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.

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.

Aquatic 4x4

I have spent the shad offseason exploring new fishing opportunities in my portable rock; to coin John McPhee.

Summer 2009—I had been vying for the purchase of a fishing kayak for the past few months, amazingly to no avail. My friend Brendan had posited the idea in my head, an act for which he was promptly thrown under the bus when my appeal’s origination was brought under scrutiny by the boss, Jamie. The initial request had been significantly lessened from a Boston Whaler to a Carolina Skiff, to anything center console, before finally accepting defeat with the realization that something motorized was officially out of the question. A self-propelled craft would have to do. By the fall, my wife woefully agreed that before completing the round trip from Blacksburg following a Tech football game, we should finally bring to Richmond her Old Towne canoe. For the previous five-or-so years the green Discovery 178, abandoned by its rightful owners following their move east, laid on its gunwales in a gravel garden at Bj Lafon’s mother’s house on Brush Mountain. Other than the less than a handful of day trips when being borrowed from one local friend or another, the once majestic ship had spent most of its sad days collecting sun rays, storm runoff, cobwebs, and a transient mouse’s nest. After half a decade my conscience couldn’t take it any longer. The canoe deserved better. I deserved a boat. Not being terribly thrilled about transporting it on top of the family sedan for 220 miles, or the limited storage options back at the urban ranch, Jamie finally gave in after being promised the incessant I want a boat banter would cease following my reunification with the vessel; the canoe being much better than nothing. Positioned atop the Accord’s roof—sitting on special Yakima pads designed for such conveyance, then secured with borrowed ratchet straps, the four of us (dog Casino included) went home. Peaches and Herb played softly in the background.

But don’t go getting all misty-eyed. Thanks to craigslist and a fishing kayak owning family man in Virginia Beach, the moment was fleeting.

Long winded story abbreviated:

About a week later I found a posting on aforementioned site, stating the owner of a sit-on-top fishing kayak was willing to sell his boat or trade it for a canoe (preferably an Old Towne) in good condition. The boss o.k.’d the transaction. Following a round of emails complete with detailed pictures of each respective craft, a verbal agreement of barter was made. That same day, the Discovery 178 found its way back on top of the Honda sedan en route this time to greener pastures, or waters as it were. Now in my possession: a beautiful yellow Ocean Kayak Prowler 13. Best trade ever.

I have since taken my portable rock to a friend’s private pond for some crappie and largemouth, Swift Creek Reservoir for a nice paddle but no fish, Rudee Inlet for the same, and twice to the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel for some delicious striped bass. Next is the mighty James for the shad revival.

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.