Fishing on Cherrystone Creek
In one of my many fishing trips along the eastern shore of Virginia I happened upon an unpretentious little place known as Cherrystone. I had been dropping my line here and there in the various tributaries of the Chesapeake Bay with indifferent success, and by the time Cherrystone was reached I was firmly convinced either there were no fish in that section or else that they resented the intrusion of a stranger's hook.
More from force of habit than from any hope of meeting with better luck, I inquired of the several worthy citizens of Cherrystone if there was any fishing thereabouts. From one and all came the encouraging assurance that I might go to the uttermost parts of the earth without finding more fish than were right there in Cherrystone Creek.
After making due allowance for the proportion of local pride, prejudice, and fish-story license in these statements, there still remained some faint prospect at last of reasonable indulgence in my favorite sport.
This hope was mainly inspired by a unique character, Jack Gimpers by name and Captain Jack by title, who derives considerable satisfaction from the knowledge -- which, by the way, he imparts to others, almost always without the slightest provocation -- that he has lived in Cherrystone all his life and has never been away from it much further than you could throw a stone. He is captain by common consent and not by profession or experience in matters nautical wide enough to warrant the title.
The "captain" greeted me cordially.
"Fishin', I guess, ain't you?" he inquired as soon as I told him I hailed from the North.
"Yes, Captain, I am down here for that purpose, but up to the present I have done a great deal of fishing but very little catching. Will I be likely to find any fish here?"
"Well, 'taint 'tall onlikely that you will find one or two. I've heard as how a few fish's been catched in the creek there, and maybe they's a few left yet. 'Twon't do no harm to try, anyway."
The way the captain smiled while he said all this led me to believe that Cherrystone Creek was a veritable paradise for the piscator. He then went on to relate some of the most liberal fish-stories on record.
The outcome of our talk was that Captain Jack agreed to take me out to the fishing-grounds on the flood tide next morning, "for a consideration."
The scene was a very picturesque one. Not far from our boat -- a nondescript affair -- was a sloop manned by a party of jovial fishermen, and here and there the creek was dotted with old-time canoes, from which negroes -- mostly gray-wooled, lazy fellows -- were fishing with crude tackle. The captain informed me that a majority of the negroes in that section "get their livin' out of the crick." They are to be found on the creek every day in the week save Sunday.
Their canoes amused me immensely. All that were seen were apparently relics of ante-bellum days. Thirty of forty years ago they were hewn out of solid, knotless logs, and probably belonged to some wealthy planter. Now they are battered and scarred and patched in places too many to count.
We cast our anchor close by one of these black anglers and his worn-out canoe.
"What luck?" the captain asked him.
"Trout bitin' right smawt dis mawnin', Cap'n."
The captain turned to me and, lowering his voice, said: "That nigger ain't done anything but fish for fifteen years. He's out here day after day, year in and year out. If he don't die in that canoe
of his, right on that spot where you see him now, I'll be mighty surprised."
"He mentions trout, Captain," said I; "trout in salt water?"
"Wal, that be his, and one of all our people's name for the fish you Easterners call the squetauge or weak-fish, and what be known about Cape Cod as the 'drummer,' 'silver fish,' and 'spotted boy.'"
"You seem to be pretty well posted," said I, hoping to gain more of this sort of ichthyological information.
"Wal, yes," replied the old man; "maybe I be. A young feller as come down here last summer seemed to know all about fishes, and I jest laid in a store out'n him. He told me, and that very nigger thar, that the trout we were a-catching in this yar crick had more names than the flicker woodpecker. Some calls it the 'spotted squetauge,' some the 'sea trout,' and others the 'silvery squetaugue.' About Buzzard's Bay he said it be known as 'yeller fin'; somewhere else as 'blue-fish;' he did say where it be called the 'gray trout,' 'sun trout' and 'shad trout,' the 'chick-wit,' 'squit,' 'succoteague' and 'squittee'; and I dunno how many more names he didn't say."
By this time we had reloaded our pipes and prepared several rounds of bait -- clam, small fish, crab, shrimp, etc. -- and dropped our lines.
Immediately there were one or two sharp nibbles at my hook. Giving my line a little jerk I reeled in a couple of "bony fish," the captain called them -- although I have known them as sculpins, "sea robins," and gurnards in different localities.
Renewing the bait, I cast my line again. A few more nibbles and then a bite that would have drawn a tyro's rod under water. I felt instinctively that I was dealing with something worth the catching. The fish evidently realized that it's appetite had gotten it into trouble of a very serious nature. But then, it resolved if it must die it would die game, and it did. The way that reel whistled for a few brief seconds was music to my ear.
I knew that too much haste on my part to land the prize would probably result in its escape, therefore I took my time and deferred to the fish's little eccentricities. I gave him all the line he seemed to want, and then pulling in with practiced care, the victim was finally coaxed into plain view and proved to be a fine "trout."
Captain Jack observed my smile of delight with complacency, and remarked in a manner that bore out his statement, that "that was nuthin'." The captain proved to be about right.
In the course of an hour I had caught several much larger "trout." I actually grew so tired of pulling in the smaller fish that it became a matter of trifling interest whether a captive was safely landed or not. Had we fished as the vulgar rodster does -- with more than one hook -- we could have easily taken two and three at a time.
The next morning we were at it again, and the fish proved as gamy as ever, and the wind still blew a light, refreshing breeze. Hence I was doubly fortunate, for the second day's catch was even larger, than that of the first.
This convinced me that here, at last, was the place I had been looking for, and promptly preparations for a long stay were made. It was an easy matter to get acquainted with the people of Cherrystone, since the population of that unique place is considerably less than sixty, and in view of the fact that hospitality is spelled with a big H, and is universal, it is a man's own fault if he does not rapidly make friends. Then there were the guests at the hotel to meet, and their stories of impossible catches to listen to with a respectful ear. Altogether there was plenty to do to amuse one's self between bites.
The third day came, and with it the planning for yet another expedition against the fish.
Just as I was about to start, a telegram from Chareton arrived, and upon opening it hastily, I saw it was dated Philadelphia, and summoned me there in all haste.
If Cherrystone were of sufficient dignity and importance to have a place on modern maps, it would be found an eighth of an inch about Cape Charles City, near the extreme end of the peninsula land of Virginia.
To be scrupulously accurate, Cherrystone lies directly on a wide and tortuous, though not a very long, stream which ebbs and flows under the name of Cherrystone Creek.