BOAT BEERS & BEVERAGES: THE CHESAPEAKE RANCH WATER

PHOTOS // RYAN MCARTHUR & TIM HOMA

I grabbed my gear and walked across the parking lot. The air was thick, and the scent of marsh, gasoline, and discarded carcasses of fileted fish filled my nostrils. It had all the familiar symptoms of a boat ramp.

Broken glass covered the sidewalk by the bridge-covered beach where kids ran barefoot. Two unnecessarily impatient patrons bickered before realizing there was, in fact, no line at all, and they could put their boat in at their leisure. 

Glen’s 1979 20-foot Privateer sat appropriately staged. We loaded up and prepped the restored vessel for launch. For the five people involved, this outing provided to be an exercise on restraint in terms of the amount of gear.

Warren concurred, “Like sardines in a tin can, fellas.”

I threw Wes a fist pound through the window of his truck as he backed the boat into the water. 

“Let’s get ‘em, boys,” he reciprocated with a smile.

RUN THE MARSH

Glen, Wes, and Warren are the masterminds behind Run The Marsh. Geared towards fishing more and sleeping less, these guys are the epitome of living off the clock. Talented and passionate anglers, the trio loves celebrating the Chesapeake Bay’s bounty and the camaraderie that comes with it. 

Born and raised in Hampton Roads, VA, the trio's salty acumen accrued from a lifetime of chasing fish is formidable. All three fellas punch the clock as sales reps during the day. Time outside of that consists of pumping out fish-catching Instagram images, scheming up the next adventure, and supporting those as bug bitten as them.

SALTY, SWEATY, AND SHEEPSHEAD

At this point in the summer, our options were plentiful; sheepshead on structure, schools of blitzing Spanish mackerel, free swimming cobia, and bull red drum. We prepared for all the possibilities, but with the looming sunset and tide switch, we knew that sheepshead and bull red drum proved the likeliest to encounter. 

On the ride out, Glen voiced his urge to alter course and search for waking cobia in the slicked-out conditions. Calm surface conditions were something the group hadn’t seen in a while. After months of northeast winds, July returned to a familiar stickiness and seasonal weather pattern. Days on the water have been hard to come by.

We welcomed the sweat.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw it this glassy,” I said. 

Glen wiped the sweat from his eyes, “Finally feels like summer. You sure you don’t want to look for wakes?” 

The group deflected his final offer. 

We made our approach to the sheepshead grounds, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel (CBBT). The CBBT is a 17.6-mile bridge-tunnel at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay that connects Virginia Beach to the Eastern Shore of Virginia. It is a fish magnet. 

Sheepshead are awesome fish. Nicknamed "Convict Fish," they have a compressed, lightly colored body with distinct black stripes running vertically. They boast a face that only a mother can love, with their human-like teeth protruding from their gums. These fish arrive in our waters in early summer and stick around until fall. Sheepshead are insanely delicious table fare and hard-fighting fish on light tackle; at least, that's what the internet said. At this point, everyone on the boat has yet to catch one. 

Armed with a bucket of fiddler crabs, bottom sweeper jigs, and spinning rods, we prepped our crabs for their initial descent. The name of the game is to lower your crab down a few feet at a time, tight to the piling, until you feel a bite. If you don’t feel any bites after a few drops, move on to the next set of pilings. 

The ideal time to target these fish is just before, during, and just after the slack tide. Located at the Bay's mouth, the current absolutely rips under the bridge, and keeping your crab tight to the pilings after a certain point becomes impossible. 

After a few unsuccessful drops, we moved pilings. We felt taps, but few thumps. Our inventory of fiddlers was dwindling. We also learned that “slack” tide at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay can be a relative term. Additionally, sheepshead fishing without a trolling motor is a team sport. Two or three of us dropped crabs while the others manned the helm and made sure the boat did not hit the pilings. 

“They make it look a lot easier on Youtube,” said Wes. 

Even with something that seems automatic, there is always a learning curve when it comes to fishing. With our fiddler crab population depleted and the sun approaching the horizon, it was time to shift gears. 

PINK DRINKS FOR THE BULLS

Before our hunt for bull red drum, the group consensus was some liquid courage could sway our luck. Glen thought it’d be fitting to unveil a concoction that he’d been working on, the Chesapeake Ranch Water. 

A Ranch Water is a cocktail that hails from West Texas and has taken the booze world by storm, namely the hard seltzer scene. It comprises tequila, Topo Chico sparkling mineral water, and lime juice. They are refreshing and an excellent drink to kick off a bull red feeding frenzy, or so we hoped. 

Glen's version included Espolòn Tequila Reposado, Topo Chico, lime juice, grenadine, orange bitters, jalapeño, and homemade Old Bay syrup. The result was a delightful, spicy pink cocktail perfect for five dudes enjoying a Mid-Atlantic sunset on a small boat trying to avoid getting skunked. It resurfaced the excitement of my first Shirley Temple from Glory Days, where they put the grenadine in a toy shark for you to pour into the drink.

In all seriousness, the Chesapeake Ranch Water slapped. The Old Bay syrup added the right amount of sweetness and spiciness to make our Chesapeake Bay forefathers proud and probably ignore the fact the drink was pink. It was a refreshing reset, perfect for a day on the water or the beach. 

The reviews ranged from "woah" to "holy crap, that's good" to a groan of approval from Ryan. We clinked our bottles, sipped our pink drinks, and admired the orange glow from the sunset. Our attention was disrupted briefly by the silhouette of a skying Spanish mackerel. 

BULL RED FRENZY

Bottom sweepers were exchanged with bucktails or jigheads paired with large paddle tails. Locating bull reds can be a tedious process with such a large playing field, but typically, when you come across a school, they are ready to play.  

As we approached the first spot, we sat and observed. 

“Look for boils on the surface,” said Glen.

I looked into the water and watched a female crab drift by in the current from bow to stern. Immediately after I hear a splash off the bow. 

“Holy shit, they are here,” Wes said frantically, making a cast in the direction of the splash. His lure gets hit, but he pulls the hook.

Warren, off the stern, said “Boys, there are a bunch of boils behind us.”

Ryan and I exchanged a smirk as it seemed we were in the right spot. I watch another crab float past and get smoked by a large, copper-tinted fish. 

Everyone launched casts away from the boat. I dropped my paddle tail straight down. Once it hit the bottom, I made a few cranks, then jigged it vertically. About 10 feet up, I felt a thump I'll never forget. My rod tip bowed over, and drag screamed. There was no need to announce that I had a fish on; everyone knew. 

"Woooo, heck yeah!" shouted Glen. 

"Drop straight down, we gotta double up," I said. 

"Damn, I just got whacked," reported Ryan from the bow.

These fish are absolute brutes. They make spool-dumping runs and don't quit until they've exhausted all efforts. The person fighting the fish dictates the bull red dance on the boat. Communication and watching the location of your line is critical to landing these fish with multiple people on board. This fish walked me from starboard to port and bow to stern several times. 

Everyone was eager to hook up, so volunteering as a net man was a minimal priority until the last minute. Wes sacrificed his fishing time and grabbed the net. With the fish in the boat, high fives and fist bumps were exchanged. 

I thanked Glen for the invite as we set the fish onto the measuring board, 45 inches. It was 8:30. We revived the fish and let it swim away. The sun had just fallen below the horizon, and the water's surface was boiling. There was, in fact, no doubt we found them.

Wes reeled his lure back to the boat, and a fish exploded out of the water five feet from us, just missing the paddle tail. He fired out another cast and came tight on a fish. The lumination from the remaining light set the perfect backdrop for Wes’ power stance as his fish took off. Then Ryan hooked up. And so did Warren. 

“Tripled up, boys,” shouted Warren. 

His excitement served as a jinx. 

“Ah, it broke me off,” he responded. 

Glen casted feverishly. 

“What the hell? I’m throwing the same lures,” he questioned. 

I netted Wes’ fish, dropped it in the boat, then netted Ryan’s. Warren tied on a new bucktail, and Glen grabbed the net to catch a floating crab. Ryan and Wes released their fish, checked their leaders for chafing, and returned to fishing.

Wes hooked up again. I had a hit but couldn’t come tight. Glen netted Wes’ second fish, then rigged up his freshly caught crab, casted it out, and put the rod in a rod holder. 

Then it was Warren’s turn, but also Wes’ again. 

“Tripled!” I shouted as I came tight on a fish. But, yet again, the tripled jinx surfaced. I couldn’t come close to stopping my fish, and it broke me off in the structure along the bottom. 

Ryan netted their fish. I tied on a new lure, and Glen cursed the fish gods but then got on the board. 

“It’s about time Glen!” joked Warren.

Wes followed suit, “What have you been doing back there this whole time?”

By this point, it was dark. Everyone had landed at least a couple fish and lost a lure or two. With light lost, the drill was surprisingly simple. Listen for the pops of the fish eating crabs on the surface, motor to the sound, cast, and hook up. Each attempt resulted in at least one fish landed. Hesitation to be the net man shifted to volunteering to man the net. 

MORE DRUM AND A LAPSE OF TIME

There was minimal time for banter and the sound of peeling drag was constant. The concept of a world existing outside of this persistent frenzy seemed improbable. Each sip of the Chesapeake Ranch Water seemed to fuel the chaos. Then I remembered my wife. I traversed the slime covered deck to grab my phone from my backpack. The time was 10:45. 

I sent a text, “Found some fish. We shouldn’t be much longer. Good night.”

I relayed the time to the group, “For anybody wondering, it’s 10:45.” 

“I definitely told my wife I’d be home by now,” laughed Warren. 

“Haha, that's crazy. I’ve got to be up early to mate on a charter tomorrow,” said Wes.

Glen responded by setting the hook on a 47-inch fish. 

“How can you leave this?” Glen questioned the group.

Ryan made a cast and hooked up to another fish, “Hahah, here’s another one!”

The cycle continued, and the clock crept past midnight. “One more fish” turned into about 20 more fish. None of us had ever experienced a bite like this before. After a while, there was nothing to do but stretch your forearms and laugh. 

We started to make our way back in, but not before checking one more spot. 

“It’s 1:00 a.m.,” said Wes. 

Glen consented, “Okay, only a couple more casts.” 

To the surprise of everyone, Glen hooked up to another fish, this one a monster measuring 50 inches.

“Alright, I want one more,” I said.

I casted towards some splashing, and when I didn’t get hit immediately, I gave up and started reeling my lure in fast. The speed sparked interest, and my lure got crushed by another bull red. 

We all burst out laughing and agreed this was the last, last fish. Wes netted the fish, and we let it go. We set course back to the boat ramp at 1:45 a.m., capping over five hours of non-stop action. 

SILENT SATISFACTION AND DELIRIOUS REFLECTIONS

The trip back was silent, with random bursts of laughter in disbelief. Each of us had a grin from ear to ear. Reality set in for Warren, the only father on the boat.

"I've got to change a diaper in less than 4 hours," he chuckled.

Glen put into words what we were feeling, "It's so tough to manage expectations and let people know fishing isn't always lights out. We get skunked a lot." He continued, "But this is why we do it and put in the time. It's all to get lucky and have a night like this."

"Amen!" I said deliriously. 

Few words were spoken back at the boat ramp outside of deciding what to get for "dinner" at Wawa. Ryan and I thanked the guys for introducing us to a drink that embodies the Chesapeake's spirit and a night we will never forget.

There was no need for a celebratory nightcap, as focus shifted to maximizing the few hours of sleep left and deciding which caffeinated beverage would help us all be productive through the rapidly approaching workday.

As for the final fish count, we lost track after the 35… 

Make sure to follow Run The Marsh on Instagram @run_the_marsh_va.

THE CHESAPEAKE RANCH WATER RECIPE:

INGREDIENTS:

• Topo Chico Mineral Water

• Espolòn Tequila Reposado

• Orange Bitters

• Lime Juice

• Grenadine

• Jalapeño

• Old Bay Syrup 

OLD BAY SYRUP:

• ½ Cup Honey

• ½ Cup Water

• 3 Teaspoons of Old Bay

• Boil - Simmer - Cool

  
  

STEPS:

1. Remove about 4 ounces of mineral water

2. Add 2/2.5 ounces tequila

3. Add 1 ounce of lime juice

4. Add a tablespoon of the Old Bay syrup

5. Add a couple dashes of orange bitters and one small dash of grenadine.

6. Add a couple slices of fresh jalapeño and rim the top with lime juice and Old Bay

7. Enjoy!

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