I hit it Friday, I hit it Saturday, and it hit back Sunday, but we were able to piece together one able bodied angler from the pieces that weren’t swollen or stove-up.

“Jim” was an off duty San Francisco police officer that made the mistake of parking next to me in the pre-dawn gloom. He saw me donning my Neoprene Girdle and figured me for a friendly.

He’d never fished for Shad and said as much – and that’s all us neo-old timers need, some innocent angler not yet able to sort truth from fiction, where we can tell them tired war stories again with twice the embellishments.

I figured I owed large; the SFPD had been chasing me unsuccessfully most of my youth, and it was time I paid back.

He had bum knees and I had no right wrist, so it’s a couple of walking wounded leaning heavily on wading staffs for propulsion. The water’s natural buoyancy would alleviate his frailties, and I was hoping adrenaline would overshadow mine.

The postman had delivered a new Type VI Scientific Anglers shooting head for my seven weight, and I gratefully left the eight weight at home figuring the lighter rod would buy me an extra hour before wrist rigidity vanished and I buried something terribly sharp into terribly sensitive.

I wasn’t far wrong – breeze helped, as did the 20 turns of lead wire I’d added to the bead chain monstrosity. It had the aerodynamics of the venerable F-105 Thunderchief, nicknamed “Thud” for good reason.

Fishing was slow and much colder – with the morning marine layer persisting until 9 AM – driving a cold wind down the river. I’d managed to hook up with a half dozen fish but most came unbuttoned quickly.

Apparently my new pal had taken a plunge when his knee buckled, and as I turn around I spy him wringing clothing in the lee of a bush. He gives me the all clear and I’m waving acknowledgment about the same time hell busts loose.

I’m caught ill prepared, left hand in mid-air with three coils of running line, right hand on the rod. I’m shedding coils so I don’t sever any fingers, and swap the rod to the left in time to get a burst of bruised knuckles on the right hand. I’m in blue water so the hand goes to the mouth muffling my curses to a child’s mewling.

I can count at least nine fingers with the tip of my tongue so the wound ain’t fatal …

I’ve got one of those oversized hens on the other end, and while most of the fish are similar size and weight, every so often you hit a fish that’s noticeably larger than the rest.

… and owns the same paper thin jaw of its smaller cousin.

I recovered the bulk of the backing and monofilament and endured the three or four gallons of ice water the fish slopped over the wader top, managing to snap a single picture before she was released, which you can contrast with the standard hen fish below.

You can see from the above the fingertips visible in the bottom of the frame. Contrasted with “Fatty” – a much larger specimen:

It’s one of the unique elements to shad, the occasional genetic superfish. The California state record is 7lbs 5 ounces – which is an obscene amount of dynamite packed in such a small frame, and compared to the 11 pound records of the East Coast – is still small.

Note my reluctance to remove the fish from the water. It’s not a sudden “artsy” flavor to my out-of-focus photography; American Shad are shaped like Pumpkinseeds and have two rows of sharp scales running down their belly. There’s no “give” to the fish, they’ll fight to the death in the net or in the hands – and those sharp scales can remove meat if they rake you right. Typically, you run your hand down the leader and unhook them without mauling them – or you.

This fish may have been 4-4.5 pounds – and on my suddenly fragile seven weight – was worth all the aches and pains suffered.

I sure hope I don’t have much handshaking to do tomorrow… I despise the flaccid grip, which is all I’ll be able to muster.