I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from the Old Girl – but with visiting dignitaries from the Greater Bay Area, I was hoping she wouldn’t simply disgorge undergarments and turn the evening into a lingerie-fest.

Being known as a Brownliner has its downside, typically it’s in the middle of the Pristine speech, where you’re recounting all the bright spots in neighboring flora and fauna, water clarity, leashed pets, and tidy beaches – and then a corpse floats past…

That’s when the Bronx Cheer and catcalls start, intermingled with, ” you drug us all the way up here to fish in …”

But the mighty Underwear River was on good behavior, and we only snagged three gym socks – which gave a good account of themselves before being flung in the general direction of the beach.

I hosted Brothers Eberle; SMJ – who recently confessed to being the elder, so I’m only talking to him via the comments section – and younger sibling Jeff – whom I falsely accused of fly stealing, pilfering, and worse.

…  and while I’m busy extolling the virtues of clean living and cleaner water, I bury a “carrot” fly just behind the dorsal of a Sacramento Sucker – a decently large specimen whom I’m now obligated to tow sideways up the river – while he does his best to do likewise with me.

It must’ve been the Kashi Bar chilling in the vest pocket – it’s a chum line into the heart of anything with an inferior mouth, like Tarzan yelling “Kree-gah” and the forest erupting with a herd of Pachyderms willing to stomp grass huts and wide eyed tribesmen alike..

SMJ had never been “kissed” by a Shad, and heretofore the Underwear hadn’t seen fit to show him anything but the cold shoulder. As luck would have it – careful scouring of the river bottom yielded every tree limb ever dipped in cold current, and some fish – real ones, chrome bright hellfighters …

I kept thinking SMJ was the “cigarette girl” as he’d lashed a laundry hamper to his waist hoping to cash in on all the free underwear I’d bragged about – and like everything else I’d promised – even the underwear were a disappointment.

I half expected him to enquire “Cohiba, Beef Jerky, or Marlboro’s, Sir?” – but he was intent on fishing and reluctant to share precious angling resources. I did manage to find a token Kashi bar to add to his larder – bursting with soy-goodness it would have been a musical footnote to the drive home.

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.

I’m impotently holding the handle in one hand, recently unscrewed off the reel as I wasn’t paying attention – some fish is headed south with purpose, and the newly “crankless” reel is spinning merrily while attached to the rod.

Being a grizzled Old Timer whose youth was spent with a rotary phone, I stabbed a forefinger into the largest hole and started cranking…

A cell phone user would’ve been helpless…

My attraction for the old Scientific Anglers (Hardy) System reels is well known; loud, largely indestructible, no finish to wear as half the reel is anodized aluminum – and they command a cheaper price than all the other old Hardy click-pawl reels.

… and has large enough ventilation holes to forefinger a Shad …

While I’ve admired owning some of the newer reels – their large arbor housing always seems sharp and thin – capable of slicing cheese if you’re on a picnic – not something I’d want to stuff a forefinger into with a hot fish on the other end.

… yes, I am shamefully biased, and make no apology.

American River shad are explosive compared to their Sacramento River cousin – most notable is the fight isn’t for deeper water, it’s more of a line peeling, surface battle – with a slab of mint bright silver heading every direction but yours…

The fish can swim in any direction regardless of their attitude, and is more apt to jump or roil the surface than bulldog for the deep water. As the above fish demonstrates, it’s the only freshwater fish capable of “moonwalking” at terminal velocity, absent the White Glove, naturally.

The “Shad Shower” is a constant; they get close – and you get wet. It’s a welcome spray of water once the sun’s out, and if the fishing is fast and furious you’ll be showered accordingly.

Both Sunday and Monday mornings found me chest deep in the river, I took Wannabe.Travelwriter along on the promise of “they might be there” – they were – but not in large numbers. I’d hit passing schools for 2 or 3 fish each, while watching Travelwriter curse aging rubber chest waders, whose crotch seam chose to burst in the pre-dawn chill.

Naturally I offered to take him to breakfast in a public setting, which was summarily rejected. He did a fair job of feigned disappointment – whilst lounging on the riverbank keeping the iced beverages from overheating. 6 or 7 fish later he was anxious to get all wet again…

If it weren’t for the American Shad we might have an accent, and you’d be on better terms with Blood Pudding and her Majesty the Queen. Alossa Sapidissma is the Latin, “Sapidissma” means “delicious” – and apparently salted Shad was the last remaining foodstuffs sustaining the colonial army at Valley Forge.

I’ve tried them smoked, and it’s a big sardine. I’m thinking those frostbitten colonial tastebuds would’ve given microwaved shoe leather a four star rating, higher if feet were still occupying the uppers…

The party appears to be starting in earnest – so the next couple of weeks should bring large numbers and an equitable distribution throughout the watershed – spreading those chasing them over a mighty large area.

I’ll be the vocal fellow cursing a screwdriver, feel free to crowd me.