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.

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.