Superstitions abound in many of the games people play, including the ancient art of fishing, which thanks to its long history has more than its fair share of myths and misbeliefs.

“The fish bite better in the rain.” “Never take a banana on the boat.” “I’m wearing my lucky underwear (or hat, shirt, pants, you pick it).” “Never whistle on a boat.” “I’m tossing a penny overboard for good luck.”

You get the picture. People have noodled up all manner of notions about fish and fishing, and a good many anglers – myself included – fail to have the courage to defy most of them for fear of even the remotest possibility they might actually impact the day’s catch.

One of the superstitions that I never gave much credence to, however, is the one about it being bad luck to catch a fish on the first cast. “Baloney!” I would exclaim when a fishing buddy warned of the nasty worry that a fish caught on the first cast might very well be the last one of the day.

Many superstitions are founded on at least a shred of fact, but the one about bad luck befalling the fisher who catches one with so little effort really never made sense to me.

But then I experienced Tuesday.

Fishing pal Ted Suffolk and I made the trek south on Ohio 11 Tuesday to launch the Bass Cat in Chester, W.Va., and fish the New Cumberland Pool of the Ohio River. I have written often about my affinity for the big river, which mystifies many but which I find intriguing for the variety of fish that live there, including my favorite smallmouth bass.

Tuesday dawned under a cloudless sky with barely a whisper of a breeze. The morning chill called for long pants (my personal goal is to wear long pants as infrequently as possible) and an extra layer up top.

We buzzed just 30 seconds down river from the boat launch to a seawall that I hoped might hold a few smallies that had yet to retreat to deeper water after a night of feasting on emerald shiners and gizzard shad.

I fired my topwater popper on a long cast toward the shore and chugged it about halfway back to the boat when the water erupted under the lure in the manner that all anglers immediately recognize as a strike. The bone-colored bait disappeared in the swirl, so I jerked and the reward was a frisky 14-inch bass that cavorted around the boat for a few moments before I swung it over the gunwale.

As I admired the fish, the fact that it bit on my first cast seemed more a good thing than an omen. The day was young, and the start was fun, so good things were going to happen.

And, in fact, they did for the next 15 minutes. We fished our way toward the river bank and plucked several nice fish before the sun crested the hills that rise above Chester.

Then the bite died. Ted and I hunted and pecked for the next three hours with nary a tap. We made our milk run to tried-and-true spots that failed to deliver before he finally unloaded on a nice fish that surged in a manner that seemed oddly like the sheepshead we know well from Lake Erie adventures. Disappointed that it was not a bass, we took consolation that at least it was action after our dry spell.

Fifteen minutes later, Ted jabbed his jig into the jaw of another strong fish and pulled it up from deep water to the point where we saw color. The fish surged several times as he applied as much pressure as he dared on his 6-pound-test line. It turned out to be a blue catfish of around four or five pounds, evidence of the health of the Ohio River.

Before we quit for the day, I bagged another smallmouth bass, and as we put the boat on the trailer, I wondered whether the first-cast bug had bitten us. Or perhaps it was just one of those days.

Who knows? That’s a cool thing about fishing. We anglers never really figure it out completely.

Jack Wollitz has written this column since 1988 and is the author of The Common Angler, published in 2021 by Fayetteville Mafia Press. Contact him at jackbbaass@gmail.com.