Tales of fishes
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Title: Tales of fishes
Author: Zane Grey
Release date: July 7, 2009 [eBook #29346]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29346
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF FISHES ***
Produced by Brian Janes, D. Alexander and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
TALES _of_ FISHES
by
Zane Grey
_President of the Long Key Fishing Club
Honorary Vice-President of the Tuna Club, Avalon_
_Author of_
"The U. P. Trail" "The Desert of Wheat" Etc.
_Illustrated from Photographs
by the author_
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
New York and London
TALES OF FISHES
Copyright 1919, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published June, 1919
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
VERSES 0
I. BYME-BY-TARPON 1
II. THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 8
III. THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 26
IV. TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 54
V. SAILFISH 72
VI. GULF STREAM FISHING 88
VII. BONEFISH 107
VIII. SOME RARE FISH 136
IX. SWORDFISH 153
X. THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 180
XI. SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 197
XII. RANDOM NOTES 216
XIII. BIG TUNA 221
XIV. AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 250
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE GREAT COLORED ROLLERS OF THE PACIFIC _Frontispiece_
TARPON THROWING HOOK _Facing p_. 2
LEAPING TARPON " 3
SAVALO, OR SILVER KING " 4
THESE WILD FOWL HAVE THE WONDERFUL BEAUTY AND
SPEED OF FALCONS " 5
RABIHORCADO " 12
THE BOOBIES HAD NO FEAR OF MAN, BUT BOTH YOUNG
AND OLD WOULD PICK WITH THEIR SHARP BILLS " 13
YOUNG BOOBIES " 14
SUGGESTIVE OF A WILD, WIND-SWEPT ISLAND OF THE SEA " 15
NESTS EVERYWHERE IN THE SAND AND MOSS " 16
THESE HUGE BLACK RABIHORCADOS WERE THE LARGEST
SPECIES OF FRIGATE OR MAN-OF-WAR BIRD " 17
RABIHORCADO RISING FROM THEIR EGGS " 20
BOOBIES OF ISLA DE LA MUERTE IN THE CARIBBEAN SEA " 21
A SWORDFISH LEAPING OFF THE BOLD BLACK SHORE OF CLEMENTE " 28
ON THE RAMPAGE " 29
SWORDFISH ON THE SURFACE " 32
HOLDING HARD " 33
A CLEAN GREYHOUND LEAP " 36
316-POUND SWORDFISH " 37
THE WILD OATS SLOPE OF CLEMENTE " 44
WHERE THE DEEP-BLUE SWELL BOOMS AGAINST THE LAVA
WALL OF CLEMENTE ISLAND " 45
FOUR MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY " 68
A BIG SAILFISH BREAKING WATER " 69
FOUR SAILFISH IN ONE DAY ON LIGHT TACKLE " 76
SAILFISH THRESHING ON THE SURFACE " 77
MEMORABLE OF LONG KEY " 84
LEAPING SAILFISH " 85
SOLITUDE ON THE SEA " 92
SUNSET BY THE SEA " 93
TWIN TIGERS OF THE SEA--THE SAVAGE BARRACUDA " 98
HAPPY PASTIME OF BONEFISHING " 99
THE GAMEST FISH THAT SWIMS " 110
A WAAHOO " 111
AT LONG KEY, THE LONELY CORAL SHORE WHERE THE SUN
SHINES WHITE ALL DAY AND THE STARS SHINE WHITE
ALL NIGHT " 144
THE FAMOUS STUNT OF A MARLIN SWORDFISH, "WALKING
ON HIS TAIL" " 145
SURGING IN A HALF-CIRCLE " 148
BROADBILL SWORDFISH ON THE SURFACE--THE MOST
THRILLING SIGHT TO A SEA ANGLER " 149
SHINING IN THE SUNLIGHT " 156
THROWING WHITE WATER LIKE THE EXPLOSION OF A TORPEDO " 157
A LONG, SLIM SAILFISH WIGGLING IN THE AIR " 160
FIGHTING A BROADBILL SWORDFISH " 161
THE ONLY PHOTOGRAPH EVER TAKEN OF LEAPING BROADBILL
SWORDFISH " 180
XIPHIAS GLADIUS, THE BROADSWORDED GLADIATOR OF THE SEA " 181
A STRAIGHTAWAY GREYHOUND LEAP, MARVELOUS FOR ITS
SPEED AND WILDNESS " 188
LIKE A LEAPING SPECTER " 189
WALKING ON HIS TAIL " 192
A MAGNIFICENT FLASHING LEAP. THIS PERFECT PICTURE
CONSIDERED BY AUTHOR TO BE WORTH HIS FIVE
YEARS' LABOR AND PATIENCE " 193
TIRED OUT--THE LAST SLOW HEAVE " 196
HAULED ABOARD WITH BLOCK AND TACKLE " 197
R. C. ON THE JOB " 204
304 POUNDS " 205
R. C. GREY AND RECORD MARLIN " 205
328-POUND RECORD MARLIN BY R. C. GREY. SHAPELIEST
AND MOST BEAUTIFUL SPECIMEN EVER TAKEN " 208
SUNSET OVER CLEMENTE CHANNEL " 209
A BLUE-FINNED PLUGGER OF THE DEEP--138-POUND TUNA " 244
AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL " 245
THE OLD AVALON BARGE WHERE THE GULLS FISH AND
SCREAM " 252
THE END OF THE DAY OFF CATALINA ISLAND " 253
SEAL ROCKS " 264
[Illustration: THE GREAT COLORED ROLLERS OF THE PACIFIC]
ZANE GREY
By W. Livingston Larned
Been to Avalon with Grey ... been most everywhere;
Chummed with him and fished with him in every Sportsman's
lair.
Helped him with the white Sea-bass and Barracuda haul,
Shared the Tuna's sprayful sport and heard his Hunter-call,
Me an' Grey are fishin' friends.... Pals of rod and reel,
Whether it's the sort that fights ... or th' humble eel,
On and on, through Wonderland ... winds a-blowin' free,
Catching all th' fins that grow ... Sportsman Grey an' Me.
Been to Florida with Zane ... scouting down th' coast;
Whipped the deep for Tarpon, too, that natives love th' most.
Seen the smiling, Tropic isles that pass, in green review,
Gathered cocoanut and moss where Southern skies were blue.
Seen him laugh that boyish laugh, when things were goin'
right;
Helped him beach our little boat and kindle fires at night.
Comrades of the Open Way, the Treasure-Trove of Sea,
Port Ahoy and who cares where, with Mister Grey an' Me!
Been to Western lands with Grey ... hunted fox and deer.
Seen the Grizzly's ugly face with danger lurkin' near.
Slept on needles, near th' sky, and marked th' round moon
rise
Over purpling peaks of snow that hurt a fellow's eyes.
Gone, like Indians, under brush and to some mystic place--
Home of red men, long since gone, to join their dying race.
Yes ... we've chummed it, onward--outward ... mountain,
wood, and Key,
At the quiet readin'-table ... Sportsman Grey an' Me.
TALES OF FISHES
I
BYME-BY-TARPON
To capture the fish is not all of the fishing. Yet there are
circumstances which make this philosophy hard to accept. I have in mind
an incident of angling tribulation which rivals the most poignant
instant of my boyhood, when a great trout flopped for one sharp moment
on a mossy stone and then was gone like a golden flash into the depths
of the pool.
Some years ago I followed Attalano, my guide, down the narrow Mexican
street of Tampico to the bank of the broad Panuco. Under the rosy dawn
the river quivered like a restless opal. The air, sweet with the song of
blackbird and meadowlark, was full of cheer; the rising sun shone in
splendor on the water and the long line of graceful palms lining the
opposite bank, and the tropical forest beyond, with its luxuriant
foliage festooned by gray moss. Here was a day to warm the heart of any
fisherman; here was the beautiful river, celebrated in many a story;
here was the famous guide, skilled with oar and gaff, rich in
experience. What sport I would have; what treasure of keen sensation
would I store; what flavor of life would I taste this day! Hope burns
always in the heart of a fisherman.
Attalano was in harmony with the day and the scene. He had a cheering
figure, lithe and erect, with a springy stride, bespeaking the Montezuma
blood said to flow in his Indian veins. Clad in a colored cotton shirt,
blue jeans, and Spanish girdle, and treading the path with brown feet
never deformed by shoes, he would have stopped an artist. Soon he bent
his muscular shoulders to the oars, and the ripples circling from each
stroke hardly disturbed the calm Panuco. Down the stream glided long
Indian canoes, hewn from trees and laden with oranges and bananas. In
the stern stood a dark native wielding an enormous paddle with ease.
Wild-fowl dotted the glassy expanse; white cranes and pink flamingoes
graced the reedy bars; red-breasted kingfishers flew over with friendly
screech. The salt breeze kissed my cheek; the sun shone with the
comfortable warmth Northerners welcome in spring; from over the white
sand-dunes far below came the faint boom of the ever-restless Gulf.
We trolled up the river and down, across from one rush-lined lily-padded
shore to the other, for miles and miles with never a strike. But I was
content, for over me had been cast the dreamy, care-dispelling languor
of the South.
When the first long, low swell of the changing tide rolled in, a
stronger breeze raised little dimpling waves and chased along the water
in dark, quick-moving frowns. All at once the tarpon began to show,
to splash, to play, to roll. It was as though they had been awakened by
the stir and murmur of the miniature breakers. Broad bars of silver
flashed in the sunlight, green backs cleft the little billows, wide
tails slapped lazily on the water. Every yard of river seemed to hold a
rolling fish. This sport increased until the long stretch of water,
which had been as calm as St. Regis Lake at twilight, resembled the
quick current of a Canadian stream. It was a fascinating, wonderful
sight. But it was also peculiarly exasperating, because when the fish
roll in this sportive, lazy way they will not bite. For an hour I
trolled through this whirlpool of flying spray and twisting tarpon, with
many a salty drop on my face, hearing all around me the whipping crash
of breaking water.
[Illustration: TARPON THROWING HOOK]
[Illustration: LEAPING TARPON]
"Byme-by-tarpon," presently remarked Attalano, favoring me with the
first specimen of his English.
The rolling of the tarpon diminished, and finally ceased as noon
advanced.
No more did I cast longing eyes upon those huge bars of silver. They
were buried treasure. The breeze quickened as the flowing tide gathered
strength, and together they drove the waves higher. Attalano rowed
across the river into the outlet of one of the lagoons. This narrow
stream was unruffled by wind; its current was sluggish and its muddy
waters were clarifying under the influence of the now fast-rising tide.
By a sunken log near shore we rested for lunch. I found the shade of the
trees on the bank rather pleasant, and became interested in a blue
heron, a russet-colored duck, and a brown-and-black snipe, all sitting
on the sunken log. Near by stood a tall crane watching us solemnly, and
above in the tree-top a parrot vociferously proclaimed his knowledge of
our presence. I was wondering if he objected to our invasion, at the
same time taking a most welcome bite for lunch, when directly in front
of me the water flew up as if propelled by some submarine power. Framed
in a shower of spray I saw an immense tarpon, with mouth agape and fins
stiff, close in pursuit of frantically leaping little fish.
The fact that Attalano dropped his sandwich attested to the large size
and close proximity of the tarpon. He uttered a grunt of satisfaction
and pushed out the boat. A school of feeding tarpon closed the mouth of
the lagoon. Thousands of mullet had been cut off from their river haunts
and were now leaping, flying, darting in wild haste to elude the great
white monsters. In the foamy swirls I saw streaks of blood.
"Byme-by-tarpon!" called Attalano, warningly.
Shrewd guide! I had forgotten that I held a rod. When the realization
dawned on me that sooner or later I would feel the strike of one of
these silver tigers a keen, tingling thrill of excitement quivered over
me. The primitive man asserted himself; the instinctive lust to conquer
and to kill seized me, and I leaned forward, tense and strained with
suspended breath and swelling throat.
Suddenly the strike came, so tremendous in its energy that it almost
pulled me from my seat; so quick, fierce, bewildering that I could think
of nothing but to hold on. Then the water split with a hissing sound to
let out a great tarpon, long as a door, seemingly as wide, who shot
up and up into the air. He wagged his head and shook it like a
struggling wolf. When he fell back with a heavy splash, a rainbow,
exquisitely beautiful and delicate, stood out of the spray, glowed,
paled, and faded.
[Illustration: SAVALO, OR SILVER KING]
[Illustration: THESE WILD FOWL HAVE THE WONDERFUL BEAUTY AND SPEED OF
FALCONS]
Five times he sprang toward the blue sky, and as many he plunged down
with a thunderous crash. The reel screamed. The line sang. The rod,
which I had thought stiff as a tree, bent like a willow wand. The silver
king came up far astern and sheered to the right in a long, wide curve,
leaving behind a white wake. Then he sounded, while I watched the line
with troubled eyes. But not long did he sulk. He began a series of
magnificent tactics new in my experience. He stood on his tail, then on
his head; he sailed like a bird; he shook himself so violently as to
make a convulsive, shuffling sound; he dove, to come up covered with
mud, marring his bright sides; he closed his huge gills with a slap and,
most remarkable of all, he rose in the shape of a crescent, to
straighten out with such marvelous power that he seemed to actually
crack like a whip.
After this performance, which left me in a condition of mental
aberration, he sounded again, to begin a persistent, dragging pull which
was the most disheartening of all his maneuvers; for he took yard after
yard of line until he was far away from me, out in the Panuco. We
followed him, and for an hour crossed to and fro, up and down, humoring
him, responding to his every caprice, as if he verily were a king. At
last, with a strange inconsistency more human than fishlike, he returned
to the scene of his fatal error, and here in the mouth of the smaller
stream he leaped once more. But it was only a ghost of his former
efforts--a slow, weary rise, showing he was tired. I could see it in the
weakening wag of his head. He no longer made the line whistle.
I began to recover the long line. I pumped and reeled him closer.
Reluctantly he came, not yet broken in spirit, though his strength had
sped. He rolled at times with a shade of the old vigor, with a pathetic
manifestation of the temper that became a hero. I could see the long,
slender tip of his dorsal fin, then his broad tail and finally the gleam
of his silver side. Closer he came and slowly circled around the boat,
eying me with great, accusing eyes. I measured him with a fisherman's
glance. What a great fish! Seven feet, I calculated, at the very least.
At this triumphant moment I made a horrible discovery. About six feet
from the leader the strands of the line had frayed, leaving only one
thread intact. My blood ran cold and the clammy sweat broke out on my
brow. My empire was not won; my first tarpon was as if he had never
been. But true to my fishing instincts, I held on morosely; tenderly I
handled him; with brooding care I riveted my eye on the frail place in
my line, and gently, ever so gently, I began to lead the silver king
shoreward. Every smallest move of his tail meant disaster to me, so when
he moved it I let go of the reel. Then I would have to coax him to swim
back again.
The boat touched the bank. I stood up and carefully headed my fish
toward the shore, and slid his head and shoulders out on the lily-pads.
One moment he lay there, glowing like mother-of-pearl, a rare fish,
fresh from the sea. Then, as Attalano warily reached for the leader, he
gave a gasp, a flop that deluged us with muddy water, and a lunge that
spelled freedom.
I watched him swim slowly away with my bright leader dragging beside
him. Is it not the loss of things which makes life bitter? What we have
gained is ours; what is lost is gone, whether fish, or use, or love, or
name, or fame.
I tried to put on a cheerful aspect for my guide. But it was too soon.
Attalano, wise old fellow, understood my case. A smile, warm and living,
flashed across his dark face as he spoke:
"Byme-by-tarpon."
Which defined his optimism and revived the failing spark within my
breast. It was, too, in the nature of a prophecy.
II
THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD
Strange wild adventures fall to the lot of a fisherman as well as to
that of a hunter. On board the _Monterey_, from Havana to Progreso,
Yucatan, I happened to fall into conversation with an English
globe-trotter who had just come from the Mont Pelée eruption. Like all
those wandering Englishmen, this one was exceedingly interesting. We
exchanged experiences, and I felt that I had indeed much to see and
learn of the romantic Old World.
In Merida, that wonderful tropic city of white towers and white streets
and white-gowned women, I ran into this Englishman again. I wanted to
see the magnificent ruins of Uxmal and Ake and Labna. So did he. I knew
it would be a hard trip from Muna to the ruins, and so I explained. He
smiled in a way to make me half ashamed of my doubts. We went together,
and I found him to be a splendid fellow. We parted without knowing each
other's names. I had no idea what he thought of me, but I thought he
must have been somebody.
While traveling around the coast of Yucatan I had heard of the wild and
lonely Alacranes Reef where lighthouse-keepers went insane from
solitude, and where wonderful fishes inhabited the lagoons. That was
enough for me. Forthwith I meant to go to Alacranes.
Further inquiry brought me meager but fascinating news of an island on
that lonely coral reef, called _Isla de la Muerte_ (the Island of the
Dead). Here was the haunt of a strange bird, called by Indians
_rabihorcado_, and it was said to live off the booby, another strange
sea-bird. The natives of the coast solemnly averred that when the
_rabihorcado_ could not steal fish from the booby he killed himself by
hanging in the brush. I did not believe such talk. The Spanish appeared
to be _rabi_, meaning rabies, and _horcar_, to hang.
I set about to charter a boat, and found the great difficulty in
procuring one to be with the Yucatecan government. No traveler had ever
before done such a thing. It excited suspicion. The officials thought
the United States was looking for a coaling-station. Finally, through
the help of the Ward line agent and the consul I prevailed upon them to
give me such papers as appeared necessary. Then my Indian boatmen
interested a crew of six, and I chartered a two-masted canoe-shaped bark
called the _Xpit_.
The crew of the _Hispaniola_, with the never-to-be-forgotten John Silver
and the rest of the pirates of Treasure Island, could not have been a
more villainous and piratical gang than this of the bark _Xpit_. I was
advised not to take the trip alone. But it appeared impossible to find
any one to accompany me. I grew worried, yet determined not to miss the
opportunity.
Strange to relate, as I was conversing on the dock with a ship captain
and the agent of the Ward line, lamenting the necessity of sailing for
Alacranes alone, some one near by spoke up, "Take me!"
In surprise I wheeled to see my English acquaintance who had visited the
interior of Yucatan with me. I greeted him, thanked him, but of course
did not take him seriously, and I proceeded to expound the nature of my
venture. To my further surprise, he not only wanted to go, but he was
enthusiastic.
"But it's a hard, wild trip," I protested. "Why, that crew of
barefooted, red-shirted Canary-Islanders have got me scared! Besides,
you don't know me!"
"Well, you don't know me, either," he replied, with his winning smile.
Then I awoke to my own obtuseness and to the fact that here was a real
man, in spite of the significance of a crest upon his linen.
"If you'll take a chance on me I'll certainly take one on you," I
replied, and told him who I was, and that the Ward-line agent and
American consul would vouch for me.
He offered his hand with the simple reply, "My name is C----."
If before I had imagined he was somebody, I now knew it. And that was
how I met the kindest man, the finest philosopher, the most unselfish
comrade, the greatest example and influence that it has ever been my
good fortune to know upon my trips by land or sea. I learned this during
our wonderful trip to the Island of the Dead. He never thought of
himself. Hardship to him was nothing. He had no fear of the sea, nor of
men, nor of death. It seemed he never rested, never slept, never let
anybody do what he could do instead.
That night we sailed for Alacranes. It was a white night of the tropics,
with a million stars blinking in the blue dome overhead, and the
Caribbean Sea like a shadowed opal, calm and rippling and shimmering.
The _Xpit_ was not a bark of comfort. It had a bare deck and an empty
hold. I could not stay below in that gloomy, ill-smelling pit, so I
tried to sleep on deck. I lay on a hatch under the great boom, and what
with its creaking, and the hollow roar of the sail, and the wash of the
waves, and the dazzling starlight, I could not sleep. C. sat on a coil
of rope, smoked, and watched in silence. I wondered about him then.
Sunrise on the Caribbean was glorious to behold--a vast burst of silver
and gold over a level and wrinkling blue sea. By day we sailed, tacking
here and there, like lost mariners standing for some far-off unknown
shore. That night a haze of clouds obscured the stars, and it developed
that our red-shirted skipper steered by the stars. We indeed became lost
mariners. They sounded with a greased lead and determined our latitude
by the color and character of the coral or sand that came up on the
lead. Sometimes they knew where we were and at others they did not have
any more idea than had I.
On the second morning out we reached Alacranes lighthouse; and when I
saw the flat strip of sand, without a tree or bush to lend it grace and
color, the bleak lighthouse, and the long, lonely reaches of barren
reefs from which there came incessant moaning, I did not wonder that two
former lighthouse-keepers had gone insane. The present keeper received
me with the welcome always accorded a visitor to out-of-the-world
places. He corroborated all that my Indian sailors had claimed for
the _rabihorcado_, and added the interesting information that
lighthouse-keepers desired the extinction of the birds because the
guano, deposited by them on the roofs of the keepers' houses, poisoned
the rain water--all they had to drink.
I climbed the narrow, spiral stair to the lighthouse tower, and there,
apparently lifted into the cloud-navigated sky, I awakened to the real
wonder of coral reefs. Ridges of white and brown showed their teeth
against the crawling, tireless, insatiate sea. Islets of dead coral
gleamed like bleached bone, and beds of live coral, amber as wine, lay
wreathed in restless surf. From near to far extended the rollers, the
curving channels, and the shoals, all colorful, all quivering with the
light of jewels. Golden sand sloped into the gray-green of shallow
water, and this shaded again into darker green, which in turn merged
into purple, reaching away to the far barrier reef, a white wall against
the blue, heaving ocean.
The crew had rowed us ashore with my boatmen Manuel and Augustine. And
then the red-shirted captain stated he would like to go back to Progreso
and return for us at our convenience. Hesitating over this, I finally
gave permission, on the promise that he would bring back the _Xpit_ in
one week.
So they sailed away, and left us soon to find out that we were marooned
on a desert island. When I saw how C. took it I was glad of our enforced
stay. Solitude and loneliness pervaded Alacranes. Of all the places I
had visited, this island was the most hauntingly lonely.
[Illustration: RABIHORCADO]
[Illustration: THE BOOBIES HAD NO FEAR OF MAN, BUT BOTH YOUNG AND OLD
WOULD PICK WITH THEIR SHARP BILLS]
It must have struck C. the same way, and even more powerfully than it
had me. He was a much older man, and, though so unfailingly cheerful and
helpful, he seemed to me to desire loneliness. He did not fish or shoot.
His pleasure appeared to be walking the strand, around and around the
little island, gathering bits of coral and shells and seaweeds and
strange things cast up by the tides. For hours he would sit high on the
lighthouse stairway and gaze out over the variegated mosaic of colored
reefs. My bed was a hammock in the loft of the keeper's house and it
hung close to an open door. At night I woke often, and I would look out
upon the lonely beach and sea. When the light flashed its long wheeling
gleam out into the pale obscurity of the night it always showed C.'s
dark figure on the lonely beach. I got into the habit of watching for
him, and never, at any time I happened to awake, did I fail to see him
out there. How strange he looms to me now! But I thought it was natural
then. The loneliness of that coral reef haunted me. The sound of the
sea, eternally slow and sad and moaning, haunted me like a passion. Men
are the better for solitude.
Our bark, the _Xpit_, did not come back for us. Day by day we scanned
the heaving sea, far out beyond the barrier reef, until I began to feel
like Crusoe upon his lonely isle. We had no way to know then that our
crew had sailed twice from Progreso, getting lost the first time, and
getting drunk the second, eventually returning to the home port. Some
misfortunes turn out to be blessings.
What adventures I had at Alacranes! But, alas! I cannot relate a single
story about really catching a fish. There were many and ferocious fish
that would rush any bait I tried, only I could not hold them. My tackle
was not equal to what it is now. Perhaps, however, if it had been it
would have been smashed just the same.
In front of the lighthouse there had been built a little plank dock,
running out twenty yards or so. The water was about six feet deep, and a
channel of varying width meandered between the coral reefs out to the
deep blue sea. This must have been a lane for big fish to come inside
the barrier. Almost always there were great shadows drifting around in
the water. First I tried artificial baits. Some one, hoping to convert
me, had given me a whole box of those ugly, murderous plug-baits made
famous by Robert H. Davis. Whenever I made a cast with one of these a
big fish would hit it and either strip the hooks off or break my tackle.
Some of these fish leaped clear. They looked like barracuda to me, only
they were almost as silvery as a tarpon. One looked ten feet long and as
big around as a telegraph pole. When this one smashed the water white
and leaped, Manuel yelled, "_Pecuda!_" I tried hard to catch a specimen,
and had a good many hooked, but they always broke away. I did not know
then, as I know now, that barracuda grow to twelve feet in the
Caribbean. That fact is mentioned in records and natural histories.
Out in the deeper lagoons I hooked huge fish that swam off
ponderously, dragging the skiff until my line parted. Once I was
fortunate enough to see one, which fact dispelled any possibility of its
being a shark. Manuel called it "_Cherna!_" It looked like a giant
sea-bass and would have weighed at least eight hundred pounds. The color
was lighter than any sea-bass I ever studied. My Indian boatmen claimed
this fish was a man-eater and that he and his crew had once fought one
all day and then it broke away. The fish I saw was huge enough to
swallow a man, that was certain. I think this species must have been the
great June-fish of the Gulf. I hooked one once at the mouth of the
Panuco River in Mexico and it nearly swamped the boat.
[Illustration: YOUNG BOOBIES]
[Illustration: SUGGESTIVE OF A WILD, WIND-SWEPT ISLAND OF THE SEA]
Soon my tackle was all used up, and, for want of better, I had to use
tiny hooks and thread lines--because I was going to fish, by hook or
crook! This method, however, which I learned first of all, is not to be
despised. Whenever I get my hand on a thin, light, stiff reed pole and a
long, light line of thread with a little hook, then I revert to boyhood
days and sunfish and chubs and shiners and bullheads. Could any
fisherman desire more joy? Those days are the best.
The child is father of the man
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
In the shallow water near the dock there always floated a dense school
of little fish like sardines. They drifted, floated, hovered beside the
dock, and when one of the big fish would rush near they would make a
breaking roar on the surface. Of me they evinced no fear whatever. But
no bait, natural or artificial, that I could discover, tempted them to
bite. This roused my cantankerous spirit to catch some of those little
fish or else fall inestimably in my own regard. I noted that whenever I
cast over the school it disintegrated. A circle widened from the center,
and where had been a black mass of fish was only sand. But as my hook
settled to the bottom the dark circle narrowed and closed until the
school was densely packed as before. Whereupon I tied several of the
tiny hooks together with a bit of lead, and, casting that out, I waited
till all was black around my line, then I jerked. I snagged one of the
little fish and found him to be a beautiful, silvery, flat-sided shiner
of unknown species to me. Every cast I made thereafter caught one of
them. And they were as good to eat as a sardine and better than a
mullet.
My English comrade, C., sometimes went with me, and when he did go, the
interest and kindly curiosity and pleasure upon his face were a constant
source of delight to me. I knew that I was as new a species to him as
the little fish were to me. But C. had become so nearly a perfectly
educated man that nothing surprised him, nothing made him wonder. He
sympathized, he understood, he could put himself in the place of
another. What worried me, however, was the simple fact that he did not
care to fish or shoot for the so-called sport of either. I think my
education on a higher plane began at Alacranes, in the society of that
lonely Englishman. Somehow I have gravitated toward the men who have
been good for me.
[Illustration: NESTS EVERYWHERE IN THE SAND AND MOSS]
[Illustration: THESE HUGE BLACK RABIHORCADOS WERE THE LARGEST SPECIES
OF FRIGATE OR MAN-OF-WAR BIRD]
But C. enjoyed action as well as contemplation. Once out on the shoals
when Manuel harpooned a huge hawk-bill turtle--the valuable species from
which the amber shell is derived--we had a thrilling and dangerous ride.
For the turtle hauled us at a terrific rate through the water. Then C.
joined in with the yells of the Indians. He was glad, however, when the
turtle left us stranded high upon a coral bed.
On moonlight nights when the tide was low C. especially enjoyed wading
on the shoals and hunting for the _langustas_, or giant lobsters. This
was exciting sport. We used barrel-hoops with nets, and when we saw a
lobster shining in the shallow water we waded noiselessly close to swoop
down upon him with a great splash. I was always afraid of these huge
crayfish, but C. was not. His courage might have been predatory, for he
certainly liked to eat lobster. But he had a scare one night when a
devilfish or tremendous ray got between him and the shore and made the
water fly aloft in a geyser. It was certainly fun for me to see that
dignified Englishman make tracks across the shoal.
To conclude about C., when I went on to Mexico City with him I met
friends of his there, a lord and a duke traveling incognito. C. himself
was a peer of England and a major in the English army. But I never
learned this till we got to Tampico, where they went with me for the
tarpon-fishing. They were rare fine fellows. L., the little Englishman,
could do anything under the sun, and it was from him I got my type for
Castleton, the Englishman, in _The Light of Western Stars_. I have been
told that never was there an Englishman on earth like the one I
portrayed in my novel. But my critics never fished with Lord L.!
These English friends went with me to the station to bid me good-by and
good luck. We were to part there, they to take ship for London, and I to
take train for the headwaters of the Panuco River, down which unknown
streams I was to find my way through jungle to the Gulf. Here I was told
that C. had lost his only son in the Boer War, and since then had never
been able to rest or sleep or remain in one place. That stunned me, for
I remembered that he had seemed to live only to forget himself, to think
of others. It was a great lesson to me. And now, since I have not heard
from him during the four years of the world war, I seem to divine that
he has "gone west"; he has taken his last restless, helpful journey,
along with the best and noblest of England's blood.
* * * * *
Because this fish-story has so little of fish in it does not prove that
a man cannot fish for other game than fish. I remember when I was a boy
that I went with my brother--the R. C. and the Reddy of the accompanying
pages--to fish for bass at Dillon's Falls in Ohio. Alas for Bill Dilg
and Bob Davis, who never saw this blue-blooded home of bronze-back
black-bass! In the heat of the day my brother and I jabbed our poles
into the bank, and set off to amuse ourselves some other way for a
while. When we returned my pole was pulled down and wabbling so as to
make a commotion in the water. Quickly I grasped it and pulled, while
Reddy stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Surely a big bass had taken my
bait and hooked himself. Never had I felt so heavy and strong a bass!
The line swished back and forth; my pole bent more and more as I lifted.
The water boiled and burst in a strange splash. Then! a big duck flew,
as if by magic, right out from before us. So amazed was I that he nearly
pulled the pole out of my hands. Reddy yelled wildly. The duck broke the
line and sped away.... That moment will never be forgotten. It took us
so long to realize that the duck had swallowed my minnow, hooked
himself, and happened to be under the surface when we returned.
So the point of my main story, like that of the above, is about how I
set out to catch fish, and, failing, found for such loss abundant
recompense.
* * * * *
Manuel and Augustine, my Indian sailors, embarked with me in a boat for
the Island of the Dead. Millions of marine creatures swarmed in the
labyrinthine waterways. Then, as we neared the land, "_Rabihorcado!_"
exclaimed Manuel, pointing to a black cloud hovering over the island.
As we approached the sandy strip I made it out to be about half a mile
long, lying only a few feet above the level of the sea. Hundreds of
great, black birds flew out to meet us and sailed over the boat, a
sable-winged, hoarse-voiced crowd. When we beached I sprang ashore and
ran up the sand to the edge of green. The whole end of the island was
white with birds--large, beautiful, snowy birds with shiny black bars
across their wings.
"Boobies," said Manuel and motioned me to go forward.
They greeted our approach with the most discordant din it had ever been
my fortune to hear. A mingling of honk and cackle, it manifested not
excitement so much as curiosity. I walked among the boobies, and they
never moved except to pick at me with long, sharp bills. Many were
sitting on nests, and all around in the sand were nests with eggs, and
little boobies just hatched, and others in every stage of growth, up to
big babies of birds like huge balls of pure white wool. I wondered where
the thousands of mothers were. The young ones showed no concern when I
picked them up, save to dig into me with curious bills.
I saw an old booby, close by, raise his black-barred wings, and,
flapping them, start to run across the sand. In this way he launched
himself into the air and started out to sea. Presently I noticed several
more flying away, one at a time, while others came sailing back again.
How they could sail! They had the swift, graceful flight of a falcon.
For a while I puzzled over the significance of this outgoing and
incoming. Shortly a bird soared overhead, circled with powerful sweep,
and alighted within ten feet of me. The bird watched me with gray,
unintelligent eyes. They were stupid, uncanny eyes, yet somehow so fixed
and staring as to seem accusing. One of the little white balls of wool
waddled up and, rubbing its fuzzy head against the booby, proclaimed the
filial relation. After a few rubs and wabbles the young bird opened wide
its bill and let out shrill cries. The mother bobbed up and down in
evident consternation, walked away, came back, and with an eye on me
plainly sought to pacify her fledgling. Suddenly she put her bill far
down into the wide-open bill, effectually stifling the cries. Then the
two boobies stood locked in amazing convulsions. The throat of the
mother swelled, and a lump passed into and down the throat of the young
bird. The puzzle of the flying boobies was solved in the startling
realization that the mother had returned from the sea with a fish in her
stomach and had disgorged it into the gullet of her offspring.
[Illustration: RABIHORCADO RISING FROM THEIR EGGS]
[Illustration: BOOBIES OF ISLA DE LA MUERTE IN THE CARIBBEAN SEA]
I watched this feat performed dozens of times, and at length scared a
mother booby into withdrawing her bill and dropping a fish on the sand.
It was a flying-fish fully ten inches long. I interrupted several little
dinner-parties, and in each case found the disgorged fish to be of the
flying species. The boobies flew ten, twenty miles out to the open sea
for fish, while the innumerable shoals that lay around their island were
alive with sardine and herring!
I had raised a tremendous row; so, leaving the boobies to quiet down, I
made my way toward the flocks of _rabihorcados_. Here and there in the
thick growth of green weed were boobies squatting on isolated nests. No
sooner had I gotten close to the _rabihorcados_ than I made sure they
were the far-famed frigate pelicans, or man-of-war birds. They were as
tame as the boobies; as I walked among them many did not fly at all.
Others rose with soft, swishing sound of great wings and floated in a
circle, uttering deep-throated cries, not unlike the dismal croak of
ravens. Perfectly built for the air, they were like feathers blown by a
breeze. Light, thin, long, sharp, with enormous spread of wings,
beautiful with the beauty of dead, blue-black sheen, and yet hideous,
too, with their grisly necks and cruel, crooked beaks and vulture eyes,
they were surely magnificent specimens of winged creation.
Nests of dried weeds littered the ground, and eggs and young were
everywhere. The little ones were covered with white down, and the
developing feathers on their wings were turning black. They squalled
unremittingly, which squalling I decided was not so much on my account
as because of a swarm of black flies that attacked them when the mothers
flew away. I was hard put to it myself to keep these flies, large as
pennies and as flat, from eating me alive. They slipped up my sleeves
and trousers and their bite made a wasp-sting pleasure by comparison.
By rushing into a flock of _rabihorcados_ I succeeded several times in
catching one in my hands. And spreading it out, I made guesses as to
width from tip to tip of wings. None were under seven feet; one measured
all of eight. They made no strenuous resistance and regarded me with
cold eyes. Every flock that I put to flight left several dozen little
ones squalling in the nests; and at one place an old booby waddled to
the nests and began to maltreat the young _rabihorcados_. Instincts of
humanity bade me scare the old brute away until I happened to remember
the relation existing between the two species. Then I watched. With my
own eyes I saw that grizzled booby pick and bite and wring those poor
little birds with a grim and deadly deliberation. When the mothers, soon
returning, fluttered down, they did not attack the booby, but protected
their little ones by covering them with body and wings. Conviction came
upon me that it was instinctive for the booby to kill the parasitical
_rabihorcado_; and likewise instinctive for the _rabihorcado_ to
preserve the life of the booby.
A shout from Manuel directed me toward the extreme eastern end of the
island. On the way I discovered many little dead birds, and the farther
I went the more I found. Among the low bushes were also many old
_rabihorcados_, dead and dry. Some were twisted among the network of
branches, and several were hanging in limp, grotesque, horribly
suggestive attitudes of death. Manuel had all of the Indian's leaning
toward the mystical, and he believed the _rabihorcados_ had destroyed
themselves. Starved they may very well have been, but to me the gales of
that wind-swept, ocean desert accounted for the hanging _rabihorcados_.
Still, when face to face with the island, with its strife, and its
illustration of the survival of the fittest, all that Manuel had claimed
and more, I had to acknowledge the disquieting force of the thing and
its stunning blow to an imagined knowledge of life and its secrets.
Suddenly Manuel shouted and pointed westward. I saw long white streams
of sea-birds coming toward the island. My glass showed them to be
boobies. An instant later thousands of _rabihorcados_ took wing as if
impelled by a common motive. Manuel ran ahead in his excitement, turning
to shout to me, and then to point toward the wavering, swelling, white
streams. I hurried after him, to that end of the island where we had
landed, and I found the colony of boobies in a state of great
perturbation. All were squawking, flapping wings, and waddling
frantically about. Here was fear such as had not appeared on my advent.
Thousands of boobies were returning from deep-sea fishing, and as they
neared the island they were met and set upon by a swarming army of
_rabihorcados_. Darting white and black streaks crossed the blue of sky
like a changeful web. The air was full of plaintive cries and hoarse
croaks and the windy rush of wings. So marvelous was this scene of
incredibly swift action, of kaleidoscopic change, of streaking lines and
curves, that the tragedy at first was lost upon me. Then the shrieking
of a booby told me that the robber birds were after their prey. Manuel
lay flat on the ground to avoid being struck by low-flying birds, but I
remained standing in order to see the better. Faster and faster circled
the pursued and pursuers and louder grew the cries and croaks. My gaze
was bewildered by the endless, eddying stream of birds.
Then I turned my back on sea and beach where this bee-swarm confused my
vision, and looked to see single boobies whirling here and there with
two or three black demons in pursuit. I picked out one group and turned
my glass upon it. Many battles had I seen by field and stream and
mountain, but this unequal battle by sea eclipsed all. The booby's
mother instinct was to get to her young with the precious fish that
meant life. And she would have been more than a match for any one thief.
But she could not cope successfully with two fierce _rabihorcados_; for
one soared above her, resting, watching, while the other darted and
whirled to the attack. They changed, now one black demon swooping down,
and then the other, in calculating, pitiless pursuit. How glorious she
was in poise and swerve and sweep! For what seemed a long time neither
_rabihorcado_ touched her. What distance she could have placed between
them but for that faithful mother instinct! She kept circling, ever
returning, drawn back toward the sand by the magnet of love; and the
powerful wings seemed slowly to lose strength. Closer the _rabihorcados_
swooped and rose and swooped again, till one of them, shooting down like
a black flash, struck her in the back. The white feathers flew away on
the wind. She swept up, appeared to pause wearily and quiver, then
disgorged her fish. It glinted in the sunlight. The _rabihorcado_
dropped in easy, downward curve and caught it as it fell.
So the struggle for existence continued till I seemed to see all the
world before me with its myriads of wild creatures preying upon one
another; the spirit of nature, unquenchable as the fires of the sun,
continuing ceaseless and imperturbable in its inscrutable design.
As we rowed away I looked back. Sky of a dull purple, like smoke with
fire behind it, framed the birds of power and prey in colors suitable to
their spirit. My ears were filled with the haunting sound of the sea,
the sad wash of the surf, the harmonious and mournful music of the
Island of the Dead.
III
THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA
To the great majority of anglers it may seem unreasonable to place
swordfishing in a class by itself--by far the most magnificent sport in
the world with rod and reel. Yet I do not hesitate to make this
statement and believe I can prove it.
The sport is young at this writing--very little has been written by men
who have caught swordfish. It was this that attracted me. Quite a number
of fishermen have caught a swordfish. But every one of them will have
something different to tell you and the information thus gleaned is apt
to leave you at sea, both metaphorically and actually. Quite a number of
fishermen, out after yellowtail, have sighted a swordfish, and with the
assistance of heavy tackle and their boatmen have caught that swordfish.
Some few men have caught a small swordfish so quickly and easily that
they cannot appreciate what happened. On the other hand, one very large
swordfish, a record, was caught in an hour, after a loggy rolling about,
like a shark, without leaping. But these are not fighting swordfish. Of
course, under any circumstances, it is an event to catch a swordfish.
But the accidents, the flukes, the lucky stabs of the game, do not in
any sense prove what swordfishing is or what it is not.
In August, 1914, I arrived at Avalon with tuna experience behind me,
with tarpon experience, and all the other kinds of fishing experience,
even to the hooking of a swordfish in Mexico. I am inclined to confess
that all this experience made me--well, somewhat too assured. Any one
will excuse my enthusiasm. The day of my arrival I met Parker, the
genial taxidermist of Avalon, and I started to tell him how I wanted my
swordfish mounted. He interrupted me: "Say, young fellow, you want to
catch a swordfish first!" One of the tuna boatmen gave me a harder jolt.
He said: "Well, if you fish steadily for a couple of weeks, maybe you'll
get a strike. And one swordfish caught out of ten strikes is good work!"
But Danielson was optimistic and encouraging, as any good boatman ought
to be. If I had not been fortunate enough to secure Captain Dan as my
boatman, it is certain that one of the most wonderful fishing
experiences on record would have fallen to some other fisherman, instead
of to me.
We went over to Clemente Island, which is thirty-six miles from Catalina
Island. Clemente is a mountain rising out of the sea, uninhabited,
lonely, wild, and beautiful. But I will tell about the island later.
The weather was perfect, the conditions were apparently ideal. I shall
never forget the sight of the first swordfish, with his great
sickle-shaped tail and his purple fin. Nor am I likely to forget my
disappointment when he totally ignored the flying-fish bait we trolled
before him.
That experience was but a forerunner to others just like it. Every day
we sighted one or more swordfish. But we could not get one to take hold.
Captain Dan said there was more chance of getting a strike from a
swordfish that was not visible rolling on the surface. Now a flying-fish
bait makes a rather heavy bait to troll; and as it is imperative to have
the reel free running and held lightly with the thumb, after a few hours
such trolling becomes hard work. Hard as it was, it did not wear on me
like the strain of being always ready for a strike. I doubt if any
fisherman could stand this strain.
In twenty-one days I had seen nineteen swordfish, several of which had
leaped playfully, or to shake off the remoras--parasite, blood-sucking
little fish--and the sight of every one had only served to increase my
fascination. By this time I had realized something of the difficult
nature of the game, and I had begun to have an inkling of what sport it
might be. During those twenty-one days we had trolled fifteen hundred
miles, altogether, up and down that twenty-five-mile coast of rugged
Clemente. And we had trolled round these fish in every conceivable way.
I cannot begin to describe my sensations when we circled round a
swordfish, and they grew more intense and acute as the strain and
suspense dragged. Captain Dan, of course, was mostly dominated by my
feeling. All the same, I think the strain affected him on his own
account.
Then one day Boschen came over to Clemente with Farnsworth--and let me
explain, by the way, that Boschen is probably the greatest heavy tackle
fisherman living. Boschen would not fish for anything except tuna or
swordfish, and up to this visit to Clemente he had caught many tuna, but
only one swordfish, a _Xiphias_. This is the broadbill, or true,
swordfish; and he is even rarer, and certainly larger and fiercer, than
the Marlin, or roundbill, swordfish. This time at Clemente, Boschen
caught his first Marlin and it weighed over three hundred pounds, leaped
clear into the air sixty-three times, and gave a spectacular and
magnificent surface fight that simply beggared description.
[Illustration: A SWORDFISH LEAPING OFF THE BOLD BLACK SHORE OF
CLEMENTE]
[Illustration: ON THE RAMPAGE]
It made me wild to catch one, of like weight and ferocity. I spent
several more endless days in vain. Then on the twenty-fifth day, way off
the east end of Clemente, we sighted a swordfish with a tail almost
pink. He had just come to those waters and had not yet gotten sunburnt.
We did not have to circle round him! At long distance he saw my bait,
and as he went under I saw he had headed for it. I remember that I shook
all over. And when I felt him take that bait, thrill on thrill
electrified me. Steadily the line ran off the reel. Then Captain Dan
leaned over and whispered, hoarsely:
"When you think he's had enough throw on your drag and strike. Then wind
quick and strike again.... Wind and strike! Keep it up till he shows!"
Despite my intense excitement, I was calm enough to follow directions.
But when I struck I felt no weight at all--no strain on the line.
Frantically I wound and jerked--again and again! I never felt him at
all. Suddenly my line rose--and then, bewilderingly near the boat, when
I was looking far off, the water split with a roar and out shot a huge,
gleaming, white-and-purple fish. He blurred in my sight. Down he went
with a crash. I wound the reel like a madman, but I never even half got
up the slack line. The swordfish had run straight toward the boat. He
leaped again, in a place I did not expect, and going down, instantly
came up in another direction. His speed, his savageness, stunned me. I
could not judge of his strength, for I never felt his weight. The next
leap I saw him sling the hook. It was a great performance. Then that
swordfish, finding himself free, leaped for the open sea, and every few
yards he came out in a clean jump. I watched him, too fascinated to
count the times he broke water, but he kept it up till he was out of
sight on the horizon.
At first Captain Dan took the loss harder than I took it. But gradually
I realized what had happened, and, though I made a brave effort to be
game and cheerful, I was sick. It did seem hard that, after all those
twenty-five days of patience and hope and toil, I could not have hooked
the swordfish. I see now that it was nothing, only an incident, but I
shall never forget the pang.
That day ended my 1914 experience. The strain had been too hard on me.
It had taken all this time for me to appreciate what swordfishing might
be. I assured Captain Dan I would come back in 1915, but at the time he
did not believe me. He said:
"If you hadn't stuck it out so long I wouldn't care. Most of the
fishermen try only a few days and never come back. Don't quit now!"
* * * * *
But I did go back in 1915. Long ago on my lonely desert trips I learned
the value of companions and I dreaded the strain of this swordfishing
game. I needed some one to help lessen it. Besides that, I needed
snapshot pictures of leaping swordfish, and it was obvious that Captain
Dan and I would have our hands full when a fish got hooked. We had
music, books, magazines--everything that could be thought of.
Murphy, the famous old Avalon fisherman and tackle-maker, had made me a
double split-bamboo rod, and I had brought the much-talked-of B-Ocean
reel. This is Boschen's invention--one he was years in perfecting. It
held fifteen hundred feet of No. 24 line. And I will say now that it is
a grand reel, the best on the market. But I did not know that then, and
had to go through the trip with it, till we were both tried out. Lastly,
and most important, I had worked to get into condition to fight
swordfish. For weeks I rowed a boat at home to get arms and back in
shape, and especially my hands. Let no fisherman imagine he can land a
fighting swordfish with soft hands!
So, prepared for a long, hard strain, like that of 1914, I left Avalon
hopeful, of course, but serious, determined, and alive to the
possibilities of failure.
I did not troll across the channel between the islands. There was a big
swell running, and four hours of it gave me a disagreeable feeling. Now
and then I got up to see how far off Clemente was. And upon the last of
these occasions I saw the fins of a swordfish right across our bow. I
yelled to Captain Dan. He turned the boat aside, almost on top of the
swordfish. Hurriedly I put a bait on my hook and got it overboard, and
let the line run. Then I looked about for the swordfish. He had gone
down.
It seemed then that, simultaneously with the recurrence of a peculiar
and familiar disappointment, a heavy and powerful fish viciously took my
bait and swept away. I yelled to Captain Dan:
"He's got it!" ...
Captain Dan stopped the engine and came to my side. "No!" he exclaimed.
Then I replied, "Look at that line!" ...
It seemed like a dream. Too good to be true! I let out a shout when I
hooked him and a yell of joy when he broke water--a big swordfish, over
two hundred pounds. What really transpired on Captain Dan's boat the
following few moments I cannot adequately describe. Suffice to say that
it was violent effort, excitement, and hilarity. I never counted the
leaps of the swordfish. I never clearly saw him after that first leap.
He seemed only a gleam in flying spray. Still, I did not make any
mistakes.
At the end of perhaps a quarter of an hour the swordfish quit his
surface work and settled down to under-water fighting, and I began to
find myself. Captain Dan played the phonograph, laughed, and joked while
I fought the fish. My companions watched my rod and line and the water,
wide-eyed and mute, as if they could not believe what seemed true.
In about an hour and a half the swordfish came up and, tired out, he
rolled on the top of the great swells. But he could not be drawn near
the boat. One little wave of his tail made my rod bend dangerously.
Still, I knew I had him beaten, and I calculated that in another hour,
perhaps, I could lead him alongside.
[Illustration: SWORDFISH ON THE SURFACE]
[Illustration: HOLDING HARD]
Then, like thunder out of a clear sky, something went wrong with the
great B-Ocean reel. It worked hard. When a big swell carried the
swordfish up, pulling out line, the reel rasped.
"It's freezing on you!" shouted Captain Dan, with dark glance.
A new reel sometimes clogs and stops from friction and heat. I had had
von Hofe and other reels freeze. But in this instance, it seemed that
for the reel to freeze would be simply heartbreaking. Well--it froze,
tight as a shut vise! I sat there, clutching the vibrating rod, and I
watched the swordfish as the swells lifted him. I expected the line to
break, but, instead, the hook tore out.
Next day we sighted four swordfish and tried in vain to coax one to
bite.
Next day we sighted ten swordfish, which is a record for one day. They
were indifferent.
The next three. The next one, with like result. The next day no fish
were sighted, and that fact encouraged Captain Dan.
The next day, late in the afternoon, I had a strike and hooked a
swordfish. He leaped twice and threw the hook.
The next day I got eleven jumps out of another before he gracefully
flung the hook at the boat.
The next day, a big swordfish, with a ragged purple fin, took my bait
right astern of the boat and sounded deep. I hooked him. Time and time
again I struck with all my might. The fish did not seem to mind that.
He swam along with the boat. He appeared very heavy. I was elated and
curious.
"What's he going to do?" I kept asking Captain Dan.
"Wait!" he exclaimed.
After six minutes the swordfish came up, probably annoyed by the hook
fast in him. When he showed his flippers, as Captain Dan called them, we
all burst out with wonder and awe. As yet I had no reason to fear a
swordfish.
"He's a whale!" yelled Captain Dan.
Probably this fish measured eight feet between his dorsal fin and the
great curved fluke of his tail, and that would make his total length
over twelve feet.
No doubt the swordfish associated the thing fast in his jaw with the
boat, for he suddenly awoke. He lifted himself, wagging his sword,
showing his great silvery side. Then he began to thresh. I never felt a
quarter of such power at the end of a line. He went swift as a flash.
Then he leaped sheer ahead, like a porpoise, only infinitely more
active. We all yelled. He was of great size, over three hundred, broad,
heavy, long, and the most violent and savage fish I ever had a look at.
Then he rose half--two-thirds out of the water, shaking his massive
head, jaws open, sword sweeping, and seemed to move across the water in
a growing, boiling maelstrom of foam. This was the famous "walking on
his tail" I had heard so much about. It was an incredible feat. He must
have covered fifty yards. Then he plunged down, and turned swiftly in a
curve toward the boat. He looked threatening to me. I could not manage
the slack line. One more leap and he threw the hook. I found the point
of the hook bent. It had never been embedded in his jaw. And also I
found that his violent exercise had lasted just one minute. I wondered
how long I would have lasted had the hook been deep-set.
Next day I had a swordfish take my bait, swim away on the surface,
showing the flying-fish plainly between his narrow beak, and after
fooling with it for a while he ejected it.
Next day I got a great splashing strike from another, without even a
sight of the fish.
Next day I hooked one that made nineteen beautiful leaps straightaway
before he got rid of the hook.
And about that time I was come to a sad pass. In fact, I could not
sleep, eat, or rest. I was crazy on swordfish.
Day after day, from early morning till late afternoon, aboard on the
sea, trolling, watching, waiting, eternally on the alert, I had kept at
the game. My emotional temperament made this game a particularly trying
one. And every possible unlucky, unforeseen, and sickening thing that
could happen to a fisherman had happened. I grew morbid, hopeless. I
could no longer see the beauty of that wild and lonely island, nor the
wonder of that smooth, blue Pacific, nor the myriad of strange
sea-creatures. It was a bad state of mind which I could not wholly
conquer. Only by going at it so hard, and sticking so long, without any
rests, could I gain the experience I wanted. A man to be a great
fisherman should have what makes Stewart White a great hunter--no
emotions. If a lion charged me I would imagine a million things. Once
when a Mexican _tigre_, a jaguar, charged me I--But that is not this
story. Boschen has the temperament for a great fisherman. He is
phlegmatic. All day--and day after day--he sits there, on trigger, so to
speak, waiting for the strike that will come. He is so constituted that
it does not matter to him how soon or how late the strike comes. To me
the wait, the suspense, grew to be maddening. Yet I stuck it out, and in
this I claim a victory, of which I am prouder than I am of the record
that gave me more swordfish to my credit than any other fisherman has
taken.
On the next day, August 11th, about three o'clock, I saw a long, moving
shadow back of my bait. I jumped up. There was the purple, drifting
shape of a swordfish. I felt a slight vibration when he hit the bait
with his sword. Then he took the bait. I hooked this swordfish. He
leaped eight times before he started out to sea. He took us three miles.
In an hour and five minutes I brought him to gaff--a small fish. Captain
Dan would take no chances of losing him. He risked much when he grasped
the waving sword with his right hand, and with the gaff in his left he
hauled the swordfish aboard and let him slide down into the cockpit. For
Captain Dan it was no less an overcoming of obstinate difficulty than
for me. He was as elated as I, but I forgot the past long, long siege,
while he remembered it.
That swordfish certainly looked a tiger of the sea. He had purple fins,
long, graceful, sharp; purple stripes on a background of dark, mottled
bronze green; mother-of-pearl tint fading into the green; and great
opal eyes with dark spots in the center. The colors came out most
vividly and exquisitely, the purple blazing, just as the swordfish
trembled his last and died. He was nine feet two inches long and weighed
one hundred and eighteen pounds.
[Illustration: A CLEAN GREYHOUND LEAP]
[Illustration: 316-POUND SWORDFISH]
* * * * *
I caught one the next day, one hundred and forty-four pounds. Fought
another the next day and he threw the hook after a half-hour. Caught two
the following day--one hundred and twenty, and one hundred and sixty-six
pounds. And then, Captain Dan foreshadowing my remarkable finish,
exclaimed:
"I'm lookin' for busted records now!"
* * * * *
One day about noon the sea was calm except up toward the west end, where
a wind was whipping the water white. Clemente Island towered with its
steep slopes of wild oats and its blue cañons full of haze.
Captain Dan said he had seen a big swordfish jump off to the west, and
we put on full speed. He must have been a mile out and just where the
breeze ruffled the water. As good luck would have it, we came upon the
fish on the surface. I consider this a fine piece of judgment for
Captain Dan, to locate him at that distance. He was a monster and fresh
run from the outside sea. That is to say, his great fin and tail were
violet, almost pink in color. They had not had time to get sunburnt, as
those of fish earlier arrived at Clemente.
We made a wide circle round him, to draw the flying-fish bait near him.
But before we could get it near he went down. The same old story, I
thought, with despair--these floating fish will not bite. We circled
over the place where he had gone down, and I watched my bait rising and
falling in the low swells.
Suddenly Captain Dan yelled and I saw a great blaze of purple and silver
green flashing after my bait. It was the swordfish, and he took the bait
on the run. That was a moment for a fisherman! I found it almost
impossible to let him have enough line. All that I remember about the
hooking of him was a tremendous shock. His first dash was irresistibly
powerful, and I had a sensation of the absurdity of trying to stop a
fish like that. Then the line began to rise on the surface and to
lengthen in my sight, and I tried to control my rapture and fear enough
to be able to see him clearly when he leaped. The water split, and up he
shot--a huge, glittering, savage, beautiful creature, all purple and
opal in the sunlight. He did not get all the way out of the water, but
when he dropped back he made the water roar.
Then, tearing off line, he was out of the water in similar leaps--seven
times more. Captain Dan had his work cut out for him as well as I had
mine. It was utterly impossible to keep a tight line, and when I felt
the slacking of weight I grew numb and sick--thinking he was gone. But
he suddenly straightened the line with a jerk that lifted me, and he
started inshore. He had about four hundred feet of line out, and more
slipping out as if the drag was not there. Captain Dan headed the boat
after him at full speed. Then followed a most thrilling race. It was
over very quickly, but it seemed an age. When he stopped and went down
he had pulled thirteen hundred feet off my reel while we were chasing
him at full speed. While he sounded I got back half of this line. I wish
I could give some impression of the extraordinary strength and speed of
this royal purple fish of the sea. He came up again, in two more leaps,
one of which showed me his breadth of back, and then again was performed
for me the feature of which I had heard so much and which has made the
swordfish the most famous of all fish--he rose two-thirds out of the
water, I suppose by reason of the enormous power of his tail, though it
seemed like magic, and then he began to walk across the sea in a great
circle of white foam, wagging his massive head, sword flying, jaws wide,
dorsal fin savagely erect, like a lion's mane. He was magnificent. I
have never seen fury so expressed or such an unquenchable spirit. Then
he dropped back with a sudden splash, and went down and down and down.
All swordfish fight differently, and this one adopted tuna tactics. He
sounded and began to plug away and bang the leader with his tail. He
would take off three hundred feet of line, and then, as he slowed up, I,
by the labor of Hercules, pulled and pumped and wound most of it back on
the reel. This kept up for an hour--surely the hardest hour's work of my
life.
But a swordfish is changeable. That is the beauty of his gameness. He
left off sounding and came up to fight on the surface. In the next hour
he pulled us from the Fence to Long Point, a distance of four miles.
Once off the Point, where the tide rip is strong, he began to circle in
great, wide circles. Strangely, he did not put out to sea. And here,
during the next hour, I had the finest of experiences I think that ever
befell a fisherman. I was hooked to a monster fighting swordfish; I was
wet with sweat, and salt water that had dripped from my reel, and I was
aching in every muscle. The sun was setting in banks of gold and silver
fog over the west end, and the sea was opalescent--vast, shimmering,
heaving, beautiful. And at this sunset moment, or hour--for time seemed
nothing--a school of giant tuna began leaping around us, smashing the
water, making the flying-fish rise in clouds, like drifting bees. I saw
a whole flock of flying-fish rise into the air with that sunset glow and
color in the background, and the exquisite beauty of life and movement
was indescribable. Next a bald eagle came soaring down, and, swooping
along the surface, he lowered his talons to pick up a crippled
flying-fish. And when the hoary-headed bird rose, a golden eagle, larger
and more powerful, began to contest with him for the prey.
Then the sky darkened and the moon whitened--and my fight went on. I had
taken the precaution to work for two months at rowing to harden my hands
for just such a fight as this. Yet my hands suffered greatly. A man who
is not in the best of physical trim, with his hands hard, cannot hope to
land a big swordfish.
I was all afternoon at this final test, and all in, too, but at last I
brought him near enough for Captain Dan to grasp the leader.... Then
there was something doing around that boat for a spell! I was positive
a German torpedo had hit us. But the explosion was only the swordfish's
tail and Dan's voice yelling for another gaff. When Captain Dan got the
second gaff in him there was another submarine attack, but the boat did
not sink.
Next came the job of lassoing the monster's tail. Here I shone, for I
had lassoed mountain-lions with Buffalo Jones, and I was efficient and
quick. Captain Dan and I were unable to haul the fish on board, and we
had to get out the block and tackle and lift the tail on deck, secure
that, and then pull up the head from the other side. After that I needed
some kind of tackle to hold me up.
We were miles from camp, and I was wet and cold and exhausted, and the
pain in my blistered hands was excruciating. But not soon shall I forget
that ride down the shore with the sea so rippling and moon-blanched, and
the boom of the surf on the rocks, and the peaks of the island standing
bold and dark against the white stars.
This swordfish weighed three hundred and sixteen pounds on faulty scales
at Clemente. He very likely weighed much more. He was the largest
Captain Dan ever saw, up to that time. Al Shade guessed his weight at
three hundred and sixty. The market fishermen, who put in at the little
harbor the next day, judged him way over three hundred, and these men
are accurate. The fish hung head down for a day and night, lost all the
water and blood and feed in him, and another day later, when landed at
Avalon, he had lost considerable. There were fishermen who discredited
Captain Dan and me, who in our enthusiasm claimed a record.
But--that sort of thing is one of the aspects of the sport. I was sorry,
for Captain Dan's sake. The rivalries between boatmen are keen and
important, and they are fostered by unsportsman-like fishermen. And
fishermen live among past associations; they grow to believe their
performances unbeatable and they hate to see a new king crowned. This
may be human, since we are creatures who want always to excel, but it is
irritating to the young fishermen. As for myself, what did I care how
much the swordfish weighed? He was huge, magnificent, beautiful, and
game to the end of that four-hour battle. Who or what could change
that--or the memory of those schools of flying-fish in the sunset
glow--or the giant tuna, smashing the water all about me--or the eagles
fighting over my head--or the beauty of wild and lonely Clemente under
its silver cloud-banks?
* * * * *
I went on catching one or two swordfish every day, and Captain Dan
averred that the day would come when we would swamp the boat. These days
were fruitful of the knowledge of swordfish that I had longed to earn.
They are indeed "queer birds." I learned to recognize the sharp
vibration of my line when a swordfish rapped the bait with his sword. No
doubt he thought he thus killed his prey. Then the strike would come
invariably soon after. No two swordfish acted or fought alike. I hooked
one that refused to stand the strain of the line. He followed the boat,
and was easily gaffed. I hooked another, a heavy fish, that did not show
for two hours. We were sure we had a broadbill, and were correspondingly
worried. The broadbill swordfish is a different proposition. He is
larger, fiercer, and tireless. He will charge the boat, and nothing but
the churning propeller will keep him from ramming the boat. There were
eight broadbill swordfish hooked at Avalon during the summer, and not
one brought to gaff. This is an old story. Only two have been caught to
date. They are so powerful, so resistless, so desperate, and so cunning
that it seems impossible to catch them. They will cut bait after bait
off your hook as clean as if it had been done with a knife. For that
matter, their broad bill is a straight, long, powerful two-edged sword.
And the fish perfectly understands its use.
This matter of swordfish charging the boat is apt to be discredited by
fishermen. But it certainly is not doubted by the few who know. I have
seen two swordfish threaten my boat, and one charge it. Walker, an
Avalon boatman, tells of a prodigious battle his angler had with a
broadbill giant calculated to weigh five hundred pounds. This fight
lasted eight hours. Many times the swordfish charged the boat and lost
his nerve. If that propeller had stopped he would have gone through the
boat as if it had been paper. After this fish freed himself he was so
mad that he charged the boat repeatedly. Boschen fought a big broadbill
for eleven hours. And during this fight the swordfish sounded to the
bottom forty-eight times, and had to be pumped up; he led the boat
almost around Catalina Island--twenty-nine miles; and he had gotten out
into the channel, headed for Clemente, when he broke away. This fish did
everything. I consider this battle the greatest on record. Only a man of
enormous strength and endurance could have lasted so long--not to speak
of the skill and wits necessary on the part of both fisherman and
boatman. All fishermen fish for the big fish, though it is sport to
catch any game fish, irrespective of size. But let any fisherman who has
nerve see and feel a big swordfish on his line, and from that moment he
is obsessed. Why, a tarpon is child's play compared to holding a fast
swordfish.
It is my great ambition now to catch a broadbill. That would completely
round out my fishing experience. And I shall try. But I doubt that I
will be so fortunate. It takes a long time. Boschen was years catching
his fish. Moreover, though it is hard to get a broadbill to bite--and
harder to hook him--it is infinitely harder to do anything with him
after you do get fast to him.
* * * * *
A word about Avalon boatmen. They are a fine body of men. I have heard
them maligned. Certainly they have petty rivalries and jealousies, but
this is not their fault. They fish all the seasons around and have been
there for years. Boatmen at Long Key and other Florida resorts--at
Tampico, Aransas Pass--are not in the same class with the Avalon men.
They want to please and to excel, and to number you among their patrons
for the future. And the boats--nowhere are there such splendid boats.
Captain Danielson's boat had utterly spoiled me for fishing out of
any other. He had it built, and the ideas of its construction were a
product of fifteen years' study. It is thirty-eight feet long, and wide,
with roomy, shaded cockpit and cabin, and comfortable revolving chairs
to fish from. These chairs have moving sockets into which you can jam
the butt of your rod; and the backs can be removed in a flash. Then you
can haul at a fish! The boat lies deep, with heavy ballast in the stern.
It has a keel all the way, and an enormous rudder. Both are constructed
so your line can slip under the boat without fouling. It is equipped
with sail and a powerful engine. Danielson can turn this boat, going at
full speed, in its own length! Consider the merit of this when a tuna
strikes, or a swordfish starts for the open sea. How many tarpon,
barracuda, amberjack, and tuna I have lost on the Atlantic seaboard just
because the boat could not be turned in time!
[Illustration: THE WILD OATS SLOPE OF CLEMENTE]
[Illustration: WHERE THE DEEP-BLUE SWELL BOOMS AGAINST THE LAVA WALL
OF CLEMENTE ISLAND]
* * * * *
Clemente Island is a mountain of cliffs and caves. It must be of
volcanic origin, and when the lava rose, hot and boiling, great
blow-holes formed, and hardened to make the caves. It is an exceedingly
beautiful island. The fishing side is on the north, or lee, shore, where
the water is very deep right off the rocks. There are kelp-beds along
the shore, and the combination of deep water, kelp, and small fish is
what holds the swordfish there in August and September. I have seen
acres of flying-fish in the air at once, and great swarms of yellowtail,
basking on the surface. The color of the water is indigo blue, clear as
crystal. Always a fascinating thing for me was to watch the water for
new and different fish, strange marine creatures, life of some kind. And
the watching was always rewarded. I have been close to schools of
devilish blackfish, and I have watched great whales play all around me.
What a spectacle to see a whale roll and dip his enormous body and bend
and sound, lifting the huge, glistening flukes of his tail, wide as a
house! I hate sharks and have caught many, both little and big. When you
are watching for swordfish it is no fun to have a big shark break for
your bait, throw the water, get your hook, and lift you from your seat.
It happened often. But sometimes when I was sure it was a shark it was
really a swordfish! I used to love to watch the sunfish leap, they are
so round and glistening and awkward. I could tell one two miles away.
The blue shark leaps often and he always turns clear over. You cannot
mistake it. Nor can you mistake a swordfish when he breaks, even though
you only see the splash. He makes two great sheets of water rise and
fall. Probably all these fish leap to shake off the remoras. A remora is
a parasite, a queer little fish, pale in color, because he probably
lives inside the gills of the fish he preys upon, with the suckers on
top of his head, arranged in a shield, ribbed like a washboard. This
little fish is as mysterious as any creature of the sea. He is as swift
as lightning. He can run over the body of a swordfish so quickly you
can scarcely follow his movement, and at all times he is fast to the
swordfish, holding with that flat sucker head. Mr. Holder wrote years
ago that the remora sticks to a fish just to be carried along, as a
means of travel, but I do not incline to this belief. We found many
remoras inside the gills of swordfish, and their presence there was
evidence of their blood-sucking tendencies. I used to search every
swordfish for these remoras, and I would keep them in a bucket till
we got to our anchorage. A school of tame rock-bass there, and tame
yellowtail, and a few great sea-bass were always waiting for us--for our
discarded bait or fish of some kind. But when I threw in a live remora,
how these hungry fish did dart away! Life in the ocean is strange,
complex, ferocious, and wonderful.
Al Shade keeps the only camp at Clemente. It is a clean, comfortable,
delightful place. I have found no place where sleep is so easy, so
sweet, so deep. Shade lives a lonely life there ten months in the year.
And it is no wonder that when a fisherman arrives Al almost kills
himself in his good humor and kindness and usefulness. Men who live
lonely lives are always glad to see their fellow-men. But he loves
Clemente Island. Who would not?
When I think of it many pictures come to mind--evening with the sea
rolling high and waves curving shoreward in great dark ripples, that
break and spread white and run up the strand. The sky is pale blue
above, a green sheen low down, with white stars blinking. The
promontories run down into the sea, sheer, black, rugged, bold, mighty.
The surf is loud and deep, detonating, and the pebbles scream as the
waves draw them down. Strange to realize that surf when on the morrow
the sea will be like glass--not a wave nor a ripple under the gray fog!
Wild and beautiful Clemente--the island of caves and cañons and
cliffs--lilac and cactus and ice-plant and arbor-vitæ and ironwood, with
the wild goats silhouetted dark against the bold sky-line!
* * * * *
There came that day of all days. I never believed Captain Dan, but now I
shall never forget. The greatest day that ever befell me! I brought four
swordfish to gaff and whipped another, the biggest one of the whole
trip, and saw him tear away from the hook just at the last--in all, nine
hours of strenuous hanging on to a rod.
I caught the first one before six o'clock, as the sun was rising
red-gold, dazzling, glorious. He leaped in the sun eleven times. He
weighed one hundred and eighty-seven.
After breakfast we sighted two swordfish on the smooth sea. Both charged
the bait. I hooked one of these and he leaped twenty-three times. He
weighed one hundred and sixty-eight.
Then off the east end we saw a big swordfish leap five times. We went
out toward the open sea. But we never got anywhere near him. I had three
strikes, one after another, when we were speeding the boat. Then we shut
down and took to slow trolling. I saw another swordfish sail for my
bait, and yelled. He shot off with the bait and his dorsal fin stuck out
of the water. I hooked him. He leaped thirty-eight times. How the camera
did snap during this fight! He weighed two hundred and ten.
I had a fierce strike on the way in. Too fast! We lost him.
"The sea's alive with swordfish!" cried Captain Dan. "It's the day!"
Then I awoke to my opportunity.
Round the east end, close to the great black bluff, where the swells
pile up so thunderously, I spied the biggest purple fin I had ever seen.
This fellow came to meet us--took my bait. I hooked at him, but did not
hurt or scare him. Finally I pulled the hook out of him. While I was
reeling in my line suddenly a huge purple shadow hove in sight. It was
the swordfish--and certainly one of immense size--the hugest yet.
"He's following the boat!" yelled Captain Dan, in great excitement.
So I saw, but I could not speak or yell. All was intense excitement on
that boat. I jumped up on the stern, holding the bait Captain Dan had
put on my hook. Then I paused to look. We all looked, spellbound. That
was a sight of a lifetime. There he swam, the monster, a few feet under
the surface, only a rod back of the boat. I had no calm judgment with
which to measure his dimensions. I only saw that he was tremendous and
beautiful. His great, yard-wide fins gleamed royal purple. And the
purple strips crossed his silver sides. He glowed in the water, changed
color like a chameleon, and drifted, floated after us. I thought of my
brother Reddy--how he would have gloried in that sight! I thought of
Dilg, of Bob Davis, of Professor Kellogg--other great fishermen, all in
a flash. Indeed, though I gloated over my fortune, I was not selfish.
Then I threw in the flying-fish bait. The swordfish loomed up, while my
heart ceased to beat. There, in plain sight, he took the bait, as a
trout might have taken a grasshopper. Slowly he sank. The line began to
slip off the reel. He ceased to be a bright purple mass--grew dim--then
vague--and disappeared.
I sat down, jammed the rod in the socket, and got ready. For the life of
me I could not steady my legs.
"What'll he weigh?" I gasped.
"O Lord! he looked twice as big as the big one you got," replied Dan.
"Stand by with the cameras!" I said to my companions, and as they lined
up, two on one side and one on the other, I began to strike at that fish
with all my might and main. I must have had at least twelve powerful
strikes before he began to wake up.
Then!
He came up, throwing the water in angry spouts. If he did not threaten
the boat I was crazy. He began an exhibition that dwarfed any other I
had seen, and it was so swift that I could scarcely follow him. Yet when
I saw the line rise, and then the wonderful, long, shiny body, instinct
with fury, shoot into the air, I yelled the number of the leap, and this
was the signal for the camera-workers. They held the cameras close,
without trying to focus, facing the fish, and they snapped when I
yelled. It was all gloriously exciting. I could never describe that
exhibition. I only know that he leaped clear forty-six times, and after
a swift, hard hour for me he got away. Strangely, I was almost happy
that he had shaken loose, for he had given such remarkable opportunities
for pictures.
Captain Dan threw the wheel hard over and the boat turned. The
swordfish, tired out and unconscious of freedom, was floating near the
surface, a drifting blaze of purple. The boat sheered close to him.
Captain Dan reached over with a gaff--and all but gaffed that swordfish
before he sank too deep. Captain Dan was white with disappointment. That
more than anything showed me his earnestness, what it all meant to him.
On the way in, for we had been led out a couple of miles, I saw a blue
streak after my bait, and I was ready before the swordfish got to it. He
struck viciously and I dared not let him have much line. When I hooked
him he started out to sea at a clip that smoked the line off my reel.
Captain Dan got the boat turned before the swordfish began to leap. Then
it was almost a straightaway race. This fellow was a greyhound leaper.
He did not churn the water, nor dash to and fro on the surface, but kept
steadily leaping ahead. He cleared the water thirty-nine times before he
gave up leaping. Then he sounded. The line went slack. I thought he was
gone. Suddenly he showed again, in a white splash, and he was not half
as far away as when he went down. Then I felt the pull on the line. It
was heavy, for he had left a great bag in it. I endeavored to recover
line, but it came in very slowly. The swordfish then threshed on the
surface so that we could hear the water crack. But he did not leap
again. He had gone mad with rage. He seemed to have no sense of
direction. He went down again, only to rush up, still closer to us. Then
it was plain he saw the nature of his foe. Splitting water like a swift
motor-boat, he charged us.
I had a cold sensation, but was too excited to be afraid. Almost I
forgot to reel in.
"He's after us!" I said, grimly.
Captain Dan started the boat ahead fast. The swordfish got out of line
with the boat. But he was close, and he made me think of the charging
rhinoceros Dugmore photographed. And then I yelled for the cameras to be
snapped. They all clicked--and then, when the swordfish shot close
behind us, presenting the most magnificent picture, no one was ready!
As he passed I thought I saw the line round his body. Then he sounded
and began to plug. He towed us six miles out to sea. I could not stop
him. I had begun to weaken. My hands were sights. My back hurt. But I
stayed with him. He felt like a log and I could not recover line.
Captain Dan said it was because I was almost all in, but I did not think
that. Presently this swordfish turned inshore and towed us back the six
miles. By this time it was late and I _was_ all in. But the swordfish
did not seem nearer the boat. I got mad and found some reserve strength.
I simply had to bring him to gaff. I pulled and pumped and wound until I
was blind and could scarcely feel. My old blisters opened and bled. My
left arm was dead. I seemed to have no more strength than a kitten. I
could not lead the fish nor turn him. I had to drag and drag, inch by
inch. It was agonizing. But finally I was encouraged by sight of him, a
long, fine, game fellow. A hundred times I got the end of the double
line near the leader in sight, only to lose it.
Seven o'clock passed. I had fought this swordfish nearly three hours. I
could not last much longer. I rested a little, holding hard, and then
began a last and desperate effort to bring him to gaff. I was absolutely
dripping with sweat, and red flashes passed before my eyes, and queer
dots. The last supreme pull--all I had left--brought the end of the
leader to Captain Dan's outstretched hand.
The swordfish came in broadside. In the clear water we saw him plainly,
beautifully striped tiger that he was! And we all saw that he had not
been hooked. He had been lassoed. In some way the leader had looped
around him with the hook catching under the wire. No wonder it had
nearly killed me to bring him to the boat, and surely I never would have
succeeded had it not been for the record Captain Dan coveted. That was
the strangest feature in all my wonderful Clemente experience--to see
that superb swordfish looped in a noose of my long leader. He was
without a scratch. It may serve to give some faint idea of the
bewildering possibilities in the pursuit of this royal purple game of
the Pacific.
IV
TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH
My first day at Avalon, 1916, was one likely to be memorable among my
fishing experiences.
The weather (August 2d) was delightful--smooth, rippling sea, no wind,
clear sky and warm. The Sierra Nevada Mountains shone dark above the
horizon.
A little before noon we passed my friend Lone Angler, who hailed us and
said there was a big broadbill swordfish off in the steamer-course. We
steered off in that direction.
There were sunfish and sharks showing all around. Once I saw a whale.
The sea was glassy, with a long, heaving swell. Birds were plentiful in
scattered groups.
We ran across a shark of small size and tried to get him to take a bait.
He refused. A little later Captain Dan espied a fin, and upon running up
we discovered the huge, brown, leathery tail and dorsal of a broadbill
swordfish.
Captain Dan advised a long line out so that we could circle the fish
from a distance and not scare him. I do not remember any unusual
excitement. I was curious and interested. Remembering all I had heard
about these fish, I did not anticipate getting a strike from him.
We circled him and drew the flying-fish bait so that he would swim near
it. As it was, I had to reel in some. Presently we had the bait some
twenty yards ahead of him. Then Captain Dan slowed down. The broadbill
wiggled his tail and slid out of sight. Dan said he was going for my
bait. But I did not believe so. Several moments passed. I had given up
any little hope I might have had when I received a quick, strong,
vibrating strike--different from any I had ever experienced. I suppose
the strangeness was due to the shock he gave my line when he struck the
bait with his sword. The line paid out unsteadily and slowly. I looked
at Dan and he looked at me. Neither of us was excited nor particularly
elated. I guess I did not realize what was actually going on.
I let him have about one hundred and fifty feet of line.
When I sat down to jam the rod-butt in the socket I had awakened to
possibilities. Throwing on the drag and winding in until my line was
taut, I struck hard--four times. He made impossible any more attempts at
this by starting off on a heavy, irresistible rush. But he was not fast,
or so it seemed to me. He did not get more than four hundred feet of
line before we ran up on him. Presently he came to the surface to thresh
around. He did not appear scared or angry. Probably he was annoyed at
the pricking of the hook. But he kept moving, sometimes on the surface
and sometimes beneath. I did not fight him hard, preferring to let him
pull out the line, and then when he rested I worked on him to recover
it. My idea was to keep a perpetual strain upon him.
I do not think I had even a hope of bringing this fish to the boat.
It was twelve o'clock exactly when I hooked him, and a quarter of an
hour sped by. My first big thrill came when he leaped. This was a
surprise. He was fooling round, and then, all of a sudden, he broke
water clear. It was an awkward, ponderous action, and looked as if he
had come up backward, like a bucking bronco. His size and his long,
sinister sword amazed me and frightened me. It gave me a cold sensation
to realize I was hooked to a huge, dangerous fish. But that in itself
was a new kind of thrill. No boatman fears a Marlin as he does the true
broadbill swordfish.
My second thrill came when the fish lunged on the surface in a red foam.
If I had hooked him so he bled freely there was a chance to land him!
This approach to encouragement, however, was short-lived. He went down,
and if I had been hooked to a submarine I could scarcely have felt more
helpless. He sounded about five hundred feet and then sulked. I had the
pleasant task of pumping him up. This brought the sweat out upon me and
loosened me up. I began to fight him harder. And it seemed that as I
increased the strain he grew stronger and a little more active. Still
there was not any difference in his tactics. I began to get a conception
of the vitality and endurance of a broadbill in contrast with the speed
and savageness of his brother fish, the Marlin, or roundbill.
At two o'clock matters were about the same. I was not tired, but
certainly the fish was not tired, either. He came to the surface just
about as much as he sounded. I had no difficulty at all in getting back
the line he took, at least all save a hundred feet or so. When I tried
to lead him or lift him--then I got his point of view. He would not
budge an inch. There seemed nothing to do but let him work on the drag,
and when he had pulled out a few hundred feet of line we ran up on him
and I reeled in the line. Now and then I put all the strain I could on
the rod and worked him that way.
At three o'clock I began to get tired. My hands hurt. And I concluded I
had been rather unlucky to start on a broadbill at the very beginning.
From that time he showed less frequently, and, if anything, he grew
slower and heavier. I felt no more rushes. And along about this time I
found I could lead him somewhat. This made me begin to work hard. Yet,
notwithstanding, I had no hope of capturing the fish. It was only
experience.
Captain Dan kept saying: "Well, you wanted to hook up with a broadbill!
Now how do you like it?" He had no idea I would ever land him. Several
times I asked him to give an opinion as to the size of the swordfish,
but he would not venture that until he had gotten a good close view of
him.
At four o'clock I made the alarming discovery that the great B-Ocean
reel was freezing, just as my other one had frozen on my first swordfish
the year previous. Captain Dan used language. He threw up his hands. He
gave up. But I did not.
"Dan, see here," I said. "We'll run up on him, throw off a lot of slack
line, then cut it and tie it to another reel!"
"We might do that. But it'll disqualify the fish," he replied.
Captain Dan, like all the boatmen at Avalon, has fixed ideas about the
Tuna Club and its records and requirements. It is all right, I suppose,
for a club to have rules, and not count or credit an angler who breaks a
rod or is driven to the expedient I had proposed. But I do not fish for
clubs or records. I fish for the fun, the excitement, the thrill of the
game, and I would rather let my fish go than not. So I said:
"We'll certainly lose the fish if we don't change reels. I am using the
regulation tackle, and to my mind the more tackle we use, provided we
land the fish, the more credit is due us. It is not an easy matter to
change reels or lines or rods with a big fish working all the time."
Captain Dan acquiesced, but told me to try fighting him a while with the
light drag and the thumb-brake. So far only the heavy drag had frozen. I
tried Dan's idea, to my exceeding discomfort; and the result was that
the swordfish drew far away from us. Presently the reel froze solid. The
handle would not turn. But with the drag off the spool ran free.
Then we ran away from the fish, circling and letting out slack line.
When we came to the end of the line we turned back a little, and with a
big slack we took the risk of cutting the line and tying it on the other
reel. We had just got this done when the line straightened tight! I
wound in about twelve hundred feet of line and was tired and wet when I
had gotten in all I could pull. This brought us to within a couple of
hundred feet of our quarry. Also it brought us to five o'clock. Five
hours!... I began to have queer sensations--aches, pains, tremblings,
saggings. Likewise misgivings!
About this period I determined to see how close to the boat I could pull
him. I worked. The word "worked" is not readily understood until a man
has tried to pull a big broadbill close to the boat. I pulled until I
saw stars and my bones cracked. Then there was another crack. The rod
broke at the reel seat! And the reel seat was bent. Fortunately the line
could still pay out. And I held the tip while Dan pried and hammered the
reel off the broken butt on to another one. Then he put the tip in that
butt, and once more I had to reel in what seemed miles and miles of
line.
Five thirty! It seemed around the end of the world for me. We had
drifted into a tide-rip about five miles east of Avalon, and in this
rough water I had a terrible time trying to hold my fish. When I
discovered that I could hold him--and therefore that he was playing
out--then there burst upon me the dazzling hope of actually bringing him
to gaff. It is something to fight a fish for more than five hours
without one single hope of his capture. I had done that. And now,
suddenly, to be fired with hope gave me new strength and spirit to work.
The pain in my hands was excruciating. I was burning all over; wet and
slippery, and aching in every muscle. These next few minutes seemed
longer than all the hours. I found that to put the old strain on the
rod made me blind with pain. There was no fun, no excitement, no thrill
now. As I labored I could not help marveling at the strange, imbecile
pursuits of mankind. Here I was in an agony, absolutely useless. Why did
I keep it up? I could not give up, and I concluded I was crazy.
I conceived the most unreasonable hatred for that poor swordfish that
had done nothing to me and that certainly would have been justified in
ramming the boat.
To my despair the fish sounded deep, going down and down. Captain Dan
watched the line. Finally it ceased to pay out.
"Pump him up!" said Dan.
This was funny. It was about as funny as death.
I rested awhile and meditated upon the weakness of the flesh. The thing
most desirable and beautiful in all the universe was rest. It was so
sweet to think of that I was hard put to it to keep from tossing the rod
overboard. There was something so desperately trying and painful in this
fight with a broadbill. At last I drew a deep, long breath, and, with a
pang in my breast and little stings all over me, I began to lift on him.
He was at the bottom of the ocean. He was just as unattainable as the
bottom of the ocean. But there are ethics of a sportsman!
Inch by inch and foot by foot I pumped up this live and dragging weight.
I sweat, I panted, I whistled, I bled--and my arms were dead, and my
hands raw and my heart seemed about to burst.
Suddenly Captain Dan electrified me.
"There's the end of the double line!" he yelled.
Unbelievable as it was, there the knot in the end of the short six feet
of double line showed at the surface. I pumped and I reeled inch by
inch.
A long dark object showed indistinctly, wavered as the swells rose, then
showed again. As I strained at the rod so I strained my eyes.
"I see the leader!" yelled Dan, in great excitement.
I saw it, too, and I spent the last ounce of strength left in me. Up and
up came the long, dark, vague object.
"You've got him licked!" exclaimed Dan. "Not a wag left in him!"
It did seem so. And that bewildering instant saw the birth of assurance
in me. I was going to get him! That was a grand instant for a fisherman.
I could have lifted anything then.
The swordfish became clear to my gaze. He was a devilish-looking
monster, two feet thick across the back, twelve feet long over all, and
he would have weighed at the least over four hundred pounds. And I had
beaten him! That was there to be seen. He had none of the beauty and
color of the roundbill swordfish. He was dark, almost black, with huge
dorsal and tail, and a wicked broad sword fully four feet long. What
terrified me was his enormous size and the deadly look of him. I
expected to see him rush at the boat.
Watching him thus, I reveled in my wonderful luck. Up to this date there
had been only three of these rare fish caught in twenty-five years of
Avalon fishing. And this one was far larger than those that had been
taken.
"Lift him! Closer!" called Captain Dan. "In two minutes I'll have a gaff
in him!"
I made a last effort. Dan reached for the leader.
Then the hook tore out.
My swordfish, without a movement of tail or fin, slowly sank--to vanish
in the blue water.
* * * * *
After resting my blistered hands for three days, which time was scarcely
long enough to heal them, I could not resist the call of the sea.
We went off Seal Rocks and trolled about five miles out. We met a
sand-dabber who said he had seen a big broadbill back a ways. So we
turned round. After a while I saw a big, vicious splash half a mile
east, and we made for it. Then I soon espied the fish.
We worked around him awhile, but he would not take a barracuda or a
flying-fish.
It was hard to keep track of him, on account of rough water. Soon he
went down.
Then a little later I saw what Dan called a Marlin. He had big flippers,
wide apart. I took him for a broadbill.
We circled him, and before he saw a bait he leaped twice, coming about
half out, with belly toward us. He looked huge, but just how big it was
impossible to say.
After a while he came up, and we circled him. As the bait drifted round
before him--twenty yards or more off--he gave that little wiggle of the
tail sickle, and went under. I waited. I had given up hope when I felt
him hit the bait. Then he ran off, pretty fast. I let him have a long
line. Then I sat down and struck him. He surged off, and we all got
ready to watch him leap. But he did not show.
He swam off, sounded, came up, rolled around, went down again. But we
did not get a look at him. He fought like any other heavy swordfish.
In one and one-half hours I pulled him close to the boat, and we all saw
him. But I did not get a good look at him as he wove to and fro behind
the boat.
Then he sounded.
I began to work on him, and worked harder. He seemed to get stronger all
the time.
"He feels like a broadbill, I tell you," I said to Captain Dan.
Dan shook his head, yet all the same he looked dubious.
Then began a slow, persistent, hard battle between me and the fish, the
severity of which I did not realize at the time. In hours like those
time has wings. My hands grew hot. They itched, and I wanted to remove
the wet gloves. But I did not, and sought to keep my mind off what had
been half-healed blisters. Neither the fish nor I made any new moves, it
all being plug on his part and give and take on mine. Slowly and
doggedly he worked out toward the sea, and while the hours passed, just
as persistently he circled back.
Captain Dan came to stand beside me, earnestly watching the rod bend and
the line stretch. He shook his head.
"That's a big Marlin and you've got him foul-hooked," he asserted. This
statement was made at the end of three hours and more. I did not agree.
Dan and I often had arguments. He always tackled me when I was in some
such situation as this--for then, of course, he had the best of it. My
brother Rome was in the boat that day, an intensely interested observer.
He had not as yet hooked a swordfish.
"It's a German submarine!" he declared.
My brother's wife and the other ladies with us on board were inclined to
favor my side; at least they were sorry for the fish and said he must be
very big.
"Dan, I could tell a foul-hooked fish," I asserted, positively. "This
fellow is too alive--too limber. He doesn't sag like a dead weight."
"Well, if he's not foul-hooked, then you're all in," replied the
captain.
Cheerful acquiescence is a desirable trait in any one, especially an
angler who aspires to things, but that was left out in the ordering of
my complex disposition. However, to get angry makes a man fight harder,
and so it was with me.
At the end of five hours Dan suggested putting the harness on me. This
contrivance, by the way, is a thing of straps and buckles, and its use
is to fit over an angler's shoulders and to snap on the rod. It helps
him lift the fish, puts his shoulders more into play, rests his arms.
But I had never worn one. I was afraid of it.
"Suppose he pulls me overboard, with that on!" I exclaimed. "He'll drown
me!"
"We'll hold on to you," replied Dan, cheerily, as he strapped it around
me.
Later it turned out that I had exactly the right view concerning this
harness, for Dustin Farnum was nearly pulled overboard and--But I have
not space for that story here. My brother Rome wants to write that
story, anyhow, because it is so funny, he says.
On the other hand, the fact soon manifested itself to me that I could
lift a great deal more with said harness to help. The big fish began to
come nearer and also he began to get mad. Here I forgot the pain in my
hands. I grew enthusiastic. And foolishly I bragged. Then I lifted so
hard that I cracked the great Conroy rod.
Dan threw up his hands. He quit, same as he quit the first day out, when
I hooked the broadbill and the reel froze.
"Disqualified fish, even if you ketch him--which you won't," he said,
dejectedly.
"Crack goes thirty-five dollars!" exclaimed my brother. "Sure is funny,
brother, how you can decimate good money into the general atmosphere!"
If there really is anything fine in the fighting of a big fish, which
theory I have begun to doubt, certainly Captain Dan and Brother R. C.
did not know it.
Remarks were forthcoming from me, I am ashamed to state, that should not
have been. Then I got Dan to tie splints on the rod, after which I
fought my quarry some more. The splints broke. Dan had to bind the
cracked rod with heavy pieces of wood and they added considerable weight
to what had before felt like a ton.
The fish had been hooked at eleven o'clock and it was now five. We had
drifted or been pulled into the main channel, where strong currents and
a choppy sea made the matter a pretty serious and uncomfortable one.
Here I expended all I had left in a short and furious struggle to bring
the fish up, if not to gaff, at least so we could see what he looked
like. How strange and unfathomable a feeling this mystery of him gave
rise to! If I could only see him once, then he could get away and
welcome. Captain Dan, in anticipation of a need of much elbow room in
that cockpit, ordered my brother and the ladies to go into the cabin or
up on top. And they all scrambled up and lay flat on the deck-roof, with
their heads over, watching me. They had to hold on some, too. In fact,
they were having the time of their lives.
My supreme effort brought the fish within the hundredth foot length of
line--then my hands and my back refused any more.
"Dan, here's the great chance you've always hankered for!" I said. "Now
let's see you pull him right in!"
And I passed him the rod and got up. Dan took it with the pleased
expression of a child suddenly and wonderfully come into possession of a
long-unattainable toy. Captain Dan was going to pull that fish right up
to the boat. He was! Now Dan is big--he weighs two hundred; he has arms
and hands like the limbs of a Vulcan. Perhaps Dan had every reason to
believe he would pull the fish right up to the boat. But somehow I knew
that he would not.
My fish, perhaps feeling a new and different and mightier hand at the
rod, showed how he liked it by a magnificent rush--the greatest of the
whole fight--and he took about five hundred feet of line.
Dan's expression changed as if by magic.
"Steer the boat! Port! Port!" he yelled.
Probably I could not run a boat right with perfectly fresh and well
hands, and with my lacerated and stinging ones I surely made a mess of
it. This brought language from my boatman--well, to say the least, quite
disrespectable. Fortunately, however, I got the boat around and we ran
down on the fish. Dan, working with long, powerful sweeps of the rod,
got the line back and the fish close. The game began to look great to
me. All along I had guessed this fish to be a wonder; and now I knew it.
Hauling him close that way angered him. He made another rush, long and
savage. The line smoked off that reel. Dan's expression was one of
utmost gratification to me. A boatman at last cornered--tied up to a
whale of a fish!
Somewhere out there a couple of hundred yards the big fish came up and
roared on the surface. I saw only circling wake and waves like those
behind a speedy motor-boat. But Dan let out a strange shout, and up
above the girls screamed, and brother Rome yelled murder or something. I
gathered that he had a camera.
"Steady up there!" I called out. "If you fall overboard it's good
night!... For we want this fish!"
I had all I could do. Dan would order me to steer this way and that--to
throw out the clutch--to throw it in. Still I was able to keep track of
events. This fish made nineteen rushes in the succeeding half-hour.
Never for an instant did Captain Dan let up. Assuredly during that time
he spent more force on the fish than I had in six hours.
The sea was bad, the boat was rolling, the cockpit was inches deep under
water many a time. I was hard put to it to stay at my post; and what
saved the watchers above could not be explained by me.
"Mebbe I can hold him now--a little," called Dan once, as he got the
hundred-foot mark over the reel. "Strap the harness on me!"
I fastened the straps round Dan's broad shoulders. His shirt was as wet
as if he had fallen overboard. Maybe some of that wet was spray. His
face was purple, his big arms bulging, and he whistled as he breathed.
"Good-by, Dan. This will be a fitting end for a boatman," I said,
cheerfully, as I dove back to the wheel.
At six o'clock our fish was going strong and Dan was tiring fast. He
had, of course, worked too desperately hard.
Meanwhile the sun sank and the sea went down. All the west was gold and
red, with the towers of Church Rock spiring the horizon. A flock of
gulls were circling low, perhaps over a school of tuna. The white
cottages of Avalon looked mere specks on the dark island.
Captain Dan had the swordfish within a hundred feet of the boat and was
able to hold him. This seemed hopeful. It looked now just a matter of a
little more time. But Dan needed a rest.
I suggested that my brother come down and take a hand in the final
round, which I frankly confessed was liable to be hell.
[Illustration: FOUR MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY]
[Illustration: A BIG SAILFISH BREAKING WATER]
"Not on your life!" was the prompt reply. "I want to begin on a _little_
swordfish!... Why, that--that fish hasn't waked up yet!"
And I was bound to confess there seemed to me to be a good deal of sense
in what he said.
"Dan, I'll take the rod--rest you a bit--so you can finish him," I
offered.
The half-hour Dan recorded as my further work on this fish will always
be a dark and poignant blank in my fishing experience. When it was over
twilight had come and the fish was rolling and circling perhaps fifty
yards from the boat.
Here Dan took the rod again, and with the harness on and fresh gloves
went at the fish in grim determination.
Suddenly the moon sailed out from behind a fog-bank and the sea was
transformed. It was as beautiful as it was lucky for us.
By Herculean effort Dan brought the swordfish close. If any angler
doubts the strength of a twenty-four thread line his experience is still
young. That line was a rope, yet it sang like a banjo string.
Leaning over the side, with two pairs of gloves on, I caught the double
line, and as I pulled and Dan reeled the fish came up nearer. But I
could not see him. Then I reached the leader and held on as for dear
life.
"I've got the leader!" I yelled. "Hurry, Dan!"
Dan dropped the rod and reached for his gaff. But he had neglected to
unhook the rod from the harness, and as the fish lunged and tore the
leader away from me there came near to being disaster. However, Dan got
straightened out and anchored in the chair and began to haul away again.
It appeared we had the fish almost done, but he was so big that a mere
movement of his tail irresistibly drew out the line.
Then the tip of the rod broke off short just even with the splints and
it slid down the line out of sight. Dan lowered the rod so most of the
strain would come on the reel, and now he held like grim death.
"Dan, if we don't make any more mistakes we'll get that fish!" I
declared.
The sea was almost calm now, and moon-blanched so that we could plainly
see the line. Despite Dan's efforts, the swordfish slowly ran off a
hundred feet more of line. Dan groaned. But I yelled with sheer
exultation. For, standing up on the gunwale, I saw the swordfish. He had
come up. He was phosphorescent--a long gleam of silver--and he rolled in
the unmistakable manner of a fish nearly beaten.
Suddenly he headed for the boat. It was a strange motion. I was
surprised--then frightened. Dan reeled in rapidly. The streak of white
gleamed closer and closer. It was like white fire--a long, savage,
pointed shape.
"Look! Look!" I yelled to those above. "Don't miss it!... Oh, great!"
"He's charging the boat!" hoarsely shouted Dan.
"He's all in!" yelled my brother.
I jumped into the cockpit and leaned over the gunwale beside the rod.
Then I grasped the line, letting it slip through my hands. Dan wound in
with fierce energy. I felt the end of the double line go by me, and at
this I let out another shout to warn Dan. Then I had the end of the
leader--a good strong grip--and, looking down, I saw the clear silver
outline of the hugest fish I had ever seen short of shark or whale. He
made a beautiful, wild, frightful sight. He rolled on his back.
Roundbill or broadbill, he had an enormous length of sword.
"Come, Dan--we've got him!" I panted.
Dan could not, dare not get up then.
The situation was perilous. I saw how Dan clutched the reel, with his
big thumbs biting into the line. I did my best. My sight failed me for
an instant. But the fish pulled the leader through my hands. My brother
leaped down to help--alas, too late!
"Let go, Dan! Give him line!"
But Dan was past that. Afterward he said his grip was locked. He held,
and not another foot did the swordfish get. Again I leaned over the
gunwale. I saw him--a monster--pale, wavering. His tail had an
enormous spread. I could no longer see his sword. Almost he was ready to
give up.
Then the double line snapped. I fell back in the boat and Dan fell back
in the chair.
Nine hours!
V
SAILFISH--THE ATLANTIC BROTHER TO THE PACIFIC SWORDFISH
In the winter of 1916 I persuaded Captain Sam Johnson, otherwise famous
as Horse-mackerel Sam, of Seabright, New Jersey, to go to Long Key with
me and see if the two of us as a team could not outwit those illusive
and strange sailfish of the Gulf Stream.
Sam and I have had many adventures going down to sea. At Seabright we
used to launch a Seabright skiff in the gray gloom of early morning and
shoot the surf, and return shoreward in the afternoon to ride a great
swell clear till it broke on the sand. When I think of Sam I think of
tuna--those torpedoes of the ocean. I have caught many tuna with Sam,
and hooked big ones, but these giants are still roving the blue deeps.
Once I hooked a tuna off Sandy Hook, out in the channel, and as I was
playing him the _Lusitania_ bore down the channel. Like a mountain she
loomed over us. I felt like an atom looking up and up. Passengers waved
down to us as the tuna bent my rod. The great ship passed on in a
seething roar--passed on to her tragic fate. We rode the heavy swells
she lifted--and my tuna got away.
Sam Johnson is from Norway. His ancestors lived by fishing. Sam knows
and loves the sea. He has been a sailor before the mast, but he is more
fisherman than sailor. He is a stalwart man, with an iron, stern,
weather-beaten face and keen blue eyes, and he has an arm like the
branch of an oak. For many years he has been a market fisherman at
Seabright, where on off days he pursued the horse-mackerel for the fun
of it, and which earned him his name. Better than any man I ever met Sam
knows the sea; he knows fish, he knows boats and engines. And I have
reached a time in my experience of fishing where I want that kind of a
boatman.
* * * * *
Sam and I went after sailfish at Long Key and we got them. But I do not
consider the experience conclusive. If it had not been for my
hard-earned knowledge of the Pacific swordfish, and for Sam's keenness
on the sea, we would not have been so fortunate. We established the
record, but, what is more important, we showed what magnificent sport is
possible. This advent added much to the attractiveness of Long Key for
me. And Long Key was attractive enough before.
Sailfish had been caught occasionally at Long Key, during every season.
But I am inclined to believe that, in most instances, the capture of
sailfish had been accident--mere fisherman's luck. Anglers have fished
along the reef and inside, trolling with heavy tackle for anything that
might strike, and once in a while a sailfish has somehow hooked himself.
Mr. Schutt tells of hooking one on a Wilson spoon, and I know of another
angler who had this happen. I know of one gentleman who told me he
hooked a fish that he supposed was a barracuda, and while he was
fighting this supposed barracuda he was interested in the leaping of a
sailfish near his boat. His boatman importuned him to hurry in the
barracuda so there would be a chance to go after the leaping sailfish.
But it turned out that the sailfish was on his hook. Another angler went
out with heavy rod, the great B-Ocean reel, and two big hooks (which is
an outfit suitable only for large tuna or swordfish), and this fellow
hooked a sailfish which had no chance and was dead in less than ten
minutes. A party of anglers were out on the reef, fishing for anything,
and they decided to take a turn outside where I had been spending days
after sailfish. Scarcely had these men left the reef when five sailfish
loomed up and all of them, with that perversity and capriciousness which
makes fish so incomprehensible, tried to climb on board the boat. One, a
heavy fish, did succeed in hooking himself and getting aboard. I could
multiply events of this nature, but this is enough to illustrate my
point--that there is a vast difference between several fishermen out of
thousands bringing in several sailfish in one season and one fisherman
deliberately going after sailfish with light tackle and eventually
getting them.
It is not easy. On the contrary, it is extremely hard. It takes infinite
patience, and very much has to be learned that can be learned only by
experience. But it is magnificent sport and worth any effort. It makes
tarpon-fishing tame by comparison. Tarpon-fishing is easy. Anybody can
catch a tarpon by going after him. But not every fisherman can catch a
sailfish. One fisherman out of a hundred will get his sailfish, but only
one out of a thousand will experience the wonder and thrill and beauty
of the sport.
Sailfishing is really swordfishing, and herein lies the secret of my
success at Long Key. I am not satisfied that the sailfish I caught were
all Marlin and brothers to the Pacific Marlin. The Atlantic fish are
very much smaller than those of the Pacific, and are differently marked
and built. Yet they are near enough alike to be brothers.
There are three species that I know of in southern waters. The
_Histiophorus_, the sailfish about which I am writing and of which
descriptions follow. There is another species, _Tetrapturus albidus_,
that is not uncommon in the Gulf Stream. It is my impression that this
species is larger. The Indians, with whom I fished in the Caribbean,
tell of a great swordfish--in Spanish the _Aguja de casta_, and this
species must be related to _Xiphias_, the magnificent flatbilled
swordfish of the Atlantic and Pacific.
* * * * *
The morning of my greatest day with sailfish I was out in the Gulf
Stream, seven miles offshore, before the other fishermen had gotten out
of bed. We saw the sun rise ruddy and bright out of the eastern sea, and
we saw sailfish leap as if to welcome the rising of the lord of day. A
dark, glancing ripple wavered over the water; there was just enough
swell to make seeing fish easy.
I was using a rod that weighed nine ounces over all, and twelve hundred
feet of fifteen-thread line. I was not satisfied then that the regular
light outfit of the Tuna Club, such as I used at Avalon, would do for
sailfish. No. 9 breaks of its own weight. And I have had a sailfish run
off three hundred yards of line and jump all the time he was doing it.
Besides, nobody knows how large these sailfish grow. I had hold of one
that would certainly have broken my line if he had not thrown the hook.
On this memorable day I had scarcely trolled half a mile out into the
Stream before I felt that inexplicable rap at my bait which swordfish
and sailfish make with their bills. I jumped up and got ready. I saw a
long bronze shape back of my bait. Then I saw and felt him take hold. He
certainly did not encounter the slightest resistance in running out my
line. He swam off slowly. I never had Sam throw out the clutch and stop
the boat until after I had hooked the fish. I wanted the boat to keep
moving, so if I did get a chance to strike at a fish it would be with a
tight line. These sailfish are wary and this procedure is difficult. If
the fish had run off swiftly I would have struck sooner. Everything
depends on how he takes the bait. This fellow took fifty feet of line
before I hooked him.
He came up at once, and with two-thirds of his body out of the water he
began to skitter toward us. He looked silver and bronze in the morning
light. There was excitement on board. Sam threw out the clutch. My
companions dove for the cameras, and we all yelled. The sailfish came
skittering toward us. It was a spectacular and thrilling sight. He was
not powerful enough to rise clear on his tail and do the famous trick of
the Pacific swordfish--"walking on the water." But he gave a mighty
good imitation. Then before the cameras got in a snap he went down. And
he ran, to come up far astern and begin to leap. I threw off the drag
and yelled, "Go!"
[Illustration: FOUR SAILFISH IN ONE DAY ON LIGHT TACKLE]
[Illustration: Photo by Wunstorf
SAILFISH THRESHING ON THE SURFACE]
This was pleasant for Sam, who kept repeating, "Look at him yump!"
The sailfish evidently wanted to pose for pictures, for he gave a
wonderful exhibition of high and lofty tumbling, with the result, of
course, that he quickly exhausted himself. Then came a short period
during which he sounded and I slowly worked him closer. Presently he
swam toward the boat--the old swordfish trick. I never liked it, but
with the sailfish I at least was not nervous about him attacking the
boat. Let me add here that this freedom from dread--which is never
absent during the fighting of a big swordfish--is one of the features so
attractive in sailfishing. Besides, fish that have been hooked for any
length of time, if they are going to shake or break loose, always do so
near the boat. We moved away from this fellow, and presently he came up
again, and leaped three more times clear, making nineteen leaps in all.
That about finished his performance, so regretfully I led him alongside;
and Sam, who had profited by our other days of landing sailfish, took
him cautiously by the sword, and then by the gills, and slid him into
the boat.
Sailfish are never alike, except in general outline. This one was silver
and bronze, with green bars, rather faint, and a dark-blue sail without
any spots. He measured seven feet one inch. But we measured his quality
by his leaps and nineteen gave him the record for us so far.
We stowed him up in the bow and got under way again, and scarcely had I
let my bait far enough astern when a sailfish hit it. In fact, he rushed
it. Quick as I was, which was as quick as a flash, I was not quick
enough for that fish. He felt the hook and he went away. But he had been
there long enough to get my bait.
Just then Sam pointed. I saw a sailfish break water a hundred yards
away.
"Look at him yump!" repeated Sam, every time the fish came out, which,
to be exact, was five times.
"We'll go over and pick him up," I said.
Sam and I always argue a little about the exact spot where a fish has
broken water. I never missed it far, but Sam seldom missed it at all. He
could tell by a slight foam always left by the break. We had two baits
out, as one or another of my companions always holds a rod. The more
baits out the better! We had two vicious, smashing strikes at the same
time. The fish on the other rod let go just as I hooked mine.
He came up beautifully, throwing the spray, glinting in the sun, an
angry fish with sail spread and his fins going. Then on the boat was the
same old thrilling bustle and excitement and hilarity I knew so well and
which always pleased me so much. This sailfish was a jumper.
"Look at him yump!" exclaimed Sam, with as much glee as if he had not
seen it before.
The cameras got busy. Then I was attracted by something flashing in the
water nearer the boat than my fish. Suddenly a sailfish leaped,
straightaway, over my line. Then two leaped at once, both directly over
my line.
"Sam, they'll cut my line!" I cried. "What do you think of that?"
Suddenly I saw sharp, dark, curved tails cutting the water. All was
excitement on board that boat then.
"A school of sailfish! Look! Look!" I yelled.
I counted ten tails, but there were more than that, and if I had been
quicker I could have counted more. Presently they went down. And I,
returning to earth and the business of fishing, discovered that during
the excitement my sailfish had taken advantage of a perfectly loose line
to free himself. Nine leaps we recorded him!
Assuredly we all felt that there would be no difficulty in soon hooking
up with another sailfish. And precisely three minutes later I was
standing up, leaning forward, all aquiver, watching my line fly off the
reel. I hooked that fellow hard. He was heavy, and he did not come up or
take off any length of line. Settling down slowly, he descended three or
four hundred feet, or so it seemed, and began to plug, very much like an
albacore, only much heavier. He fooled around down there for ten
minutes, with me jerking at him all the time to irritate him, before he
showed any sign of rising. At last I worried him into a fighting mood,
and up he came, so fast that I did not even try to take up the slack,
and he shot straight up. This jump, like that of a kingfish, was
wonderful. But it was so quick that the cameras could not cover it, and
we missed a great picture. He went down, only to leap again. I reeled
in the slack line and began to jerk at him to torment him, and I got him
to jumping and threshing right near the boat. The sun was in the faces
of the cameras and that was bad. And as it turned out not one of these
exposures was good. What a chance missed! But we did not know that then,
and we kept on tormenting him and snapping pictures of his leaps. In
this way, which was not careless, but deliberate, I played with him
until he shook out the hook. Fifteen leaps was his record.
Then it was interesting to see how soon I could raise another fish. I
was on the _qui vive_ for a while, then settled back to the old
expectant watchfulness. And presently I was rewarded by that vibrating
rap at my bait. I stood up so the better to see. The swells were just
right and the sun was over my shoulder. I spied the long, dark shape
back of my bait, saw it slide up and strike, felt the sharp rap--and
again. Then came the gentle tug. I let out line, but he let go. Still I
could see him plainly when the swell was right. I began to jerk my bait,
to give it a jumping motion, as I had so often done with flying-fish
bait when after swordfish. He sheered off, then turned with a rush,
broadside on, with his sail up. I saw him clearly, his whole length, and
he appeared blue and green and silver. He took the bait and turned away
from me, and when I struck the hook into his jaw I felt that it would
stay. He was not a jumper--only breaking clear twice. I could not make
him leap. He fought hard enough, however, and with that tackle took
thirty minutes to land.
It was eight o'clock. I had two sailfish in the boat and had fought two
besides. And at that time I sighted the first fishing-boat coming out
toward the reef. Before that boat got out near us I had struck and lost
three more sailfish, with eleven leaps in all to my credit. This boatman
had followed Sam and me the day before and he appeared to be bent upon
repeating himself. I thought I would rather enjoy that, because he had
two inexperienced anglers aboard, and they, in the midst of a school of
striking sailfish, would be sure to afford some fun. Three other boats
came out across the reef, ventured a little way in the Gulf Stream, and
then went back to grouper and barracuda. But that one boatman, B., stuck
to us. And right away things began to happen to his anglers. No one so
lucky in strikes as a green hand! I saw them get nine strikes without
hooking a fish. And there appeared to be a turmoil on board that boat. I
saw B. tearing his hair and the fishermen frantically jerking, and then
waving rods and arms. Much as I enjoyed it, Sam enjoyed it more. But I
was not mean enough to begrudge them a fish and believed that sooner or
later they would catch one.
Presently, when B.'s boat was just right for his anglers to see
everything my way, I felt a tug on my line. I leaped up, let the reel
run. Then I threw on my drag and leaned over to strike. But he let go.
Quickly I threw off the drag. The sailfish came back. Another tug! I let
him run. Then threw on the drag and got ready. But, no, he let go. Again
I threw off the drag and again he came back. He was hungry, but he was
cunning, too, and too far back for me to see. I let him run fifty feet,
threw on the drag, and struck hard. No go! I missed him. But again I
threw off the drag, let out more line back to him, and he took the bait
the fourth time, and harder than ever. I let him run perhaps a hundred
feet. All the time, of course, my boat was running. I had out a long
line--two hundred yards. Then I threw on the drag and almost cracked the
rod. This time I actually felt the hook go in.
How heavy and fast he was! The line slipped off and I was afraid of the
drag. I threw it off--no easy matter with that weight on it--and then
the line whistled. The sailfish was running straight toward B.'s boat
and, I calculated, should be close to it.
"Sam," I yelled, "watch him! If he jumps he'll jump into that boat!"
Then he came out, the biggest sailfish I ever saw, and he leaped
magnificently, not twenty yards back of that boat. He must have been
beyond the lines of the trolling anglers. I expected him to cross them
or cut himself loose. We yelled to B. to steer off, and while we yelled
the big sailfish leaped and leaped, apparently keeping just as close to
the boat. He certainly was right upon it and he was a savage leaper. He
would shoot up, wag his head, his sail spread like the ears of a mad
elephant, and he would turn clear over to alight with a smack and splash
that we plainly heard. And he had out nine hundred feet of line. Because
of his size I wanted him badly, but, badly as that was, I fought him
without a drag, let him run and leap, and I hoped he would jump right
into that boat. Afterward these anglers told me they expected him to do
just that and were scared to death. Also they said a close sight of him
leaping was beautiful and thrilling in the extreme.
I did not keep track of all this sailfish's leaps, but Sam recorded
twenty-three, and that is enough for any fisherman. I venture to state
that it will not be beaten very soon. When he stopped leaping we drew
him away from the other boat, and settled down to a hard fight with a
heavy, stubborn, game fish. In perhaps half an hour I had him twenty
yards away, and there he stayed while I stood up on the stern to watch
him and keep clear of the propeller. He weaved from side to side,
exactly like a tired swordfish, and every now and then he would stick
out his bill and swish! he would cut at the leader. This fish was not
only much larger than any I had seen, but also more brilliantly colored.
There were suggestions of purple that reminded me of the swordfish--that
royal purple game of the Pacific. Another striking feature was that in
certain lights he was a vivid green, and again, when deeper, he assumed
a strange, triangular shape, much like that of a kite. That, of course,
was when he extended the wide, waving sail. I was not able to see that
this sail afforded him any particular aid. It took me an hour to tire
out this sailfish, and when we got him in the boat he measured seven
feet and six inches, which was four inches longer than any record I
could find then.
At eleven o'clock I had another in the boat, making four sailfish in
all. We got fourteen jumps out of this last one. That was the end of my
remarkable luck, though it was luck to me to hook other sailfish during
the afternoon, and running up the number of leaps. I am proud of that,
anyway, and to those who criticized my catch as unsportsman-like I could
only say that it was a chance of a lifetime and I was after photographs
of leaping sailfish. Besides, I had a great opportunity to beat my
record of four swordfish in one day at Clemente Island in the Pacific.
But I was not equal to it.
* * * * *
I do not know how to catch sailfish yet, though I have caught a good
many. The sport is young and it is as difficult as it is trying. This
catch of mine made fishermen flock to the Stream all the rest of the
season, and more fish were caught than formerly. But the proportion held
about the same, although I consider that fishing for a sailfish and
catching one is a great gain in point. Still, we do not know much about
sailfish or how to take them. If I got twenty strikes and caught only
four fish, very likely the smallest that bit, I most assuredly was not
doing skilful fishing as compared with other kinds of fishing. And there
is the rub. Sailfish are not any other kind of fish. They have a wary
and cunning habit, with an exceptional occasion of blind hunger, and
they have small, bony jaws into which it is hard to sink a hook. Not one
of my sailfish was hooked deep down. Yet I let nearly all of them run
out a long line. Moreover, as I said before, if a sailfish is hooked
there are ten chances to one that he will free himself.
[Illustration: MEMORABLE OF LONG KEY]
[Illustration: LEAPING SAILFISH]
This one thing, then, I believe I have proved to myself--that the
sailfish is the gamest, the most beautiful and spectacular, and the
hardest fish to catch on light tackle, just as his brother, the Pacific
swordfish, is the grandest fish to take on the heaviest of tackle.
Long Key, indeed, has its charm. Most all the anglers who visit there go
back again. Only the queer ones--and there are many--who want three
kinds of boats, and nine kinds of bait, and a deep-sea diver for a
boatman, and tackle that cannot be broken, and smooth, calm seas always,
and five hundred pounds of fish a day--only that kind complain of Long
Key and kick--and yet go back again!
Sailfish will draw more and finer anglers down to the white strip of
color that shines white all day under a white sun and the same all night
under white stars. But it is not alone the fish that draws real
sportsmen to a place and makes them love it and profit by their return.
It is the spirit of the place--the mystery, like that of the little
hermit-crab, which crawls over the coral sand in his stolen shell, and
keeps to his lonely course, and loves his life so well--sunshine, which
is best of all for men; and the wind in the waving palms; and the
lonely, wandering coast with the eternal moan out on the reefs, the
sweet, fresh tang, the clear, antiseptic breath of salt, and always by
the glowing, hot, colorful day or by the soft dark night with its
shadows and whisperings on the beach, that significant presence--the
sense of something vaster than the heaving sea.
_Light Tackle in the Gulf Stream_
In view of the present controversy between light tackle and heavy tackle
champions, I think it advisable for me to state more definitely my stand
on the matter of light tackle before going on with a story about it.
There is a sharp line to be drawn between light tackle that is right and
light tackle that is wrong. So few anglers ever seem to think of the
case of the poor fish! In Borneo there is a species of lightning-bug
that tourists carry around at night on spits, delighted with the
novelty. But is that not rather hard on the lightning-bugs? As a matter
of fact, if we are to develop as anglers who believe in conservation and
sportsmanship, we must consider the fish--his right to life, and,
especially if he must be killed, to do it without brutality.
Brutal it is to haul in a fish on tackle so heavy that he has no chance
for his life; likewise it is brutal to hook a fish on tackle so light
that, if he does not break it, he must be followed around and all over,
chased by a motor-boat hour after hour, until he practically dies of
exhaustion.
I have had many tarpon and many tuna taken off my hooks by sharks
because I was using tackle too light. It never appeared an impossible
feat to catch Marlin swordfish on a nine-thread line, nor sailfish on a
six-thread line. But those lines are too light.
My business is to tell stories. If I can be so fortunate as to make them
thrilling and pleasing, for the edification of thousands who have other
business and therefore less leisure, then that is a splendid thing for
me. It is a responsibility that I appreciate. But on the other hand I
must tell the truth, I must show my own development, I must be of
service to the many who have so much more time to read than fish. It is
not enough to give pleasure merely; a writer should instruct. And if
what I say above offends any fisherman, I am sorry, and I suggest that
he read it twice.
What weight tackle to use is not such a hard problem to decide. All it
takes is some experience. To quote Mr. Bates, "The principle is that the
angler should subdue the fish by his skill with rod and line, and put
his strength into the battle to _end_ it, and not employ a worrying
process to a frightened fish that does not know what it is fighting."
VI
GULF STREAM FISHING
Some years have passed since I advocated light tackle fishing at Long
Key. In the early days of this famous resort most fishermen used hand
lines or very heavy outfits. The difficulties of introducing a
sportsman-like ideal have been manifold. A good rule of angling
philosophy is not to interfere with any fisherman's peculiar ways of
being happy, unless you want to be hated. It is not easy to influence a
majority of men in the interests of conservation. Half of them do not
know the conditions and are only out for a few days' or weeks' fun; the
rest do not care. But the facts are that all food fish and game fish
must be conserved. The waste has been enormous. If fishermen will only
study the use of light tackle they will soon appreciate a finer sport,
more fun and gratification, and a saving of fish.
Such expert and fine anglers as Crowninshield, Heilner, Cassiard,
Lester, Conill, and others are all enthusiastic about light tackle and
they preach the gospel of conservation.
But the boatmen of Long Key, with the exception of Jordon, are all
against light tackle. I must say that James Jordon is to be
congratulated and recommended. The trouble at Long Key is that new
boatmen are hired each season, and, as they do not own their boats, all
their interest centers in as big a catch as possible for each angler
they take out, in the hope and expectation, of course, of a generous
tip. Heavy tackle means a big catch and light tackle the reverse. And so
tons of good food and game fish are brought in only to be thrown to the
sharks. I mention this here to give it a wide publicity. It is criminal
in these days and ought to be stopped.
The season of 1918 was a disappointment in regard to any great
enthusiasm over the use of light tackle. We have tried to introduce
principles of the Tuna Club of Avalon. President Coxe of the Pacific
organization is doing much to revive the earlier ideals of Doctor
Holder, founder of the famous club. This year at Long Key a number of
prizes were offered by individual members. The contention was that the
light tackle specified was too light. This is absolutely a mistake. I
have proved that the regulation Tuna Club nine-thread line and six-ounce
tip are strong enough, if great care and skill be employed, to take the
tricky, hard-jawed, wild-leaping sailfish.
And for bonefish, that rare fighter known to so few anglers, the
three-six tackle--a three-ounce tip and six-thread line--is just the
ideal rig to make the sport exceedingly difficult, fascinating, and
thrilling. Old bonefishermen almost invariably use heavy tackle--stiff
rods and twelve-or fifteen-thread lines. They have their arguments, and
indeed these are hard nuts to crack. They claim three-six for the swift
and powerful bonefish is simply absurd. No! I can prove otherwise. But
that must be another story.
Some one must pioneer these sorely needed reforms. It may be a thankless
task, but it is one that some of us are standing by. We need the help of
brother anglers.
* * * * *
One morning in February there was a light breeze from the north and the
day promised to be ideal. We ran out to the buoy and found the Gulf
Stream a very dark blue, with a low ripple and a few white-caps here and
there.
Above the spindle we began to see sailfish jumping everywhere. One
leaped thirteen times, and another nineteen. Many of them came out
sidewise, with a long, sliding plunge, which action at first I took to
be that made by a feeding fish. After a while, however, and upon closer
view, I changed my mind about this.
My method, upon seeing a fish jump, was to speed up the boat until we
were in the vicinity where the fish had come up. Then we would slow down
and begin trolling, with two baits out, one some forty or fifty feet
back and the other considerably farther.
We covered several places where we had seen the sheetlike splashes; and
at the third or fourth I felt the old electrifying tap at my bait. I
leaped up and let my bait run back. The sailfish tapped again, then took
hold so hard and ran off so swiftly that I jerked sooner than usual. I
pulled the bait away from him. All this time the boat was running.
Instead of winding in I let the bait run back. Suddenly the sailfish
took it fiercely. I let him run a long way before I struck at him, and
then I called to the boatman to throw out the clutch. When the boat is
moving there is a better chance of a tight line while striking, and that
is imperative if an angler expects to hook the majority of these
illusive sailfish. I hooked this fellow, and he showed at once, a small
fish, and began to leap toward the boat, making a big bag in the line. I
completely lost the feel of his weight. When he went down, and with all
that slack line, I thought he was gone. But presently the line tightened
and he began to jump in another direction. He came out twice with his
sail spread, a splendid, vivid picture; then he took to skittering,
occasionally throwing himself clear, and he made some surface runs,
splashing and threshing, and then made some clean greyhound-like leaps.
In all he cleared the water eleven times before he settled down. After
that it took me half an hour to land him. He was not hurt and we let him
go.
Soon after we got going again we raised a school of four or more
sailfish. And when a number rush for the baits it is always exciting.
The first fish hit my bait and the second took R. C.'s. I saw both fish
in action, and there is considerable difference between the hitting and
the taking of a bait. R. C. jerked his bait away from his fish and I
yelled for him to let it run back. He did so. A bronze and silver blaze
and a boil on the water told me how hungry R. C.'s sailfish was. "Let
him run with it!" I yelled. Then I attended to my own troubles. There
was a fish rapping at my bait. I let out line, yard after yard, but he
would not take hold, and, as R. C.'s line was sweeping over mine, I
thought best to reel in.
"Hook him now!" I yelled.
I surely did shiver at the way my brother came up with that light
tackle. But he hooked the sailfish, and nothing broke. Then came a big
white splash on the surface, but no sign of the fish. R. C.'s line
sagged down.
"Look out! Wind in! He's coming at us!" I called.
"He's off!" replied my brother.
That might well have been, but, as I expected, he was not. He broke
water on a slack line and showed us all his dripping, colorful body
nearer than a hundred feet. R. C. thereupon performed with incredible
speed at the reel and quickly had a tight line. Mr. Sailfish did not
like that. He slid out, wrathfully wagging his bill, and left a seamy,
foamy track behind him, finally to end that play with a splendid long
leap. He was headed away from us now, with two hundred yards of line
out, going hard and fast, and we had to follow him. We had a fine
straightaway run to recover the line. This was a thrilling chase, and
one, I think, we never would have had if R. C. had been using heavy
tackle. The sailfish led us out half a mile before he sounded.
Then in fifteen minutes more R. C. had him up where we could see his
purple and bronze colors and the strange, triangular form of him, which
peculiar shape came mostly from the waving sail. I thought I saw other
shapes and colors with him, and bent over the gunwale to see better.
"He's got company. Two sharks!--You want to do some quick work now or
good-by sailfish!"
[Illustration: Nassau Photo
SOLITUDE ON THE SEA]
[Illustration: Nassau Photo
SUNSET BY THE SEA]
A small gray shark and a huge yellow shark were coming up with our
quarry. R. C. said things, and pulled hard on the light tackle. I got
hold of the leader and drew the sailfish close to the boat. He began to
thresh, and the big shark came with a rush. Instinctively I let go of
the leader, which action was a blunder. The sailfish saw the shark and,
waking up, he fought a good deal harder than before the sharks appeared
upon the scene. He took off line, and got so far away that I gave up any
hope that the sharks might not get him. There was a heavy commotion out
in the water. The shark had made a rush. So had the sailfish, and he
came right back to the boat. R. C. reeled in swiftly.
"Hold him hard now!" I admonished, and I leaped up on the stern. The
sailfish sheered round on the surface, with tail and bill out, while the
shark swam about five feet under him. He was a shovel-nosed, big-finned
yellow shark, weighing about five hundred pounds. He saw me. I waved my
hat at him, but he did not mind that. He swam up toward the surface and
his prey. R. C. was now handling the light tackle pretty roughly. It is
really remarkable what can be done with nine-thread. In another moment
we would have lost the sailfish. The boatman brought my rifle and a shot
scared the shark away. Then we got the sailfish into the boat. He was a
beautiful specimen for mounting, weighing forty-five pounds, the first
my brother had taken.
After that we had several strikes, but not one of them was what I could
call a hungry, smashing strike. These sailfish are finicky biters. I had
one rap at my bait with his bill until he knocked the bait off.
I think the feature of the day was the sight of two flying-fish that
just missed boarding the boat. They came out to the left of us and
sailed ahead together. Then they must have been turned by the wind, for
they made a beautiful, graceful curve until they came around so that I
was sure they would fly into the boat. Their motion was indescribably
airy and feathery, buoyant and swift, with not the slightest quiver of
fins or wings as they passed within five feet of me. I could see through
the crystal wings. Their bodies were white and silvery, and they had
staring black eyes. They were not so large as the California
flying-fish, nor did they have any blue color. They resembled the
California species, however, in that same strange, hunted look which
always struck me. To see these flying-fish this way was provocative of
thought. They had been pursued by some hungry devil of a fish, and with
a birdlike swiftness with which nature had marvelously endowed them they
had escaped the enemy. Here I had at once the wonder and beauty and
terror of the sea. These fish were not leaping with joy. I have not
often seen fish in the salt water perform antics for anything except
flight or pursuit. Sometimes kingfish appear to be playing when they
leap so wonderfully at sunset hour, but as a rule salt-water fish do not
seem to be playful.
* * * * *
At Long Key the Gulf Stream is offshore five miles. The water shoals
gradually anywhere from two feet near the beach to twenty feet five
miles out on the reef. When there has been no wind for several days,
which is a rare thing for Long Key, the water becomes crystal clear and
the fish and marine creatures are an endless source of interest to the
fisherman. Of course a large boat, in going out on the reef, must use
the channel between the keys, but a small boat or canoe can go anywhere.
It is remarkable how the great game fish come in from the Stream across
the reef into shoal water. Barracuda come right up to the shore, and
likewise the big sharks. The bottom is a clean, white, finely ribbed
coral sand, with patches of brown seaweed here and there and golden
spots, and in the shallower water different kinds of sponges. Out on the
reef the water is a light green. The Gulf Stream runs along the outer
edge of the reef, and here between Tennessee Buoy and Alligator Light,
eighteen miles, is a feeding-ground for sailfish, kingfish, amberjack,
barracuda, and other fishes. The ballyhoo is the main feed of these
fishes, and it is indeed a queer little fish. He was made by nature,
like the sardine and mullet and flying-fish, to serve as food for the
larger fishes. The ballyhoo is about a foot long, slim and flat, shiny
and white on the sides and dark green on the back, with a sharp-pointed,
bright-yellow tail, the lower lobe of which is developed to twice the
length of the upper. He has a very strange feature in the fact that his
lower jaw resembles the bill of a snipe, being several inches long,
sharp and pointed and hard; but he has no upper lip or beak at all. This
half-bill must be used in relation to his food, but I do not have any
idea how this is done.
One day I found the Gulf Stream a mile off Tennessee Buoy, whereas on
other days it would be close in. On this particular day the water was a
dark, clear, indigo blue and appreciably warmer than the surrounding
sea. This Stream has a current of several miles an hour, flowing up the
coast. Everywhere we saw the Portuguese men-of-war shining on the waves.
There was a slight, cool breeze blowing, rippling the water just enough
to make fishing favorable. I saw a big loggerhead turtle, weighing about
three hundred pounds, coming around on the surface among these
Portuguese men-of-war, and as we ran up I saw that he was feeding on
these queer balloon-like little creatures. Sometimes he would come up
under one and it would stick on his back, and he would turn laboriously
around from under it, and submerge his back so he had it floating again.
Then he would open his cavernous mouth and take it in. Considering the
stinging poison these Portuguese men-of-war secrete about them, the
turtle must have had a very tabasco-sauce meal. Right away I began to
see evidence of fish on the surface, which is always a good sign. We
went past a school of bonita breaking the water up into little swirls.
Then I saw a smashing break of a sailfish coming out sideways, sending
the water in white sheets. We slowed down the boat and got our baits
overboard at once. I was using a ballyhoo bait hooked by a small hook
through the lips, with a second and larger hook buried in the body. R.
C. was using a strip of mullet, which for obvious reasons seems to be
the preferred bait from Palm Beach to Long Key. And the obvious reason
is that nobody seems to take the trouble to get what might be proper
bait for sailfish. Mullet is an easy bait to get and commands just as
high a price as anything else, which, as a matter of fact, is highway
robbery. With a bait like a ballyhoo or a shiner I could get ten bites
to one with mullet.
We trolled along at slow speed. The air was cool, the sun pleasant, the
sea beautiful, and this was the time to sit back and enjoy a sense of
freedom and great space of the ocean, and watch for leaping fish or
whatever might attract the eye.
Here and there we passed a strange jellyfish, the like of which I had
never before seen. It was about as large as a good-sized cantaloup, and
pale, clear yellow all over one end and down through the middle, and
then commenced a dark red fringe which had a waving motion. Inside this
fringe was a scalloped circular appendage that had a sucking motion,
which must have propelled it through the water, and it made quite fair
progress. Around every one of these strange jellyfish was a little
school of tiny minnows, as clear-colored as crystals. These all swam on
in the same direction as the drift of the Gulf Stream.
When we are fishing for sailfish everything that strikes we take to be a
sailfish until we find out it is something else. They are inconsistent
and queer fish. Sometimes they will rush a bait, at other times they
will tug at it and then chew at it, and then they will tap it with their
bills. I think I have demonstrated that they are about the hardest fish
to hook that swims, and also on light tackle they are one of the gamest
and most thrilling. However, not one in a hundred fishermen who come to
Long Key will go after them with light tackle. And likewise not one out
of twenty-five sailfish brought in there is caught by a fisherman who
deliberately went out after sailfish. Mostly they are caught by accident
while drags are set for kingfish or barracuda. At Palm Beach I believe
they fish for them quite persistently, with a great deal of success. But
it is more a method of still fishing which has no charms for me.
Presently my boatman yelled, "Sailfish!" We looked off to port and saw a
big sailfish break water nine times. He was perhaps five hundred yards
distant. My boatman put on speed, and, as my boat is fast, it did not
take us long to get somewhere near where this big fish broke. We did our
best to get to the exact spot where he came up, then slowed down and
trolled over the place. In this instance I felt a light tap on my bait
and I jumped up quickly, both to look and let him take line. But I did
not see him or feel him any more. We went on. I saw a flash of bright
silver back of my brother's bait. At the instant he hooked a kingfish.
And then I felt one cut my bait off. Kingfish are savage strikers and
they almost invariably hook themselves when the drag is set. But as I
fish for sailfish with a free-running reel, of course I am exasperated
when a kingfish takes hold. My brother pulled in this kingfish, which
was small, and we rebaited our hooks and went on again. I saw more
turtles, and one we almost ran over, he was so lazy in getting down.
These big, cumbersome sea animals, once they get headed down and
started, can disappear with remarkable rapidity. I rather enjoy
watching them, but my boatman, who is a native of these parts and
therefore a turtle-hunter by instinct, always wore a rather disappointed
look when we saw one. This was because I would not allow him to harpoon
it.
[Illustration: TWIN TIGERS OF THE SEA--THE SAVAGE BARRACUDA]
[Illustration: HAPPY PASTIME OF BONEFISHING]
The absence of gulls along this stretch of reef is a feature that struck
me. So that once in a while when I did see a lonely white gull I watched
him with pleasure. And once I saw a cero mackerel jump way in along the
reef, and even at a mile's distance I could see the wonderful curve he
made.
The wind freshened, and all at once it seemed leaping sailfish were all
around us. Then as we turned the boat this way and that we had thrills
of anticipation. Suddenly R. C. had a strike. The fish took the bait
hungrily and sheered off like an arrow and took line rapidly. When R. C.
hooked him he came up with a big splash and shook himself to free the
hook. He jumped here and there and then went down deep. And then he took
a good deal of line off the reel. I was surprised to see a sailfish
stick his bill out of the water very much closer to the boat than where
R. C.'s fish should have been. I had no idea then that this was a fish
other than the one R. C. had hooked. But when he cut the line either
with his bill or his tail, and R. C. wound it in, we very soon
discovered that it was not the fish that he had hooked. This is one of
the handicaps of light tackle.
We went on fishing. Sailfish would jump around us for a while and then
they would stop. We would not see one for several minutes. It is always
very exciting to be among them this way. Presently I had one take hold
to run off slowly and steadily, and I let him go for fifty feet, and
when I struck I tore the hook away from him. Quickly I let slack line
run back to him ten or fifteen feet at a time, until I felt him take it
once more. He took it rather suspiciously, I felt, and I honestly
believe that I could tell that he was mouthing or chewing the bait,
which made me careful to let the line run off easily to him. Suddenly he
rushed off, making the reel smoke. I let him run one hundred and fifty
feet and then stood up, throwing on the drag, and when the line
straightened tight I tried to jerk at him as hard as the tackle would
stand. As a matter of fact, however, he was going so fast and hard that
he hooked himself. It is indeed seldom that I miss one when he runs like
this. This fellow came up two hundred yards from the boat and slid along
the water with half of his body raised, much like one of those
coasting-boards I have seen bathers use, towed behind a motor-launch. He
went down and came up in a magnificent sheer leap, with his broad sail
shining in the sun. Very angry he was, and he reminded me of a Marlin
swordfish. Next he went down, and came up again bent in a curve, with
the big sail stretched again. He skittered over the water, going down
and coming up, until he had leaped seven times. This was a big, heavy
fish, and on the light six-ounce tip and nine-thread line I had my work
cut out for me. We had to run the boat toward him so I could get back my
line. Here was the advantage of having a fast boat with a big rudder.
Otherwise I would have lost my fish. After some steady deep plugging he
came up again and set my heart aflutter by a long surface play in which
he took off one hundred yards of line and then turned, leaping straight
for the boat. Fortunately the line was slack and I could throw off the
drag and let him run. Slack line never bothers me when I really get one
of these fish well hooked. If he is not well hooked he is going to get
away, anyhow. After that he went down into deep water and I had one long
hour of hard work in bringing him to the boat. Six hours later he
weighed fifty-eight and a half pounds, and as he had lost a good deal of
blood and dried out considerably, he would have gone over sixty pounds,
which, so far, is the largest sailfish I know of caught on light tackle.
The sailfish were still leaping around us and we started off again. The
captain called our attention to a tail and a sail a few yards apart not
far from the boat. We circled around them to drive them down. I saw a
big wave back of R. C.'s bait and I yelled, "Look out!" I felt something
hit my bait and then hit it again. I knew it was a sailfish rapping at
it. I let the line slip off the reel. Just then R. C. had a vicious
strike and when he hooked the fish the line snapped. He claimed that he
had jerked too hard. This is the difficulty with light tackle--to strike
hard, yet not break anything. I was standing up and leaning forward,
letting my line slip off the reel, trying to coax that sailfish to come
back. Something took hold and almost jerked the rod out of my hands.
That was a magnificent strike, and of course I thought it was one of the
sailfish. But when I hooked him I had my doubts. The weight was heavy
and ponderous and tugging. He went down and down and down. The boatman
said amberjack. I was afraid so, but I still had my hopes. For a while I
could not budge him, and at last, when I had given up hope that it was a
sailfish, I worked a good deal harder than I would have otherwise. It
took me twenty-five minutes to subdue a forty-pound amberjack. Here was
proof of what could be done with light tackle.
About ten-thirty of this most delightful and favorable day we ran into a
school of barracuda. R. C. hooked a small one, which was instantly set
upon by its voracious comrades and torn to pieces. Then I had a
tremendous strike, hard, swift, long--everything to make a tingle of
nerve and blood. The instant I struck, up out of a flying splash rose a
long, sharp, silver-flashing tiger of the sea, and if he leaped an inch
he leaped forty feet. On that light tackle he was a revelation. Five
times more he leaped, straight up, very high, gills agape, jaws wide,
body curved--a sight for any angler. He made long runs and short runs
and all kinds of runs, and for half an hour he defied any strain I dared
put on him. Eventually I captured him, and I considered him superior to
a tarpon of equal or even more weight.
Barracuda are a despised fish, apparently because of their voracious and
murderous nature. But I incline to the belief that it is because the
invariable use of heavy tackle has blinded the fishermen to the
wonderful leaping and fighting qualities of this long-nosed,
long-toothed sea-tiger. The few of us who have hooked barracuda on light
tackle know him as a marvelous performer. Van Campen Heilner wrote
about a barracuda he caught on a bass rod, and he is not likely to
forget it, nor will the reader of his story forget it.
R. C. had another strike, hooked his fish, and brought it in readily. It
was a bonita of about five pounds, the first one my brother had ever
caught. We were admiring his beautiful, subdued colors as he swam near
the boat, when up out of the blue depths shot a long gray form as swift
as lightning. It was a big barracuda. In his rush he cut that bonita in
two. The captain grasped the line and yelled for us to get the gaffs. R.
C. dropped the rod and got the small gaff, and as I went for the big one
I heard them both yell. Then I bent over to see half a dozen big gray
streaks rush for what was left of that poor little bonita. The big
barracuda with incredible speed and unbelievable ferocity rushed right
to the side of the boat at the bonita. He got hold of it and R. C. in
striking at him to gaff him hit him over the head several times. Then
the gaff hook caught him and R. C. began to lift. The barracuda looked
to me to be fully seven feet long and half as big around as a telegraph
pole. He made a tremendous splash in the water. R. C. was deluged. He
and the boatman yelled in their excitement. But R. C. was unable to hold
the big fish on this small gaff, and I got there too late. The barracuda
broke loose. Then, equally incredibly, he turned with still greater
ferocity and rushed the bonita again, but before he could get to it
another and smaller barracuda had hold of it. At this instant I leaned
over with a club. With one powerful sweep I hit one of the barracuda on
the head. When I reached over again the largest one was contending with
a smaller one for the remains of the bonita. I made a vicious pass at
the big one, missing him. Quick as I was, before I could get back, the
big fellow had taken the head of the bonita and rushed off with it,
tearing the line out of the captain's hands. Then we looked at one
another. It had all happened in a minute. We were all wringing wet and
panting from excitement and exertion. This is a gruesome tale of the sea
and I put it here only to illustrate the incomparable savageness of
these tigers of the Gulf Stream.
The captain put the fish away and cleaned up the boat and we resumed
fishing. I ate lunch holding the rod in one hand, loath to waste any
time on this wonderful day. Sailfish were still jumping here and there
and far away. The next thing to happen was that R. C. hooked a small
kingfish, and at the same instant a big one came clear out in an
unsuccessful effort to get my bait. This happened to be near the reef,
and as we were going out I hooked a big grouper that tried out my
small tackle for all it was worth. But I managed to keep him from
getting on the bottom, and at length brought him in. The little
six-ounce tip now looked like a buggy-whip that was old and worn
out. After that nothing happened for quite a little spell. We had
opportunity to get rested. Presently R. C. had a sailfish tap his bait
and tap it again and tug at it and then take hold and start away. R.
C. hooked him and did it carefully, trying not to put too much strain
on the line. Here is where great skill is required. But the line
broke. After that he took one of my other tackles. Something went
wrong with the engine and the captain had to shut down and we drifted.
I had a long line out and it gradually sank. Something took hold and I
hooked it and found myself fast to a deep-sea, hard-fighting fish of
some kind. I got him up eventually, and was surprised to see a great,
broad, red-colored fish, which turned out to be a mutton-fish, much
prized for food. I had now gotten six varieties of fish in the Gulf
Stream and we were wondering what next. I was hoping it would be a
dolphin or a waahoo. It happened, however, to be a beautiful cero
mackerel, one of the shapeliest and most attractive fish in these
waters. He is built something like the brook-trout, except for a much
sharper head and wider fins and tail. But he is speckled very much
after the manner of the trout. We trolled on, and all of a sudden
raised a school of sailfish. They came up with a splashing rush very
thrilling to see. One hit R. C.'s bait hard, and then another, by way
of contrast, began to tug and chew at mine. I let the line out slowly.
And as I did so I saw another one follow R. C.'s mutilated bait which
he was bringing toward the boat. He was a big purple-and-bronze fellow
and he would have taken a whole bait if it could have been gotten to
him. But he sheered away, frightened by the boat. I failed to hook my
fish. It was getting along pretty well into the afternoon by this time
and the later it got the better the small fish and kingfish seemed to
bite. I caught one barracuda and six kingfish, while R. C. was
performing a somewhat similar feat. Then he got a smashing strike
from a sailfish that went off on a hard, fast rush, so that he hooked
it perfectly. He jumped nine times, several of which leaps I
photographed. He was a good-sized fish and active and strong. R. C.
had him up to the boat in thirty minutes, which was fine work for the
light tackle. I made sure that the fish was as good as caught and I
did not look to see where he was hooked. My boatman is not skilled in
the handling of the fish when they are brought in. Few boatmen are. He
took hold of the leader, and as he began to lift I saw that the hook
was fast in the bill of the sailfish fully six inches from his mouth.
At that instant the sailfish began to thresh. I yelled to the boatman
to let go, but either I was not quick enough or he did not obey, for
the hook snapped free and the sailfish slowly swam away, his great
purple-and-blue spotted sail waving in the water, and his bronze sides
shining. And we were both glad that he had gotten away, because we had
had the fun out of him and had taken pictures of him jumping, and he
was now alive and might make another fisherman sport some day.
VII
BONEFISH
In my experience as a fisherman the greatest pleasure has been the
certainty of something new to learn, to feel, to anticipate, to thrill
over. An old proverb tells us that if you wish to bring back the wealth
of the Indias you must go out with its equivalent. Surely the longer a
man fishes the wealthier he becomes in experience, in reminiscence, in
love of nature, if he goes out with the harvest of a quiet eye, free
from the plague of himself.
As a boy, fishing was a passion with me, but no more for the conquest of
golden sunfish and speckled chubs and horny catfish than for the
haunting sound of the waterfall and the color and loneliness of the
cliffs. As a man, and a writer who is forever learning, fishing is still
a passion, stronger with all the years, but tempered by an understanding
of the nature of primitive man, hidden in all of us, and by a keen
reluctance to deal pain to any creature. The sea and the river and the
mountain have almost taught me not to kill except for the urgent needs
of life; and the time will come when I shall have grown up to that. When
I read a naturalist or a biologist I am always ashamed of what I have
called a sport. Yet one of the truths of evolution is that not to
practise strife, not to use violence, not to fish or hunt--that is to
say, not to fight--is to retrograde as a natural man. Spiritual and
intellectual growth is attained at the expense of the physical.
Always, then, when I am fishing I feel that the fish are incidental, and
that the reward of effort and endurance, the incalculable and intangible
knowledge emanate from the swelling and infinite sea or from the shaded
and murmuring stream. Thus I assuage my conscience and justify the fun,
the joy, the excitement, and the violence.
Five years ago I had never heard of a bonefish. The first man who ever
spoke to me about this species said to me, very quietly with serious
intentness: "Have you had any experience with bonefish?" I said no, and
asked him what kind that was. His reply was enigmatical. "Well, don't go
after bonefish unless you can give up all other fishing." I remember I
laughed. But I never forgot that remark, and now it comes back to me
clear in its significance. That fisherman read me as well as I
misunderstood him.
Later that season I listened to talk of inexperienced bonefishermen
telling what they had done and heard. To me it was absurd. So much
fishing talk seems ridiculous, anyway. And the expert fishermen,
wherever they were, received the expressive titles: "Bonefish Bugs and
Bonefish Nuts!" Again I heard arguments about tackle rigged for these
mysterious fish and these arguments fixed my vague impression. By and by
some bonefishermen came to Long Key, and the first sight of a bonefish
made me curious. I think it weighed five pounds--a fair-sized specimen.
Even to my prejudiced eye that fish showed class. So I began to question
the bonefishermen.
At once I found this type of angler to be remarkably reticent as to
experience and method. Moreover, the tackle used was amazing to me.
Stiff rods and heavy lines for little fish! I gathered another
impression, and it was that bonefish were related to dynamite and chain
lightning. Everybody who would listen to my questions had different
things to say. No two men agreed on tackle or bait or ground or
anything. I enlisted the interest of my brother R. C., and we decided,
just to satisfy curiosity, to go out and catch some bonefish. The
complacent, smug conceit of fishermen! I can see now how funny ours was.
Fortunately it is now past tense. If I am ever conceited again I hope no
one will read my stories.
My brother and I could not bring ourselves to try for bonefish with
heavy tackle. It was preposterous. Three--four--five-pound fish! We had
seen no larger. Bass tackle was certainly heavy enough for us. So in the
innocence of our hearts and the assurance of our vanity we sallied forth
to catch bonefish.
That was four years ago. Did we have good luck? No! Luck has nothing to
do with bonefishing. What happened? For one solid month each winter of
those four years we had devoted ourselves to bonefishing with light
tackle. We stuck to our colors. The space of this whole volume would not
be half enough to tell our experience--the amaze, the difficulty, the
perseverance, the defeat, the wonder, and at last the achievement. The
season of 1918 we hooked about fifty bonefish on three-six tackles--that
is, three-ounce tips and six-thread lines--and we landed fourteen of
them. I caught nine and R. C. caught five. R. C.'s eight-pound fish
justified our contention and crowned our efforts.
To date, in all my experience, I consider this bonefish achievement the
most thrilling, fascinating, difficult, and instructive. That is a broad
statement and I hope I can prove it. I am prepared to state that I feel
almost certain, if I spent another month bonefishing, I would become
obsessed and perhaps lose my enthusiasm for other kinds of fish.
Why?
There is a multiplicity of reasons. My reasons range from the
exceedingly graceful beauty of a bonefish to the fact that he is the
best food fish I ever ate. That is a wide range. He is the wisest,
shyest, wariest, strangest fish I ever studied; and I am not excepting
the great _Xiphias gladius_--the broadbill swordfish. As for the speed
of a bonefish, I claim no salmon, no barracuda, no other fish celebrated
for swiftness of motion, is in his class. A bonefish is so incredibly
fast that it was a long time before I could believe the evidence of my
own eyes. You see him; he is there perfectly still in the clear, shallow
water, a creature of fish shape, pale green and silver, but
crystal-like, a phantom shape, staring at you with strange black eyes;
then he is gone. Vanished! Absolutely without your seeing a movement,
even a faint streak! By peering keenly you may discern a little swirl in
the water. As for the strength of a bonefish, I actually hesitate to
give my impressions. No one will ever believe how powerful a bonefish
is until he has tried to stop the rush and heard the line snap. As for
his cunning, it is utterly baffling. As for his biting, it is almost
imperceptible. As for his tactics, they are beyond conjecture.
[Illustration: THE GAMEST FISH THAT SWIMS]
[Illustration: A WAAHOO]
I want to append here a few passages from my note-books, in the hope
that a bare, bald statement of fact will help my argument.
* * * * *
First experience on a bonefish shoal. This wide area of coral mud was
dry at low tide. When we arrived the tide was rising. Water scarcely a
foot deep, very clear. Bottom white, with patches of brown grass. We saw
bonefish everywhere and expected great sport. But no matter where we
stopped we could not get any bites. Schools of bonefish swam up to the
boat, only to dart away. Everywhere we saw thin white tails sticking
out, as they swam along, feeding with noses in the mud. When we drew in
our baits we invariably found them half gone, and it was our assumption
that the blue crabs did this.
At sunset the wind quieted. It grew very still and beautiful. The water
was rosy. Here and there we saw swirls and tails standing out, and we
heard heavy thumps of plunging fish. But we could not get any bites.
When we returned to camp we were told that the half of our soldier-crab
baits had been sucked off by bonefish. Did not believe that.
Tide bothered us again this morning. It seems exceedingly difficult to
tell one night before what the tide is going to do the next morning. At
ten o'clock we walked to the same place we were yesterday. It was a
bright, warm day, with just enough breeze to ruffle the water and make
fishing pleasant, and we certainly expected to have good luck. But we
fished for about three hours without any sign of a fish. This was
discouraging and we could not account for it.
So we moved. About half a mile down the beach I thought I caught a
glimpse of a bonefish. It was a likely-looking contrast to the white
marl all around. Here I made a long cast and sat down to wait. My
brother lagged behind. Presently I spied two bonefish nosing along not
ten feet from the shore. They saw me, so I made no attempt to drag the
bait near them, but I called to my brother and told him to try to get a
bait ahead of them. This was a little after flood-tide. It struck me
then that these singular fish feed up the beach with one tide and down
with another.
Just when my brother reached me I got a nibble. I called to him and then
stood up, ready to strike. I caught a glimpse of the fish. He looked big
and dark. He had his nose down, fooling with my bait. When I struck him
he felt heavy. I put on the click of the reel, and when the bonefish
started off he pulled the rod down hard, taking the line fast. He made
one swirl on the surface and then started up-shore. He seemed
exceedingly swift. I ran along the beach until presently the line
slackened and I felt that the hook had torn out. This was
disappointment. I could not figure that I had done anything wrong, but I
decided in the future to use a smaller and sharper hook. We went on down
the beach, seeing several bonefish on the way, and finally we ran into
a big school of them. They were right alongshore, but when they saw us
we could not induce them to bite.
* * * * *
Every day we learn something. It is necessary to keep out of sight of
these fish. After they bite, everything depends upon the skilful hooking
of the fish. Probably it will require a good deal of skill to land them
after you have hooked them, but we have had little experience at that so
far. When these fish are along the shore they certainly are feeding, and
presumably they are feeding on crabs of some sort. Bonefish appear to be
game worthy of any fisherman's best efforts.
It was a still, hot day, without any clouds. We went up the beach to a
point opposite an old construction camp. To-day when we expected the
tide to be doing one thing it was doing another. Ebb and flow and
flood-tide have become as difficult as Sanskrit synonyms for me. My
brother took an easy and comfortable chair and sat up the beach, and I,
like an ambitious fisherman, laboriously and adventurously waded out one
hundred and fifty feet to an old platform that had been erected there. I
climbed upon this, and found it a very precarious place to sit. Come to
think about it, there is something very remarkable about the places a
fisherman will pick out to sit down on. This place was a two-by-four
plank full of nails, and I cheerfully availed myself of it and, casting
my bait out as far as I could, I calmly sat down to wait for a bonefish.
It has become a settled conviction in my mind that you have to wait for
bonefish. But all at once I got a hard bite. It quite excited me. I
jerked and pulled the bait away from the fish and he followed it and
took it again. I saw this fish and several others in the white patch of
ground where there were not any weeds. But in my excitement I did not
have out a long enough line, and when I jerked the fish turned over and
got away. This was all right, but the next two hours sitting in the sun
on that seat with a nail sticking into me were not altogether
pleasurable. When I thought I had endured it as long as I could I saw a
flock of seven bonefish swimming past me, and one of them was a whopper.
The sight revived me. I hardly breathed while that bunch of fish swam
right for my bait, and for all I could see they did not know it was
there. I waited another long time. The sun was hot--there was no
breeze--the heat was reflected from the water. I could have stood all
this well enough, but I could not stand the nails. So I climbed down off
my perch, having forgotten that all this time the tide had been rising.
And as I could not climb back I had to get wet, to the infinite
amusement of my brother. After that I fished from the shore.
Presently my brother shouted and I looked up to see him pulling on a
fish. There was a big splash in the water and then I saw his line
running out. The fish was heading straight for the framework on which I
had been seated and I knew if he ever did get there he would break the
line. All of a sudden I saw the fish he had hooked. And he reached the
framework all right!
I had one more strike this day, but did not hook the fish. It seems this
bonefishing takes infinite patience. For all we can tell, these fish
come swimming along with the rising tide close in to shore and they are
exceedingly shy and wary. My brother now has caught two small bonefish
and each of them gave a good strong bite, at once starting off with the
bait. We had been under the impression that it was almost impossible to
feel the bonefish bite. It will take work to learn this game.
* * * * *
Yesterday we went up on the north side of the island to the place near
the mangroves where we had seen some bonefish. Arriving there, we found
the tide almost flood, with the water perfectly smooth and very clear
and about a foot deep up at the mangrove roots. Here and there at a
little distance we could see splashes. We separated, and I took the
outside, while R. C. took the inside close to the mangroves. We waded
along. Before I had time to make a cast I saw a three-pound bonefish
come sneaking along, and when he saw me he darted away like an arrow. I
made a long cast and composed myself to wait. Presently a yell from R.
C. electrified me with the hope that he had hooked a fish. But it turned
out that he had only seen one. He moved forward very cautiously in the
water and presently made a cast. He then said that a big bonefish was
right near his hook, and during the next few minutes this fish circled
his bait twice, crossing his line. Then he counted out loud: one, two,
three, four, five bonefish right in front of him, one of which was a
whopper. I stood up myself and saw one over to my right, of about five
pounds, sneaking along with his nose to the bottom. When I made a cast
over in his direction he disappeared as suddenly as if he had dissolved
in the water. Looking out to my left, I saw half a dozen bonefish
swimming toward me, and they came quite close. When I moved they
vanished. Then I made a cast over in this direction. The bonefish came
back and swam all around my bait, apparently not noticing it. They were
on the feed, and the reason they did not take our bait must have been
that they saw us. We fished there for an hour without having a sign of a
bite, and then we gave it up.
To-day about flood-tide I had a little strike. I jerked hard, but failed
to see the fish, and then when I reeled in I found he still had hold of
it. Then I struck him, and in one little jerk he broke the leader.
* * * * *
I just had a talk with a fellow who claims to know a good deal about
bonefishing. He said he had caught a good many ranging up to eight
pounds. His claim was that soldier crabs were the best bait. He said he
had fished with professional boatmen who knew the game thoroughly. They
would pole the skiff alongshore and keep a sharp lookout for what he
called bonefish mud. And I assume that he meant muddy places in the
water that had been stirred up by bonefish. Of course, any place where
these little swirls could be seen was very likely to be a bonefish bank.
He claimed that it was necessary to hold the line near the reel between
the forefingers, and to feel for the very slightest vibration. Bonefish
have a sucker-like mouth. They draw the bait in, and smash it.
Sometimes, of course, they move away, drawing out the line, but that
kind of a bite is exceptional. It is imperative to strike the fish when
this vibration is felt. Not one in five bonefish is hooked.
We have had two northers and the water grew so cold that it drove the
fish out. The last two or three days have been warm and to-day it was
hot. However, I did not expect the bonefish in yet, and when we went in
bathing at flood-tide I was very glad to see two fish. I hurried out and
got my rod and began to try. Presently I had a little strike. I waited
and it was repeated; then I jerked and felt the fish. He made a wave and
that was the last I knew of him.
Reeling in, I looked at my bait, to find that it had been pretty badly
chewed, but I fastened it on again and made another cast. I set down the
rod. Then I went back after the bucket for the rest of the bait. Upon my
return I saw the line jerking and I ran to the rod. I saw a little
splash, and a big white tail of a bonefish stick out of the water. I put
my thumb on the reel and jerked hard. Instantly I felt the fish, heavy
and powerful. He made a surge and then ran straight out. The line burned
my thumb so I could not hold it. I put on the click and the fish made a
swifter, harder run for at least a hundred yards, and he tore the hook
out.
This makes a number of fish that have gotten away from me in this
manner. It is exasperating and difficult to explain. I have to use a
pretty heavy sinker in order to cast the bait out. I have arranged this
sinker, which has a hole through it, so that the line will run freely.
This seems to work all right on the bite, but I am afraid it does not
work after the fish is hooked. That sinker drags on the bottom. This is
the best rigging that I can plan at the present stage of the game. I
have an idea now that a bonefish should be hooked hard and then very
carefully handled.
I fished off the beach awhile in front of the cabin. We used both kinds
of crabs, soldier and hermit. I fished two hours and a half, from the
late rising tide to the first of the ebb, without a sign or sight of a
fish. R. C. finally got tired and set his rod and went in bathing. Then
it happened. I heard his reel singing and saw his rod nodding; then I
made a dash for it. The fish was running straight out, heavy and fast,
and he broke the line.
This may have been caused by the heavy sinker catching in the weeds. We
must do more planning to get a suitable rig for these bonefish.
* * * * *
Day before yesterday R. C. and I went up to the Long Key point, and
rowed in on the mangrove shoal where once before I saw so many bonefish.
The tide was about one-quarter in, and there was a foot of water all
over the flats. We anchored at the outer edge and began to fish. We had
made elaborate preparations in the way of tackle, bait, canoe, etc., and
it really would have been remarkable if we had had any luck. After a
little while I distinctly felt something at my hook, and upon jerking I
had one splendid surge out of a good, heavy bonefish. That was all that
happened in that place.
It was near flood-tide when we went back. I stood up and kept a keen
watch for little muddy places in the water, also bonefish. At last I saw
several fish, and there we anchored. I fished on one side of the boat,
and R. C. on the other. On two different occasions, feeling a nibble on
his line, he jerked, all to no avail. The third time he yelled as he
struck, and I turned in time to see the white thresh of a bonefish. He
made a quick dash off to the side and then came in close to the boat,
swimming around with short runs two or three times, and then, apparently
tired, he came close. I made ready to lift him into the boat, when, lo
and behold! he made a wonderful run of fully three hundred feet before
R. C. could stop him. Finally he was led to the boat, and turned out to
be a fish of three and a half pounds. It simply made R. C. and me gasp
to speak of what a really large bonefish might be able to do. There is
something irresistible about the pursuit of these fish, and perhaps this
is it. We changed places, and as a last try anchored in deeper water,
fishing as before. This time I had a distinct tug at my line and I
hooked a fish. He wiggled and jerked and threshed around so that I told
R. C. that it was not a bonefish, but R. C. contended it was. Anyway, he
came toward the boat rather easily until we saw him and he saw us, and
then he made a dash similar to that of R. C.'s fish and he tore out the
hook. This was the extent of our adventure that day, and we were very
much pleased.
Next morning we started out with a high northeast trade-wind blowing.
Nothing could dampen our ardor.
It was blowing so hard up at No. 2 viaduct that we decided to stay
inside. There is a big flat there cut up by channels, and it is said to
be a fine ground for bonefish. The tide was right and the water was
clear, but even in the lee of the bank the wind blew pretty hard. We
anchored in about three feet of water and began to fish.
After a while we moved. The water was about a foot deep, and the bottom
clean white marl, with little patches of vegetation. Crabs and
crab-holes were numerous. I saw a small shark and a couple of rays. When
we got to the middle of a big flat I saw the big, white, glistening
tails of bonefish sticking out of the water. We dropped anchor and, much
excited, were about to make casts, when R. C. lost his hat. He swore. We
had to pull up anchor and go get the hat. Unfortunately this scared the
fish. Also it presaged a rather hard-luck afternoon. In fishing, as in
many other things, if the beginning is tragedy all will be tragedy,
growing worse all the time. We moved around up above where I had seen
these bonefish, and there we dropped anchor. No sooner had we gotten our
baits overboard than we began to see bonefish tails off at quite some
distance. The thing to do, of course, was to sit right there and be
patient, but this was almost impossible for us. We moved again and
again, but we did not get any nearer to the fish. Finally I determined
that we would stick in one place. This we did, and the bonefish began to
come around. When they would swim close to the boat and see us they
would give a tremendous surge and disappear, as if by magic. But they
always left a muddy place in the water. The speed of these fish is
beyond belief. I could not cast where I wanted to; I tried again and
again. When I did get my bait off at a reasonable distance, I could feel
crabs nibbling at it. These pests robbed us of many a good bait. One of
them cut my line right in two. They seemed to be very plentiful, and
that must be why the bonefish were plentiful, too. R. C. kept losing
bait after bait, which he claimed was the work of crabs, but I rather
believed it to be the work of bonefish. It was too windy for us to tell
anything about the pressure of the line. It had to be quite a strong tug
to be felt at all. Presently I felt one, and instead of striking at once
I waited to see what would happen. After a while I reeled in to find my
bait gone. Then I was consoled by the proof that a bonefish had taken
the bait off for me. Another time three bonefish came along for my bait
and stuck their tails up out of the water, and were evidently nosing
around it, but I felt absolutely nothing on the line. When I reeled in
the bait was gone.
We kept up this sort of thing for two hours. I knew that we were doing
it wrong. R. C. said bad conditions, but I claimed that these were only
partly responsible for our failure. I knew that we moved about too much,
that we did not cast far enough and wait long enough, and that by all
means we should not have cracked bait on the bottom of the boat, and
particularly we did not know when we had a bite! But it is one thing to
be sure of a fact and another to be able to practise it. At last we gave
up in despair, and upon paddling back toward the launch we saw a school
of bonefish with their tails in the air. We followed them around for a
while, apparently very much to their amusement. At sunset we got back
to the launch and started for camp.
This was a long, hard afternoon's work for nothing. However, it is my
idea that experience is never too dearly bought. I will never do some
things again, and the harder these fish are to catch, the more time and
effort it takes--the more intelligence and cunning--all the more will I
appreciate success if it ever does come. It is in the attainment of
difficult tasks that we earn our reward. There are several old bonefish
experts here in camp, and they laughed when I related some of our
experiences. Bonefishermen are loath to tell anything about their
methods. This must be a growth of the difficult game. I had an expert
bonefisherman tell me that when he was surprised while fishing on one of
the shoals, he always dropped his rod and pretended to be digging for
shells. And it is a fact that the bonefish guides at Metacumbe did not
let any one get a line on their methods. They will avoid a
bonefishing-ground while others are there, and if they are surprised
there ahead of others, they will pull up anchor and go away. May I be
preserved from any such personal selfishness and reticence as this! One
of these bonefish experts at the camp told me that in all his years of
experience he had never gotten a bonefish bite. If you feel a tug, it is
when the bonefish is ejecting the hook. Then it is too late. The
bonefish noses around the bait and sucks it in without any apparent
movement of the line. And that can be detected first by a little sagging
of the line or by a little strain upon it. That is the time to strike.
He also said that he always broke his soldier crabs on a piece of lead
to prevent the jar from frightening the fish.
Doctor B. tells a couple of interesting experiences with bonefish. On
one occasion he was fishing near another boat in which was a friend. The
water was very clear and still, and he could see his friend's bait lying
upon the sand. An enormous bonefish swam up and took the bait, and
Doctor B. was so thrilled and excited that he could not yell. When the
man hooked the fish it shot off in a straightaway rush, raising a ridge
upon the water. It ran the length of the line and freed itself. Later
Doctor B.'s friend showed the hook, that had been straightened out. They
measured the line and found it to be five hundred and fifty-five feet.
The bonefish had gone the length of this in one run, and they estimated
that he would have weighed not less than fifteen pounds.
On another occasion Dr. B. saw a heavy bonefish hooked. It ran
straight off shore, and turning, ran in with such speed that it
came shooting out upon dry land and was easily captured. These two
instances are cases in point of the incredible speed and strength
of this strange fish.
R. C. had a splendid fight with a bonefish to-day. The wind was blowing
hard and the canoe was not easy to fish out of. We had great difficulty
in telling when we did have a bite. I had one that I know of. When R. C.
hooked his fish it sheered off between the canoe and the beach and ran
up-shore quite a long way. Then it headed out to sea and made a long
run, and then circled. It made short, quick surges, each time jerking R.
C.'s rod down and pulling the reel handle out of his fingers. He had to
put on a glove. We were both excited and thrilled with the gameness of
this fish. It circled the canoe three times, and tired out very slowly.
When he got it close the very thing happened that I feared. It darted
under the anchor rope and we lost it. This battle lasted about fifteen
minutes, and afforded us an actual instance of the wonderful qualities
of this fish.
Yesterday R. C. hooked a bonefish that made a tremendous rush straight
offshore, and never stopped until he had pulled out the hook. This must
have been a very heavy and powerful fish.
I had my taste of the same dose to-day. I felt a tiny little tug upon my
line that electrified me and I jerked as hard as I dared. I realized
that I had hooked some kind of fish, but, as it was wiggling and did not
feel heavy, I concluded that I had hooked one of those pesky blowfish.
But all of a sudden my line cut through the water and fairly whistled. I
wound in the slack and then felt a heavy fish. He made a short plunge
and then a longer one, straight out, making my reel scream. I was afraid
to thumb the line, so I let him go. With these jerky plunges he ran
about three hundred feet. Then I felt my line get fast, and, handing my
rod to R. C., I slipped off my shoes and went overboard. I waded out,
winding as I went, to find that the bonefish had fouled the line on a
sponge on the bottom, and he had broken free just above the hook.
* * * * *
Yesterday the fag end of the northeast gale still held on, but we
decided to try for bonefish. Low tide at two o'clock.
I waded up-shore with the canoe, and R. C. walked. It was a hard job to
face the wind and waves and pull the canoe. It made me tired and wet.
When we got above the old camp the tide had started in. We saw bonefish
tails standing up out of the water. Hurriedly baiting our hooks, we
waded to get ahead of them. But we could not catch them wading, so went
back to the canoe and paddled swiftly ahead, anchored, and got out to
wade once more.
R. C. was above me. We saw
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