THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, July 4, 1996 TAG: 9607030255
SECTION: SUFFOLK SUN PAGE: 06 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY LINDA McNATT, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: 158 lines
Editor's note: Some readers missed this story in the June 30 issue of The Sun, due to a technical problem.
ISLE OF WIGHTJOHN JOHNSON JR. wiped sweat from his brow and settled onto a board, nailed haphazardly as a bench in the shade of an ancient cypress tree.
Stopping briefly to listen to the buzz of insects, he gazed across the glistening river he has known so well for most of his 81 years and shook his head.
``I've been out there since I was 12 years old,'' he said, glancing at the hazy black shawdows of land that all but enclose the protected cove that is Tyler's Beach. ``I was out there just this morning. I ain't got nothing else to do, so I go out fishin' sometime. I'd waste away if I didn't do nothing.''
Johnson, known affectionately in the area as ``Capt. John,'' is the old man of the river, the one who keeps moving along. He's a mild-mannered, gentle fisherman with a philosophy that - if you talk to him long enough - you feel.
``Oh, it's goin' to come back,'' he said, nodding his head and wiping his brow again. ``Yeah, they ain't beat this river yet. It may be when I'm dead and gone, but it's going to come back.''
Once, Tyler's Beach was teeming every morning with boats of various sizes plying the murky waters of the cove into the open river by 6 a.m. or earlier - the time Johnson still gets his start each day.
Then, the horde of watermen who made their living on the river knew they could catch enough fish or oysters or crabs to provide for their families. Johnson remembers when there were 300 or 400 boats on the James every day. Several of them were operated by watermen from Tyler's Beach, most of them black.
But that's not the case anymore. The oldtimers who still visit the cove almost daily agree that no more than two or three Tyler's Beach watermen continue to work the river.
The others have given up, lost hope, found other jobs if they're still young enough, retired if they're old enough.
Some say the river has seen its finest hour. Once, the James was known as the most prolific producer of seed oysters on the East Coast, when men like Johnson tonged oysters for as little as 10 cents a bushel, fished and crabbed during the summer and supported families they always believed would probably follow in their footsteps just as many of them followed their own fathers.
But the oysters now are all but gone, and despite anything that Mother Nature or scientists assigned with studying the James can do, the future of the industry looks bleak.
Tyler's Beach, with its sights and sounds and smells so familiar to the watermen, is like an artist's rendering of a way of life in decline.
Natural windchimes create a symphony accompanying Johnson's words on this hot, early summer day. Breezes whistle through the cypress trees and ruffle the few green fronds among bare branches. Birds chirp. Gulls sqawk. The sound of the gentle waves lapping against the shore echoes a constant refrain.
The ``Sonya'' is beached and rotting. The ``Omoo,'' ``Bud,'' ``Margaret C,'' all idle. The ``Go Jim'' doesn't go anywhere anymore. It simply sits at the decaying pier.
``I used to work with my daddy,'' Johnson said, as the rippling water glistened in the sunshine and smacked against the shore. ``He died when he was 88, still working the river. He farmed and worked the river.''
Each new year seems to bring some new disaster to the oyster beds of the James River. In 1955, it was Hurricane Hazel; in 1975, a spill of the insecticide Kepone; in 1989, a broken utility line that dumped a million gallons of raw sewage.
Last year, floods in the mountains of Virginia rained down on the river and diluted its salt content, creating a breeding ground for oyster-killing diseases that have plagued the river for several years.
But Peyton Jones Jr., like Johnson, is a ``hanger-on.'' And, like Johnson, he still has hope for the river.
``It's gone from good to bad to worse,'' he said, clutching a paint brush that is lathering a new coat of white paint on one of four boats he clings to.
``My wife says she wishes I would just get rid of all of `em and be done with the river,'' said Jones, 60, who works the night shift at the Norfolk Naval Shipyard in Portsmouth. ``But I can't do that. I hope I can retire soon. I hope I can make a little extra money on the river.''
Jones has no doubts why he worked on the river for so long.
``I just like it,'' he said. ``I was raised up on it. Out there, you feel free. When my wife tells me to get rid of the boats, I tell her I'd just as soon die.''
First the oysters began to die off and disappear. Last year wasn't a good one for crabs, and the Virginia Marine Resources Commission leveled more restrictions on harvesting the blue-finned crustaceans.
The rockfish disappeared, and, although they seem to be coming back to the James, the state also has restricted that element of making a living on the river. Shad, once a spring staple for local watermen, have gone on to other nesting grounds.
Scientists have some explanations for it all. Watermen have their theories. But nothing keeps it from happening.
``I went out there in April to check my grounds,'' said Jones, with five acres off Tyler's Beach. ``Almost all of 'em were dead. I think it's a shame. Just about everybody has lost their oysters.''
The buzz of an electric saw interrupts the two old acquaintances. Across the cove, Ralph Robertson hails a greeting to the men. Robertson, too, is working on his boat, preparing for the oyster season that doesn't start until Oct. 1, if it starts at all.
``I've been messing with the river for 30-some years,'' said Robertson, 44, a Newport News Shipyard worker who also has gotten used to the late shift so he can save his mornings for the river. ``It's not good. It's not good at all.''
Like the other men, Robertson followed his father, Luke Robertson Sr., onto the river. His shipyard job has supplemented his income. There has never been any doubt which he prefers.
``I love the river,'' he said, as he toiled on the Barbara J. ``You could always make some money here. You work in peace, like you want to work. It's hard work. It is really hard work. You've got to love it.''
Robertson has crabbed for the last several years, but he's done little of that this year. He doesn't recall ever having seen the river in such bad shape, he said.
``I used to do a lot of fishing. But they've got so many restrictions on that now - well, I can't see messing up good food. Most of what you catch, you have to throw back.''
Robertson has seen bad years before. He thinks this might be just one more.
``I've seen years like this, years you can't even find a live oyster,'' he said. ``Then, the next season comes along, and you don't know where they all come from. So I just piddle along with the boat and try to keep it up, try to hope anyway.''
Everybody has their own theory of why the river seems to be so lifeless this year except for panfish and rock. Jones thinks the rock are responsible for part of the river's woes.
``The oldtimers always told me, if you see a lot of rock in the river, you won't see nothing else,'' he said. ``And I believe it; it's as true as anything can be. They've put a lot of restrictions on the size of the rock now, and I'll guarantee you, if you go out there and catch one and cut him open, he'll have a soft crab in his belly.
``The rock weren't around when we were catching plenty of shad. When the shad come back, and the rock leave, things will get better. Wait and see.''
Robertson's father, at 74, doesn't come to the river any longer because of Parkinson's disease. He's afraid of falling, he said, but he still has his theories. He thinks the scientists trying to figure it out are looking in the wrong place.
``I started on the James River when I was 10 years old, and I worked when oysters were 5 cents a tub,'' he said. ``The runoff is what's killing the river, not the people that's working it. It's chemicals - what people are putting in their yards and all. But it's not the end of it. This river is stronger than any of it.''
It always has been, but - well, who knows?
``Ah, I'm not doin' no crabbin' this year,'' Johnson said. ``I got me a little fishing boat - 22 feet long. That's all. If I live long enough, maybe we'll see things get better.''
Johnson said he doesn't know if he'll ever see what he calls ``the best cove and the best beach along here'' come back into its own. The boat ramp at Tyler's Beach is used now more by sports fishermen and boaters than the pier is used by the watermen who once frequented it.
Many of the boats - mostly the traditional Chesapeake Bay deadrise - have been abandoned. But some hardy souls still go down there every day. They keep their boats painted, maintain the engines, and they hope because - well, Luke Robertson probably explains it best.
``I love that river,'' he said. ``It's a hard, hard working life. But it's wonderful. It's a wonderful life.'' ILLUSTRATION: Staff photos by JOHN H. SHEALLY II
Watermen's boats sit at Tyler's Beach, looking picturesque. But many
are in disrepair.
Peyton Jones Jr., left, and John Johnson Jr. are long-time watermen
who have no intention of retiring. by CNB