The ancient Sturgeon is being restored to Georgia waters. My own family lore is peppered with stories of these ancient fish. My father and grandfather were seasoned fisherman who, often alone, ventured into water where they encountered alligators, moccasins and monster fish. When I was a boy, my father decided it was time I accompanied him on his adventures. One took us to the black waters of the St. Mary’s River. Photo Georgia Department of Natural Resources.
We slept in the clothes we wore, camped in our old car alongside the river road. In the dim light of a sun that had not quite risen, and a slow, steady rain, we managed to build a fire, and fried bacon on a campfire and browned buttered white bread in an iron skillet to break the morning chill. Dawn’s first true light revealed we were under a Live Oak canopy of lowering branches covered in resurrection ferns, the trailing limbs draped in Spanish moss -the tableau was a scene from Dante’s inferno in my boy’s mind.
We gathered our bait and tackle and launched my grandfather’s old cypress bateau, heavy with chipped layers of green paint, and half filled with water as the rain came on. The rain became a deluge and the convulsed river swelled to the top of its banks as we untangled our rods and reels and stowed them on the boat. Dad was not to be dissuaded from challenging the waters. It was to be the last trip for the two of us while I was still a boy.
My father was determined to fish this place and pushed us off as he stepped precariously into the flat bottom of the boat. There was no motor and I struggled to keep the boat headed into the current with only a paddle.
Dad twisted and turned to angle his cast toward the bank. The lure, a pork rind hanging from a silver spoon, sank like a rock and disappeared, lost in the current. It was immediately hung up on a thing unseen and unyielding. There was no retrieving it. Still, there was a twinge of movement telegraphed through the line and dad said “There’s something on the hook.”
As Dad tugged and tried to figure out what was going on under the water, the current became too much for me. I must have let out a shout. The rod and reel clattered onto the bottom of the boat as Dad grabbed a paddle and joined my struggle to get back to where we had begun. Somewhere out there, something was still on the line.
A deer stood watching us with indifference as the boat ground onto the sandy bank. As we struggled to get out of the boat, Dad grabbed his rod and tossed it up on the bank.
Ignoring the rain and dark skies and forsaking the boat, we ignored the discarded rod and reel, glad to be safe on land, we prepared to fish from the bank with cane poles, stout nylon lines, minnow baits, heavy sinkers, and cork floats. Our focus turned to the river and we tossed out our lines.
Nearby, Dad’s old Shakespeare reel began to studder in the sand as it slid along the bank. Beneath the primeval waters whatever had seized his silver spoon, was moving slowly and relentlessly against the current at a depth that seemed to be on the very bottom of the dark waters.
Struggling to maneuver against its pull, Dad lost his balance and fell into the St. Mary’s River. It was as if his weight had doubled, or tripled, he later told me, as if he were too weighted down to resist the current. He grabbed the pole I was holding as the current swept him by and I managed to pull hard enough so that he arched back to the thin sandy beach and righted himself on the very spot he had dropped his rod and reel near the old bateau. Instinctively, Dad stepped on the rod to stop its slide back into the water, picked it up and began to reel. There was no fight, only leaden resistance on the part of the fish, as if he had hooked a discarded tire.
Dad hauled his catch onto the narrow sandbar and we stood starring down at something we had never seen except in old Field and Stream magazines, or imagined from the telling of my grandfather’s fish stories: a sturgeon.
Grandad had said they were once common and returned from the sea each year to lay their eggs on the sandy bottoms, above the falls on the Savannah, Altamaha, and Ogeechee Rivers. His own father shot and killed a seven-footer that had traveled up an underground current of the Savannah and appeared in a sinkhole that appeared to everyone’s surprise in the middle of town. My mother’s grandfather -a cotton mill worker and harness maker -had earned much need cash by fishing for them on the river near Augusta, harvesting their roe eggs that he sold to local hotels and restaurants as caviar.
With near reverence, Dad held the great fish for a moment in his hands, then tenderly removed the hook and let the great fish slide back into the river.
An understanding passed between us as I looked into Dad’s eyes. The sturgeon was a visitor from a lost world. We would be content with only telling the story of out encounter.
Joe,
I read this right when you posted it. Great story! A documentary film about the history, nature and environmental issues of the Georgia coastal plain and it’s rivers per our discussions, is a grand idea. A massive challenge to be sure. Reading your work about places like the St. Mary’s is thoroughly inspiring.
Loved this and I hope it is always out there!!!
Tillman,
It is always out there in our memory. I suppose that is why I write: to keep it alive in my mind and to hopefully inspire others to connect with their own memories of nature and loved ones. I appreciate your thoughtfulness in writing me. Feel free to share your own memories.
Joe
Enjoyed your account on the Saint Marys, Joeseph. I’ve never been fortunate enough to see a live sturgeon but I’m glad your father released the fish. My brother and I fished on the Saint Marys with our father and some aquaintances in my younger days. In years past, you weren’t allowed to tie up on the Florida side unless you had a Florida license. Once my brother and I were with one of the aforementioned men when the weather became very rough. He had a five horse motor and I didn’t think we were ever going to get back to camp as the lightning was flashing! It’s a beautiful river and used to have some fine bluegill and redbreast.
William,
I am always glad to hear from you as I think we share very similar recollections of growing up in rural Georgia. Dad and I did return to fish the St. Mary’s and did in fact catch some big red belly bream. It was only a day trip rather than a real fishing expedition and my mother and brother were along as well. Dad was much less inclined to engage in risky stuff when my mother was along. We were living in Brunswick at the time-you may recall my story about falling from the Jekyll Island Bridge as it was under construction. This also reminds me of the story I wrote earlier about Dad setting the ocean on fire when we were fishing for sheepsheads over oyster beds in Brunswick Sound. God I love and miss the coast!
Joe
Have you ever heard of an artist named Urz Graf? (swiss, 15th cent). He produced a woodcut of a giant sturgeon eating a person, if I’m not mistaken (may have been a giant catfish). These fantastic creatures evolved sometime between the very end of the triassic period and the early jurassic and haven’t really changed THAT much excepting thank heavens they are now smaller (by a lot) than some members of their species group were during that ages old period.
Hi Joe,
Thanks for reading. In Native American oral stories giant fish appear-similar to the winged serpents that decorated Mayan boats. There was apparently a huge fish in our fresh waters during early European exploration. Could this have been sturgeon? My great grandfather-as mentioned in the article- would camp beside the Savannah River for a days at a time and put his sturgeon catch on a stringer. Later, he would kill and cut them open for the roe which was then packed in ice and shipped to far away hotels and restaurants to be served as caviar. These fish could be huge on occasion and I discovered an account of an eight-foot sturgeon caught in the 1920’s in the Flint River.
Dad
A good one, Joe. Thanks!
George
George,
Thanks for reading. It’s a wonder I grew to adulthood!
Joe