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.

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 Living Rock

It was finally a nice May afternoon in Richmond. The temperature was in the upper 70’s, no clouds blocked the sun, humidity was at a bearable level, and a slight breeze blew from the southwest. It was about 1:45pm when I arrived on the scene at the top of the hill at the Mayo Bridge. I looked down the path to see two other fishermen on the opposite extreme ends of the bank; one fishing the water under the bridge, the other fishing the rapids of the Fall Line. My spot behind the big rock was vacant, so that’s where Casino and I headed.
Because of her fascination with watching the river, I decided Cas would be fine unleashed. I set her free and she took a seat right next to my feet to stare at the water. I then laid my smaller rod down out of our way and took my tackle bag off my shoulder; placing it on a tall rock closer to me should I need it in a hurry. I reached up to unhook the two-ounce diamond jig from the third guide on my surf rod in preparation for casting when I noticed something I’d only read about in fishing literature, and seen on youtube videos.
About 40 yards directly out from the big rock in front of me I saw the water churn. I adjusted my eyes to make sure I wasn’t just seeing the current strike a rock I’d never noticed before, or a tree limb washed downstream with one end stuck to the river’s floor and another end projecting up to the surface creating a riffle. The churning moved slightly up, then downriver, starting and stopping abruptly with intermittent large splashes. This was no inanimate rock, or branch. It was a striper, or several of them, it had to be. I took a few deep breaths and looked around to see if the other fishermen on either side of me had seen what I had. Nope. I opened my mouth to yell for them to look out in front of me, but I couldn’t speak. I was dumbfounded for a good few moments. I tried talking again, this time opting to share my exuberance with my dog.

“Cas, did you see that girl?!”
She looked up at me with a face that said, “Yeah idiot, what are you doing just standing there? Throw your damn lure out and get some!”
I took her advice and steadied my shaking casting arm and nervous index finger holding the line from my spinning rod, aimed slightly upriver from where the water boiled, twisted my torso 180 degrees away from the water, and uncoiled, launching my offering at whatever it was that frenzied in front of me. The cast landed too far left and just short of the mark. I reeled in fast and cast out again. Same spot.
“Focus Zach, FOCUS.” I told myself in nervous anticipation of landing my lure in the correct location, and uncertainty of what to do should I succeed in hooking something. I had spent many childhood days casting a rod just like this, with a lure just like the one I was currently using, up on the shores of Cape Cod, Plum Island, and Plymouth, Massachusetts, to no avail. I had no idea what it was like to catch a striped bass from the surf, or bank as it were. My luck had to change today.
I reared back again for another cast, holding everything more steady this time. As I turned my body from the bank to the river and released the line from my index finger I took a step forward, allowing more power into the rod which guided my two-ounce diamond jig like a piece of small artillery at high speed in a perfect arc. The arc ended slightly left and behind the still churning water with a small splash; a 9.5 had my diamond jig been in a diving competition.
I quickly reeled in the slack from my 50 yard cast so the line was taut. Not two seconds later, the line I’d just returned to my reel was heading back out into the water.

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.