reel, jerk, reel.

Shadtastic fishing amidst the crowds

The weekend was now over. I was having dinner at my in-laws the following evening, so after work B set out for the bridge by himself. I received a call from him right after we’d sat down, but excused myself to answer the phone despite looking impolite—this was serious business.
“Hey man what’s up?” I asked.
“I got down here about ten minutes ago” he said anxiously.
“Yeah…” I interrupted, knowing from his tone of voice that something very important was going to follow.
“I went down the trail to the left this time because only a few people were there.”
“Yeah…” I once again interjected.
“It’s high tide and there’s this rock about ten feet off the bank that’s almost completely under water, so I decided to stand on the bank behind it to cast out and bring it in behind the eddy.” He said running out of breath. “I’ve caught four so far.” He added.
“What?!” I shouted, much too loud that I was overheard by my wife who was already irritated that I was putting my and B’s shad fishing saga ahead of dinner with our relatives.
“Yeah man it’s awesome!” He chuckled.
“Oh man. We had to come over for dinner tonight.” I sighed sarcastically more to myself than anyone else.
“Yeah, sorry man.” B said apathetically.
“What have you gotten them on?” I asked.
“I went out and bought some more of those orange darts, and got some spoons too. I’m using the dart that guy gave us the other night right now.” He replied.
“Man, nice.” I said.
“Yeah, there are actually about five of us out here catching them, but this spot I’m in is paying off the best.”
“Damn dinner!” I muttered, so as not to be heard this time.
“Oh yeah. Man I forgot, I actually had one jump a couple times way out from me, then when I’d gotten him about fifteen feet away he jumped right onto the rocks.” B said chuckling.
“What? From fifteen feet away?” I asked in complete fisherman disbelief.
“Yeah. Seriously. It was ridiculous. The guys around me said they’d never seen anything like it before. It was awesome.” Abruptly he added, “Alright, well, I’m gonna try to get some more. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Yeah, good luck man, let me know.” I said. I closed and pocketed my phone and headed back to the dinner table.
Not ten minutes later my pocket beeped sounding the receipt of a text message. B had sent me notice his count was up to nine. The grimace in my face was picked up by my wife who shot me a glance that told me to keep my mouth shut, enjoy dinner, and get over it. Twenty minutes later the count was up to fourteen. The final message of the night set the bar at twenty.
We could barely catch one shad the day before, now B had landed twenty at dusk in just over an hour. It seemed the evening hours might be the optimal time to go fishing from now on, so that’s what we did.
Usually after dinner, but in some cases not, (which we’d pay for) our wives became fishermen’s widows every evening for the next week or so. After he left work, B would come by and pick me up, parking right in the middle of the road with his hazard lights blinking for as long as it took me to load my pair of non-broken down, two-piece rods through the back passenger side door. His rod would already be sitting there on the back seat facing forward stretching all the way to the dashboard when my two made their way in to accompany. I'd previously readied mine for battle so as not to lose time when we arrived on the scene; one equipped with an eighth-ounce orange dart, the other with a gold spoon. His rod would have one or the other of the same lures tied on and attached to a middle guide. Rarely would we deviate from either of the two guaranteed weapons. We would frequent the same spot he fished by the big rock ten feet off the bank on the trail to the left just under the rapids of the Fall Line. The spoons would be for use earlier in the evening before the sun completed its decent upriver, with the darts coming into play at the onset of twilight. Occasionally the service of the orange dart was called into employment earlier than sundown, as the shad would begin to ignore the spoons, but for the most part protocol indicated spoons first, darts second.
It became normal for us each to tally a dozen fish in an evening; mostly hickory shad, but the errant, rare and larger American would make its way to the end of our lines now and again. The shad were certainly running thick, many of them allowing us the privilege of experiencing their fights. I hadn’t yet gotten one to jump fifteen feet away from me onto the rocks at my feet, but I’d been having a great time with them nonetheless.
That weekend brought a good deal of people to the banks of the James at the Mayo Bridge in search of the shad’s eggs, or roe, what we’d been told was quite a delicacy in these parts. The shad craze began to make more sense. It wasn’t simply the amazing fight the fish gave, it was the eggs they carried that made Richmonders and many others in the central Virginia and Tidewater areas covet the anadromous creatures. Not being a fan of caviar, I had no desire to eat any shad roe. Though I learned that if one was to partake, sautéing the egg sacks in garlic butter for a short time over low heat produced quite the treat. No thanks.
Buckets and buckets of female shad were filled by fishermen removing the animals from their spawning grounds to now be taken to angler’s homes where they’d have their stomachs carefully slit open, egg sacks removed, and carcasses discarded into the trash. The cycle of life I guess.
What I failed to comprehend was the need for an overwhelming majority of these particular fishermen to stand directly next to me or B, and cast right where we were casting for the same fish. With the great expanse of river surrounding us there was no need to crowd one another. Our frustration grew immensely from Saturday to Sunday when regardless of what time of day we were out, everyone else with a rod in Richmond seemed to be out as well. This was not a new concept as we’d seen fishermen en masse since B’s discovery of the area weeks before, though the concept of the discourteous angler was new and not welcomed. We decided that on weekends we’d leave the James and its shad alone, they had enough problems to deal with.
I was content fishing in the evenings, but not content with B having the record for most fish in an outing. It was time for me to take advantage of not being stranded behind a desk during the day and make my mark on the 09 shad season solo.