Jumping sturgeon in Casco Bay – Oh, My!

August 2024

By Chuck Radis

Scott Dolan silently rowed his dinghy out to his 15-foot sailboat from the TEIA wharf on Peaks Island. After a recent storm, he wanted to bail out the boat. Tying the dinghy off on his mooring, he grabbed the gunnel, shifted his weight, and slung himself aboard. With a start, he realized he was not alone. There in the cockpit was a gigantic, prehistoric fish. Armor-like scales (scutes) covered the flanks. Much of the immense creature was hidden beneath the seating at mid-deck. “The fish went on and on,” Dolan recalled. “It looked like a sea monster.” After poking it with an oar and confirming it was dead, Dolan’s first thought was, “Who did I piss off?”

He noticed a hole in the transom. The seating edges were torn up. Whatever it was, it was still alive when it arrived in the boat. He took a picture of the monster fish and sent it to his wife. A moment later, her reply came back: “It’s a sturgeon. Don’t touch it! Sturgeons are an endangered species.”

Dolan called the Maine Marine Patrol for advice. After telling his story to the warden, there was a heavy silence. Now that his initial shock had worn off, Dolan realized that the fish was beginning to stink. “About how big is the sturgeon?” the warden finally asked. (Dolan thought: “He doesn’t know what to do with it either . . .”).

“I don’t know. Most of it is up under the seating. It’s, well . . . it’s bigger than I am.” Still no answer. Clearly, the warden service did not receive many dead sturgeon calls. Finally, he received permission to dispose of the fish. “You mean, slide it overboard?” Scott asked.

More silence. “On second thought, the warden added, “Don’t just dump it. If you throw it overboard, the body will float, and it will take weeks to decompose. If a boat runs into it at night, it could damage the hull. Slit the belly open and take out the guts; it’ll sink to the bottom.”

Scott was relieved that he wasn’t required to somehow muscle the fish into his dinghy, row to shore, and preserve the carcass in a very large freezer. He pulled out his knife and poked at the underbelly. The blade bounced off the sturgeon’s prehistoric scutes. He stabbed the fish once more and the blade barely made a mark on the fish.

Then he rowed back to shore and picked up his friend, Paul Nakroshis, who “was up for an adventure.” Paul had a much bigger knife and took pride in keeping it razor sharp. Paul set his legs slightly apart, steadied himself, and pulled on the giant tail. The sturgeon’s body kept coming. It was slightly longer than Paul’s 6’1” frame. The two men wrestled the dead sturgeon overboard, Paul pulled out his knife, and with an overhand windmill stroke – eerily reminiscent of an axe murderer – ripped through the scutes. With great effort, he slowly slit the sturgeon’s belly open. Then, elbow deep in blood, the two men disemboweled the prehistoric creature. A stream of tiny bubbles trailed the body to the bottom of Casco Bay.

Over breakfast on the Portland waterfront, I met with Zachary Whitener, a Senior Research Associate at the Gulf of Maine Research Institute (GMRI). Whitener, whose research focuses on fish populations in Casco Bay, said that while no one at GMRI specializes in sturgeon, the fish are occasionally caught in their sampling seines as bycatch. Whitener has caught shortnose sturgeon while doing scientific surveys around the Presumpscot Estuary. The fish are anadromous, similar to salmon, living much of their lives in saltwater, and spawning in freshwater rivers. And while the smaller shortnose sturgeon grows to a respectable 41⁄2 feet, the Atlantic sturgeon has historically reached a length of 14 feet and over 800 pounds.

Both species of sturgeon have suffered population declines, with the shortnose listed as endangered and the Atlantic as threatened by the Endangered Species Act. Their recovery is uncertain, the result of overharvesting of the fish for their delicate, savory eggs (caviar). The peak of the caviar goldrush was in the 1870s, when many of Europe’s rivers had already been fished out and the demand for caviar remained high. For a few brief years, the center of the world’s caviar trade was the town of Caviar, New Jersey, on the banks of the Delaware River. According to Inga Saffron, author of the book “Caviar: The Strange History and Uncertain Future of the World’s Most Coveted Delicacy,” for a few brief years, more caviar was exported from the U.S. East Coast to Europe than from Russia. The “Black Caviar Gold Rush” ended as suddenly as it began. Without catch limits or closed seasons, populations of the prehistoric fish plummeted up and down the East Coast, and the fishery collapsed. Caviar, New Jersey, (now part of the town of Bayside) no longer exists.

Peaks Islander Richard Newcomb, Sr. occasionally catches sturgeon while seining for pogie (Atlantic menhaden) in Casco Bay. This past summer Newcomb, with his crewmen Melton Moralas and Derek Bean, safely released a humongous sturgeon, estimated at 400 pounds, as it thrashed on the surface inside a net-full of pogie. He frequently sees sturgeon completely leap out of the water, particularly around Fort Gorges and the Diamonds. There is no mistaking a jumping sturgeon. The fish rises vertically from the water, its tail clearing the surface, before flopping sideways and disappearing in a roiling explosion of water and foam.

Exactly why sturgeon jump is a matter of conjecture. According to one theory, jumping helps equalize pressure in a sturgeon’s swim bladder. Another theory suggests that it may be a form of sturgeon-to-sturgeon communication. Of course, none of this can be proven. Perhaps sturgeon jump, well, because they can. After a 120-million-year stint on earth, there may be joy in outliving the dinosaurs.

But are sturgeon making a comeback in Casco Bay? When I asked Zach Whitener this question, he explained that while it’s becoming increasingly common to see sturgeon leap out of the water, this doesn’t necessarily mean their populations have recovered. Fish may be locally abundant in one area and absent in another. To his knowledge, there is no systematic research to determine sturgeon populations.

One day last fall I stood on Centennial Beach on Peaks Island looking out towards Little Diamond Island. A stiff wind raced in from the north, rocking the last remaining sailboat as it strained on its mooring line. I zipped up my jacket and was about to turn away, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fish leap. It hung in the air for a long moment before toppling over like an immense log, the wake rocking the sailboat fore and aft. I blinked. It was a sturgeon. A big one, and it was magnificent.

For more than three decades, Dr. Chuck Radis and his family have lived on Peaks Island, commuting year-round on his boat, Dasakamo Ja, to the mainland. As a young doctor, he provided primary care to four year-round islands in Casco Bay. In addition to his clinic duties on Peaks and Chebeague Islands, he traveled year-round by boat to the outer islands and logged more than 100 annual house calls. If you enjoyed this story, go to www.doctorchuckradis.com for more Maine storytelling.

 

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