Authors: John McPhee
The Founding Fish (2 page)
No piece of tackle is more effective for a fisherman than his own daily data: weather, water temperature, water volume, lure, line weight, line density, and many an etcetera. Just the act of recording such things imprints them in cumulative memory, and you move forward learning where to be and what to do when. Grucela's sense of the run and the river is so refined in this respect that he envisions in his season a single apex day. Not that he wouldn't go out on the Ides of March or give it a try on the Fourth of July. At the latitude of Martins Creek, though, if his season were somehow restricted to just one day the day would be the twenty-fourth of April. Year upon year, it has been his best day. In the off season, just thinking of April 24th will cause him to smile like a winning coach, and say, “When you're fishing, nothing beats catching fish.”
On the twenty-fourth of April, above Easton, the roes are in the riverâApril 24th and a week or two on either side. “The roe
run comes in two partsâthe early roe run and the late roe run. Then you get a late buck runâreal small and too young, precocious bucks.” Shad are not always swimming near the bottom of the water column, as some shad fishermen inflexibly believe. Grucela starts low, then removes weight incrementally until he finds the level of the fish. All that notwithstanding, he will state summarily, “The secret of shad fishing is depth.” And he adds, “That's why they kill them with downriggers.” Grucela spurns downriggersâdevices that pinch your line far below your hull and keep the dart at depth. He prefers to do the fishing himself. “I just throw my dart and let it rattle in the current.”
run comes in two partsâthe early roe run and the late roe run. Then you get a late buck runâreal small and too young, precocious bucks.” Shad are not always swimming near the bottom of the water column, as some shad fishermen inflexibly believe. Grucela starts low, then removes weight incrementally until he finds the level of the fish. All that notwithstanding, he will state summarily, “The secret of shad fishing is depth.” And he adds, “That's why they kill them with downriggers.” Grucela spurns downriggersâdevices that pinch your line far below your hull and keep the dart at depth. He prefers to do the fishing himself. “I just throw my dart and let it rattle in the current.”
He uses two rods, a dart on one line, a flutter spoon on the otherâno droppers, no doubling up (two lures on one line). A flutter spoon has the slim shape of the leaf of a white willow. He pays it out behind his boat and leaves it in the water, fluttering. The dart he casts repeatedly, retrieving it after its swing through the current. A machinist custom-made his dart mold. If Buddy Grucela were a golfer, he would not be attracted to an iridium driver. His gear is conventional, starting with six-pound line. He keeps a small split shot within twelve inches of the dart, so minor debris will collect on the shot and not on the hook. When the river is full of aments, also known as catkins (flower clusters of willow, birch, or alder), the split shot catches the catkins.
Record American shad have been caught in the Delaware River (eleven pounds, one ounce) and the Connecticut River (eleven pounds, four ounces). Buddy Grucela is certain that he had one heavier than that. After the dart stopped in mid-swing, and the moment of stasis was over, this fish, close to the surface, went straight up the river. Grucela watched it go, wondering what would happen next. This happened next: “He swam right by me like a shark. He was going upstream and he saw me. He looked me in the eye. Then he came right at the boat like a torpedo. He's coming right at me, and I'm reeling fast. He went under the boat,
right under me. He bent the rod tip under the boat. He broke the rod off. All I had in my hand was the reel and the handle. That fishâI'm telling youâwas a record shad.” It was also, beyond doubt, a female. Shad fishermen can't seem to help virilizing gender when they tell stories about big, powerful animals.
right under me. He bent the rod tip under the boat. He broke the rod off. All I had in my hand was the reel and the handle. That fishâI'm telling youâwas a record shad.” It was also, beyond doubt, a female. Shad fishermen can't seem to help virilizing gender when they tell stories about big, powerful animals.
Grucela owns a piece of undeveloped, parklike riverfront land, tight between the water and Pennsylvania 611. Under a red granite tombstone there is Redgie, his Doberman of fifteen years. Redgie died watching television with Buddy Grucela. Toward the end of shad season, a bright-red tulip blooms beside the headstone, on which are carved two fish, one bearing the date of Redgie's birth and the other the date of his death. Etched above the fish is a dog bone bearing Redgie's name. In the Redgie years, after Grucela hooked a shad, Redgie watched the action until the fish was beginning to lie on its side. Then Redgie went after it. He went into the river like a bird dog and retrieved Grucela's shad. One day, a carp pulled Redgie under.
G
radually, I got some of my line back that evening by the bridge pier in Lambertville, but only to watch it go out again. After twenty minutes, I had not moved the fish two feet upcurrent. It didn't come out of the water. It didn't even come up in the water. It acted like a shad. It went to the right. It went to the left. It lingered in reaches broadside to the current. The fish was so strong it just would not come toward me, and it felt very heavy. I was using one of my Daiwa SS 700 lightweight reels, with no backing. They don't carry much line. I was using six-pound test. Now thirty minutes had passed. The fish went downriver in another long run against the drag. Ed Cervone's pebbly chatter was turning quizzical, his mind an open pamphlet. He was thinking, What is the problem hereâthe fish or the fisherman? Edmund Cervone, behind me, said nothing. Edmund was an instinctive, natural, absolute
river fisherman. On various outings, fish had come to his line while avoiding his father's and mine. You learned things from Edmund. You learned, for example, that small darts catch shad. The smaller the dart the more shad. Edmund was a college student, however, and could not afford much time on the river. His father and I, being teachers, were not similarly burdened. Many a day we had sat in the boat catching nothing but each other's words, and pondering the psyche of the planet's largest herring. We were sharing the river with half a million shad, whose interest in us was inverse to our interest in them.
radually, I got some of my line back that evening by the bridge pier in Lambertville, but only to watch it go out again. After twenty minutes, I had not moved the fish two feet upcurrent. It didn't come out of the water. It didn't even come up in the water. It acted like a shad. It went to the right. It went to the left. It lingered in reaches broadside to the current. The fish was so strong it just would not come toward me, and it felt very heavy. I was using one of my Daiwa SS 700 lightweight reels, with no backing. They don't carry much line. I was using six-pound test. Now thirty minutes had passed. The fish went downriver in another long run against the drag. Ed Cervone's pebbly chatter was turning quizzical, his mind an open pamphlet. He was thinking, What is the problem hereâthe fish or the fisherman? Edmund Cervone, behind me, said nothing. Edmund was an instinctive, natural, absolute
river fisherman. On various outings, fish had come to his line while avoiding his father's and mine. You learned things from Edmund. You learned, for example, that small darts catch shad. The smaller the dart the more shad. Edmund was a college student, however, and could not afford much time on the river. His father and I, being teachers, were not similarly burdened. Many a day we had sat in the boat catching nothing but each other's words, and pondering the psyche of the planet's largest herring. We were sharing the river with half a million shad, whose interest in us was inverse to our interest in them.
Ed Cervone is the sort of person who, when he is fishing, might as well be chained among the shadows in a cave. No nuance of depth or color is too subtle to prevent his frequent adjustments of style. Chartreuse? Orange and black? Red and white? Gold? Low? Medium? High? He changes his dart, returns it to the water, and speaks: “In a field that is filled with ignorance, everyone is an expert.” In the education of secondary-school students with dyslexia and many other learning disadvantages, Ed is a highly reputed practitioner of a variety of effective techniques, many of which he devised. He is a pioneer in his field. But not in this one. His doctorate may be in psychology, but these ocean fish are too much for him. Groping for reason, he essays, “What they do today they will not do tomorrow.” For that one, I'd give him credit for a ton of insight. “You and I know as much as they do,” he offers. “Or as little.” Among other things, the fish are apparently aware of what Ed is thinking: “I was fishing two days ago. People covered themselves with shadâexcept for me. I can't get desperate because it is transmitted through the line into the water and the fish know it.”
You can learn a lot about shad just from their appearance. Their bodies predict what they can do. Nowhere is this as emphatic as in the deeply forked tailâthe caudal finâwhich is tall, and, as seen from the side, narrow. It is not as tall, narrow, and
deeply forked as a tuna's tail, but it's getting there. It has the high aspect ratio (span versus width) associated with extreme high speed. The dorsal fin, like a sail rising up from the shad's back, is centeredâmidway from nose to tail. Dorsal fins in various fishes can be forward, or aft, or anywhere along the back. The centered ones speak of an ability to swim steadily, sustaining high speed. The range of the American shad is from northern Florida to the Labrador Sea, and within the range a typical individual will swim two thousand miles in a year. They return to their home rivers after four or five years. One look at that forked tail and you know that the fish is active in the middle of the water column and not sitting around on the bottom like a bullhead catfish, whose tail is so rounded it looks like a coin. A trout has a rounded tail as well, and, as a swimmer, is one notch up from a catfish.
deeply forked as a tuna's tail, but it's getting there. It has the high aspect ratio (span versus width) associated with extreme high speed. The dorsal fin, like a sail rising up from the shad's back, is centeredâmidway from nose to tail. Dorsal fins in various fishes can be forward, or aft, or anywhere along the back. The centered ones speak of an ability to swim steadily, sustaining high speed. The range of the American shad is from northern Florida to the Labrador Sea, and within the range a typical individual will swim two thousand miles in a year. They return to their home rivers after four or five years. One look at that forked tail and you know that the fish is active in the middle of the water column and not sitting around on the bottom like a bullhead catfish, whose tail is so rounded it looks like a coin. A trout has a rounded tail as well, and, as a swimmer, is one notch up from a catfish.
I am indebted for these descriptions primarily to Willy Bemis, an anatomist of fishes, who is a professor of ichthyology at the University of Massachusetts.
A shad in clear water, seen from above, is very dark greenishblue, with an almost metallic lustre. Its flashing sides are silver, its belly white. The body is deep, meaning that in outline it more closely resembles a zeppelin than a snake. The body is laterally compressed, meaning that in cross-section it is not fat. The largest shad I've ever caught weighed a little over six pounds and was two feet long, a not uncommon size. The scales are deciduous, diaphanous, and the size of dimes. In their treelike rings and other markings a practiced eye can discern the age of the fish and whether it has spawned before. Chemical analysis of a scale will revealâamong other thingsâwhat river the fish was born in. A deciduous scale is loose and comes off easily. A fish with the mobility and flank speed of a shad needs a loose-fitting scale in order not to be constrained. The fins, taken altogether, are like the stabilizing feathers of an arrow. The spines of the pectoral fins are right-angled levers. The pectoral fins are steering mechanisms,
anti-roll devices, and brakes; and when they are not in use they are faired into the body, like retractable landing gear. A shad is supremely streamlinedâa concept that came into hydrodynamics in the nineteenth century and was also known as “fish-body form.” Under broad, shieldlike, adipose eyelids, the eyeballs are faired into the head. You can predict from a shad's large eyes the effects on its behavior of vision and light.
anti-roll devices, and brakes; and when they are not in use they are faired into the body, like retractable landing gear. A shad is supremely streamlinedâa concept that came into hydrodynamics in the nineteenth century and was also known as “fish-body form.” Under broad, shieldlike, adipose eyelids, the eyeballs are faired into the head. You can predict from a shad's large eyes the effects on its behavior of vision and light.
W
hen the fish had been on my line forty minutes, dusk had begun to gather. Forty minutes was twice as long as any shad had been on my line anywhere before. The bridge above, with its open-grate steel roadway, was humming with tiresâcars in rhythm like breaking surf. On the bridge walkway were prams, strollers, couples on their way to dinner. In the festival ambience of New Hope and Lambertville, babies never sleep. People stopped to lean over and watch. They shouted encouragement. They hung around to see the fish. No fish. Just a taut line, a rod tip high, an occasional plunge or lateral dash, a stripping run downriver. This was a scene from the nineteenth century below the old green bridge over the wide river between the two steepled towns, with narrow streets among riverine houses. Downriver past rapids was a stone towerâBowman's Towerârising from the top of a hill. And just above the bridge, off Lewis Island, Lambertville, a crew rowing a small boat was hauling a nine-hundred-foot seine in a great circle in the river, makingâas the Lewis family has since 1888âa commercial catch of shad. I had essentially no time to look around, however. Past my rod and line, I was getting an increasingly concentrated, Warholian look at a small swatch of New Hopeâsightseeing pontoon boats shutting down for the night, the many-windowed wall of the Club Zadar, the mansard roof and high-rising fly of the Bucks County Playhouse. Other shad boats were weighing anchor and departing. The boat next to us was
about to leave, but its three occupants changed their minds and decided to stay and watch. More people collected on the bridge above. Because I'd been dealing with this fish for three-quarters of an hour, Ed Cervoneânot for the first timeâreferred to me as “the Old Man” and to the river as “the Sea.” He would be saying that again, and again, as the sky turned a deeper gray, and then black.
hen the fish had been on my line forty minutes, dusk had begun to gather. Forty minutes was twice as long as any shad had been on my line anywhere before. The bridge above, with its open-grate steel roadway, was humming with tiresâcars in rhythm like breaking surf. On the bridge walkway were prams, strollers, couples on their way to dinner. In the festival ambience of New Hope and Lambertville, babies never sleep. People stopped to lean over and watch. They shouted encouragement. They hung around to see the fish. No fish. Just a taut line, a rod tip high, an occasional plunge or lateral dash, a stripping run downriver. This was a scene from the nineteenth century below the old green bridge over the wide river between the two steepled towns, with narrow streets among riverine houses. Downriver past rapids was a stone towerâBowman's Towerârising from the top of a hill. And just above the bridge, off Lewis Island, Lambertville, a crew rowing a small boat was hauling a nine-hundred-foot seine in a great circle in the river, makingâas the Lewis family has since 1888âa commercial catch of shad. I had essentially no time to look around, however. Past my rod and line, I was getting an increasingly concentrated, Warholian look at a small swatch of New Hopeâsightseeing pontoon boats shutting down for the night, the many-windowed wall of the Club Zadar, the mansard roof and high-rising fly of the Bucks County Playhouse. Other shad boats were weighing anchor and departing. The boat next to us was
about to leave, but its three occupants changed their minds and decided to stay and watch. More people collected on the bridge above. Because I'd been dealing with this fish for three-quarters of an hour, Ed Cervoneânot for the first timeâreferred to me as “the Old Man” and to the river as “the Sea.” He would be saying that again, and again, as the sky turned a deeper gray, and then black.
It's a bad idea to horse a shad. That is, if you become impatient or for any other reason try to shorten the story by muscling the fish into submission, you'll almost surely lose the fish. In the words of Buddy Grucela, “Shad have paper-thin mouths and under no circumstances will they allow themselves to be railroaded.” The maxillary and premaxillary bones, which constitute a large percentage of that big open mouth, run down its sides like a drooping dihedral mustache, and are very hard at the leading edge. A hook often wraps around that leading edge, penetrating the insubstantial membrane that lies behind. The hook is like a coat hanger swinging from a bar. The longer the shad is on the line, the greater the opening the hook will make in that thin membrane. Suddenly, the fish is gone. A fisherman doing everything right loses many shad. It's a basic component of shad fishing. Not all shad are hooked in just that way, but most seem to be, and when they are nettedâor the tension on the line otherwise dropsâthere's usually no need to detach the shad dart; it just falls out of the mouth. The lower extremities of the premaxillary bones widen out like strips of durable plastic. If the hook lodges there, your chances of netting the fish are considerably larger. Of course, while the fish is in the water you've got no idea where the hook is and your only rational strategy is finesse.
More time went by. I'd had the fish on the line for an hour, and then an hour and a half. The guys in the boat next to usânow the only other boatâfinally pulled anchor and left, mentioning
something about their wives. There were people on the bridge who had been watching earlier, and had gone off to dinner, and now had come back from dinner and were watching again. One of them shouted, “Are you still catching that same fish?” I nodded without looking up. In the darkness, I was staring instead at the black vertical rod against the disco lights of Club Zadar, which had grown ever brighter with the fall of night and were flashing colors on the river. While the fish moved and sounded, and came up a little, and then sounded again, it almost hypnotized me as I concentrated on the swaying rod against the whirling colors. Gingerly, I worked it to the left and the right, trying to move its head to one side and then to the other side, to confuse it, and try to get in charge of it psychologically. But I'll tell you, I never got in charge of that fish psychologically. At nine-thirty, completing two hours on the other end of the line, it made the reel scream as it took off downriver like a tarpon.
something about their wives. There were people on the bridge who had been watching earlier, and had gone off to dinner, and now had come back from dinner and were watching again. One of them shouted, “Are you still catching that same fish?” I nodded without looking up. In the darkness, I was staring instead at the black vertical rod against the disco lights of Club Zadar, which had grown ever brighter with the fall of night and were flashing colors on the river. While the fish moved and sounded, and came up a little, and then sounded again, it almost hypnotized me as I concentrated on the swaying rod against the whirling colors. Gingerly, I worked it to the left and the right, trying to move its head to one side and then to the other side, to confuse it, and try to get in charge of it psychologically. But I'll tell you, I never got in charge of that fish psychologically. At nine-thirty, completing two hours on the other end of the line, it made the reel scream as it took off downriver like a tarpon.
Tarpon? Well, hardly. But the Delaware is a river of prodigious fisheries, and for the past hour we had been doubting, speculating, wondering. What species could this fish be? It had been on the line more than five times as long any of us had ever required to bring in a shad. We now decided that it was not a shad. It felt like a shad in strong current, but the passage of so much time made us think elsewhere. The Delaware is the premier wild-rainbow-trout river in the eastern half of the United States. Ed Cervone and I had watched a shad fisherman catching a rainbow only ten miles north. The big native rainbows, though, were two hundred miles up the river. Besides, no rainbow could ever qualify to be this fish. Once, after I threw a shad dart into the current far upriver, the dart swung into a fish that felt like a shad with a bad cold. It moved around like a shad, but it just felt, by comparison, weak. It turned out to be a fat native wild rainbow, a beautiful fish, not much under two pounds.
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