The Great Return
It is the third Saturday of September at 10:56 a.m. Autumn technically arrived last week, but Summer is refusing to let go. Her humidity envelops me with an oppressive, yet reassuring hug of dense air. I give into her heat, knowing that in only a month, when Autumn has her way, my skin will crave the warmth Summer so freely offers today. I pause for a moment and tilt my head to embrace the sunlight, before flinging myself down the rickety, wooden path, just like I have done every third Saturday of September for the past four years.
Most people arrived early, so my seat choice is limited. However, this group’s punctuality does not equate to high-strung attitudes. There are soft smiles and kind hellos as people scootch and room is made for one more. The boat rocks gently against the dock, protesting ever so lightly against the addition of the final passenger.
Tom (our Guide) introduces himself and Dan (our Captain), then immediately demands the group spend no more time looking at either of them; a rather annoying directive considering Tom’s impish good looks. We are commanded to keep our eyes on the water — no blinking, no phone scrolling, no lovey-dovey eyes with someone across the boat. Just scanning the horizon, hoping for a glimpse at one of Richmond, Virginia’s most iconic legends: the Atlantic Sturgeon.
Sometimes called the Living Fossil of the James River, the Atlantic Sturgeon (acipenser oxyrinchus oxyrinchus for all my fish scientists out there) has been around since the age of the dinosaurs — literally. The Sturgeon family dates back to over 200 million years ago, when dinosaurs roamed and the supercontinent Pangea was going through her very first break up. And in the past 200 million years, sturgeon have… barely changed at all. Their fossils from millions of years ago closely mirror their cartilaginous skeletons today, really making you think: is change always for the best? They seem to rock with what they got.
I have lived on the East Coast for most of my life. Even so, it took me almost 25 years to discover the Mid-Atlantic Sturgeon. To be fair, I wasn’t a big nature kid. From a young age, I preferred splashing around in clear, chlorinated bodies of water as opposed to murky, home-to-thousands-of-organisms bodies of water. As I grew up and moved around (from Richmond to New Jersey back to Richmond then to Philly then briefly to Rome then back to Philly then to rural Alabama then, finally, back to Richmond), two things were constant: my preference for sanitary swimming spaces and my love for Richmond. This small town disguised as a mid-sized city is the hearth of my world. She radiates warmth, complexity, and creativity. Where else in the world do people celebrate the new year with a parade wearing huge, home-made cone costumes? The cones, of course, funnel good energy up and out into the world.
Luckily, although I continue to avoid diving into waters teeming with critters, my brave, adventurous friends (who were nature kids) actually enjoy swimming in the James for that very reason. They encouraged me to take my first sturgeon spin a few years back, so I could learn more about the river in the safety of a (mostly) dry 40-foot pontoon boat. During that first 90-minute trip, I fell in love with sturgeon, Richmond’s wonderfully weird hometown heroes.
If boasting one of the most impressive brags of all times (surviving what other dinosaurs could not) wasn’t enough, sturgeon also are known as the largest fish found in the James River, measuring up to 14 feet and weighing as much as 800 pounds. Now, to be fair, that is on the larger side of our swimming-dino friends. Still, their average size is 8-10 feet and their average weight is 200-250 pounds, which absolutely smashes Virginia’s Blue Catfish’s (next biggest fish) record of just under 150 pounds.
Despite their truly overwhelming stature, sturgeons’ metaphorical bark is much louder than their literal bite. They would not (and quite frankly could not) hurt their fellow James River dwellers, as they are completely toothless. Sturgeon are bottom-feeders whose mouths resemble that of Noo-Noo, the vacuum from the Teletubbies. They suck up small organisms and nutritious tidbits from the river and, later in their lives, the ocean floor. Did I forget to mention that they can live in fresh water and salt water? See? Iconic
“Much like dolphins, sturgeons breach the water.” Tom the Guide explains. “They surface, as if jumping, for about two-second increments. So, if you’re too busy staring at me,” (I swear he looks at me at this moment, although I guess the fact that I noticed proves his point...) “or counting the clouds, you’ll miss it. You’re probably wondering why they breach.” He pauses, and I swear the whole James pauses with him. Tom continues, “Well … so are we. We don’t know why they do it. We do know that it’s only males who breach — probably. So maybe it’s a mating ritual, maybe it’s younger sturgeon having some fun, or maybe it’s because they want to see what life’s like above the surface. We truly have no idea. All we know is that they do it, and this time of year you can see it in the James.”
I can’t even be disappointed by the lack of understanding around why the sturgeon breach. We can’t learn the mysterious ways of this immortal fish that easily. Their lore and legend continues to grow. With eager eyes and a fresh perspective, we hopeful observers spend the next two hours with our eyes glued to the vast James. Despite its brackish, sepia-toned water, the mid-morning sun truly makes the James sparkle. Even the dead shad floating alongside the boat looks picturesque, escorting us through the tributaries of the river.
Beneath the boat are millions of baby sturgeon waiting to hatch. Millions. (And yes, baby sturgeon are really cute, so go ahead and look up a few pictures.) Each birth cycle, which happens every 2-5 years depending on the gal, female sturgeon lay anywhere from 400 thousand to two million eggs. This may seem like an overwhelming amount of roe, but sturgeon in the James River (and beyond!) are only just recovering from the brink of extinction due to the popularity of Mid-Atlantic Sturgeon Caviar in the late 1800s. To this day, they remain an endangered species.
Despite my wishes and wide-set gaze, I do not see a sturgeon breach on that third weekend in September. I see a few small splashes a few moments too late. It doesn’t matter, because I know next year, I will return to the James to try again.
This is the real and true reason that I can never stop loving sturgeon: they are anadromous creatures. Throughout their 60-year lifespan, they always return to the river of their birth to lay their eggs. They are drawn back to Richmond like moths to a flame. In that way, they are exactly like me. It is a painfully beautiful reminder of the power of place and home.
Or maybe it’s a random evolutionary pull with no symbolic significance. Either way, it’s what they do. And it’s what I do too.
