My fly alights with a plop before beginning its waking transit downstream. This time, I actually see the strike and feel the fish while the boil diffuses in the current. Meanwhile, I can’t help but wonder why I didn’t try floating flies 30 years ago.

A typical St. John's shad weights a couple of pounds, but can reach five or slightly more.

That’s how long I’ve been coming to Central Florida’s St. Johns River. This several-hundred-mile stream hosts the nation’s southernmost run of American, or white, shad. Of special interest is how after several “off” seasons, last year’s run appeared to be back on track. There was no need to troll or make umpteen blind casts in order to find the schools. Instead, we were anchored on a bend where the surface was pockmarked by the swirls of hundreds of migrating fish.

Sound like Valhalla? Don’t forget there’s a phenomenon known as “washing” that’s supposedly part of the species’ mating ritual. That’s not what was happening here. While washing shad typically suffer from lockjaw, these fish appeared to be actively feeding. Jumping baitfish were everywhere and regardless of what the scientists say, hooked shad were regurgitating the evidence to prove it. Actually, it was mostly digested matter, but the best part was that for the first time ever, I was catching the feisty boogers on top.

What we enjoyed last year—and plan to do again this season—compares to ordinary shad fishing the way Julia Roberts stacks up against Medusa. Yet the sad truth (at least around here) is that no one else ever tries it. The same applies to using minnow imitations in general, since shad fans seem content to rely on attractor flies, dredged well below the surface.

I interrupt my reverie in order to land a small male that’s been fighting more like a mackerel than a herring. Before digressing further, let me share the pattern that brought about this unexpected epiphany: It’s nothing less (or in this case, more) than a 1-inch, No. 10 white Marabou Muddler. Today, I’m fishing with Capt. Phil Woodham of Titusville. Phil knows a few things about the St. Johns that haven’t hit the newsstands.

In my case, the surface feed came to the forefront four years ago. I’d been fishing above Puzzle Lake at the time, and the shad were behaving uncharacteristically. Phil was working the same area, and since we both reported similar findings, I decided to believe my eyes rather than the textbooks. Un-fortunately, the run faltered before either of us proved our theory. Once again, we’d seen showering baitfish, only back then on a much smaller scale. I swore I’d seen shad feeding and Phil, who grew up on the river, agreed. If anyone knew, it was him.

Carry small Muddlers and pink Little Richads (top half of box) as well as standard bead chain attractor flies.

Last year, I decided to use a floating line and experiment. I like really small stuff, so I chose a 4-weight, weight-forward model, spooled on a cutesy little reel that I’d screwed onto an 8-foot graphite rod. It didn’t take long to learn how to make my floating Muddler wake properly, which was mostly a matter of quartering my casts downstream and letting the fly swing in the current. If I retrieved it at all, I did so ever so slowly. As I soon discovered, the fish were happy to do the rest.

I continue casting and the fish keep grabbing. It’s riveting, not just because I’m getting hits but because I’m practically the only one getting hits. I’m not greedy. I’d gladly hand my rod to Phil, who seems content to watch while offering a rambling commentary. “Woodham’s Shad Service,” we call it. A transistorized Travis Tritt belts out, “Put the Drive Back in Country,” when my line tightens again.

Travis sounds more energetic than I feel (a slight case of the flu), but no more so than the shad, who have started raising hell within spitting distance of the transom. My reel makes a sudden screech, as the feeding rhythm intensifies. Somewhere in mid-stream, my fish decides to make a jump but I’m too transfixed to notice. I can’t take my eyes off the ballet of improbability that’s taking place in the eddy behind the boat.