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 arecircumstances which make this philosophy hard to accept. I have in mindan incident of angling tribulation which rivals the most poignantinstant of my boyhood, when a great trout flopped for one sharp momenton a mossy stone and then was gone like a golden flash into the depthsof the pool. Some years ago I followed Attalano, my guide, down the narrow Mexicanstreet of Tampico to the bank of the broad Panuco. Under the rosy dawnthe river quivered like a restless opal. The air, sweet with the song ofblackbird and meadowlark, was full of cheer; the rising sun shone insplendor on the water and the long line of graceful palms lining theopposite bank, and the tropical forest beyond, with its luxuriantfoliage festooned by gray moss. Here was a day to warm the heart of anyfisherman; here was the beautiful river, celebrated in many a story;here was the famous guide, skilled with oar and gaff, rich inexperience. What sport I would have; what treasure of keen sensationwould I store; what flavor of life would I taste this day! Hope burnsalways in the heart of a fisherman. Attalano was in harmony with the day and the scene. He had a cheeringfigure, lithe and erect, with a springy stride, bespeaking the Montezumablood said to flow in his Indian veins. Clad in a colored cotton shirt, blue jeans, and Spanish girdle, and treading the path with brown feetnever deformed by shoes, he would have stopped an artist. Soon he benthis muscular shoulders to the oars, and the ripples circling from eachstroke hardly disturbed the calm Panuco. Down the stream glided longIndian canoes, hewn from trees and laden with oranges and bananas. Inthe stern stood a dark native wielding an enormous paddle with ease. Wild-fowl dotted the glassy expanse; white cranes and pink flamingoesgraced the reedy bars; red-breasted kingfishers flew over with friendlyscreech. The salt breeze kissed my cheek; the sun shone with thecomfortable warmth Northerners welcome in spring; from over the whitesand-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-paddedshore to the other, for miles and miles with never a strike. But I wascontent, for over me had been cast the dreamy, care-dispelling languorof the South. When the first long, low swell of the changing tide rolled in, astronger breeze raised little dimpling waves and chased along the waterin 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 bythe stir and murmur of the miniature breakers. Broad bars of silverflashed in the sunlight, green backs cleft the little billows, widetails slapped lazily on the water. Every yard of river seemed to hold arolling fish. This sport increased until the long stretch of water, which had been as calm as St. Regis Lake at twilight, resembled thequick current of a Canadian stream. It was a fascinating, wonderfulsight. But it was also peculiarly exasperating, because when the fishroll in this sportive, lazy way they will not bite. For an hour Itrolled through this whirlpool of flying spray and twisting tarpon, withmany a salty drop on my face, hearing all around me the whipping crashof breaking water. [Illustration: TARPON THROWING HOOK] [Illustration: LEAPING TARPON] "Byme-by-tarpon, " presently remarked Attalano, favoring me with thefirst specimen of his English. The rolling of the tarpon diminished, and finally ceased as noonadvanced. No more did I cast longing eyes upon those huge bars of silver. Theywere buried treasure. The breeze quickened as the flowing tide gatheredstrength, and together they drove the waves higher. Attalano rowedacross the river into the outlet of one of the lagoons. This narrowstream was unruffled by wind; its current was sluggish and its muddywaters 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 thetrees on the bank rather pleasant, and became interested in a blueheron, a russet-colored duck, and a brown-and-black snipe, all sittingon the sunken log. Near by stood a tall crane watching us solemnly, andabove in the tree-top a parrot vociferously proclaimed his knowledge ofour presence. I was wondering if he objected to our invasion, at thesame time taking a most welcome bite for lunch, when directly in frontof me the water flew up as if propelled by some submarine power. Framedin a shower of spray I saw an immense tarpon, with mouth agape and finsstiff, close in pursuit of frantically leaping little fish. The fact that Attalano dropped his sandwich attested to the large sizeand close proximity of the tarpon. He uttered a grunt of satisfactionand pushed out the boat. A school of feeding tarpon closed the mouth ofthe lagoon. Thousands of mullet had been cut off from their river hauntsand were now leaping, flying, darting in wild haste to elude the greatwhite 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 realizationdawned on me that sooner or later I would feel the strike of one ofthese silver tigers a keen, tingling thrill of excitement quivered overme. The primitive man asserted himself; the instinctive lust to conquerand to kill seized me, and I leaned forward, tense and strained withsuspended breath and swelling throat. Suddenly the strike came, so tremendous in its energy that it almostpulled me from my seat; so quick, fierce, bewildering that I could thinkof nothing but to hold on. Then the water split with a hissing sound tolet out a great tarpon, long as a door, seemingly as wide, who shotup and up into the air. He wagged his head and shook it like astruggling 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 downwith 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 silverking 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 linewith troubled eyes. But not long did he sulk. He began a series ofmagnificent tactics new in my experience. He stood on his tail, then onhis head; he sailed like a bird; he shook himself so violently as tomake a convulsive, shuffling sound; he dove, to come up covered withmud, 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, tostraighten out with such marvelous power that he seemed to actuallycrack like a whip. After this performance, which left me in a condition of mentalaberration, he sounded again, to begin a persistent, dragging pull whichwas the most disheartening of all his maneuvers; for he took yard afteryard of line until he was far away from me, out in the Panuco. Wefollowed him, and for an hour crossed to and fro, up and down, humoringhim, responding to his every caprice, as if he verily were a king. Atlast, with a strange inconsistency more human than fishlike, he returnedto the scene of his fatal error, and here in the mouth of the smallerstream he leaped once more. But it was only a ghost of his formerefforts--a slow, weary rise, showing he was tired. I could see it in theweakening 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 hadsped. He rolled at times with a shade of the old vigor, with a patheticmanifestation 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 gleamof his silver side. Closer he came and slowly circled around the boat, eying me with great, accusing eyes. I measured him with a fisherman'sglance. What a great fish! Seven feet, I calculated, at the very least. At this triumphant moment I made a horrible discovery. About six feetfrom the leader the strands of the line had frayed, leaving only onethread intact. My blood ran cold and the clammy sweat broke out on mybrow. My empire was not won; my first tarpon was as if he had neverbeen. But true to my fishing instincts, I held on morosely; tenderly Ihandled him; with brooding care I riveted my eye on the frail place inmy line, and gently, ever so gently, I began to lead the silver kingshoreward. Every smallest move of his tail meant disaster to me, so whenhe moved it I let go of the reel. Then I would have to coax him to swimback again. The boat touched the bank. I stood up and carefully headed my fishtoward 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, hegave a gasp, a flop that deluged us with muddy water, and a lunge thatspelled freedom. I watched him swim slowly away with my bright leader dragging besidehim. Is it not the loss of things which makes life bitter? What we havegained is ours; what is lost is gone, whether fish, or use, or love, orname, 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 mybreast. 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 tothat of a hunter. On board the _Monterey_, from Havana to Progreso, Yucatan, I happened to fall into conversation with an Englishglobe-trotter who had just come from the Mont Pelée eruption. Like allthose wandering Englishmen, this one was exceedingly interesting. Weexchanged experiences, and I felt that I had indeed much to see andlearn of the romantic Old World. In Merida, that wonderful tropic city of white towers and white streetsand white-gowned women, I ran into this Englishman again. I wanted tosee the magnificent ruins of Uxmal and Ake and Labna. So did he. I knewit would be a hard trip from Muna to the ruins, and so I explained. Hesmiled 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 eachother's names. I had no idea what he thought of me, but I thought hemust have been somebody. While traveling around the coast of Yucatan I had heard of the wild andlonely Alacranes Reef where lighthouse-keepers went insane fromsolitude, and where wonderful fishes inhabited the lagoons. That wasenough for me. Forthwith I meant to go to Alacranes. Further inquiry brought me meager but fascinating news of an island onthat lonely coral reef, called _Isla de la Muerte_ (the Island of theDead). Here was the haunt of a strange bird, called by Indians_rabihorcado_, and it was said to live off the booby, another strangesea-bird. The natives of the coast solemnly averred that when the_rabihorcado_ could not steal fish from the booby he killed himself byhanging in the brush. I did not believe such talk. The Spanish appearedto be _rabi_, meaning rabies, and _horcar_, to hang. I set about to charter a boat, and found the great difficulty inprocuring one to be with the Yucatecan government. No traveler had everbefore done such a thing. It excited suspicion. The officials thoughtthe United States was looking for a coaling-station. Finally, throughthe help of the Ward line agent and the consul I prevailed upon them togive me such papers as appeared necessary. Then my Indian boatmeninterested a crew of six, and I chartered a two-masted canoe-shaped barkcalled the _Xpit_. The crew of the _Hispaniola_, with the never-to-be-forgotten John Silverand the rest of the pirates of Treasure Island, could not have been amore villainous and piratical gang than this of the bark _Xpit_. I wasadvised not to take the trip alone. But it appeared impossible to findany one to accompany me. I grew worried, yet determined not to miss theopportunity. Strange to relate, as I was conversing on the dock with a ship captainand the agent of the Ward line, lamenting the necessity of sailing forAlacranes alone, some one near by spoke up, "Take me!" In surprise I wheeled to see my English acquaintance who had visited theinterior of Yucatan with me. I greeted him, thanked him, but of coursedid not take him seriously, and I proceeded to expound the nature of myventure. To my further surprise, he not only wanted to go, but he wasenthusiastic. "But it's a hard, wild trip, " I protested. "Why, that crew ofbarefooted, 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 realman, 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, " Ireplied, and told him who I was, and that the Ward-line agent andAmerican 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 washow I met the kindest man, the finest philosopher, the most unselfishcomrade, the greatest example and influence that it has ever been mygood fortune to know upon my trips by land or sea. I learned this duringour wonderful trip to the Island of the Dead. He never thought ofhimself. Hardship to him was nothing. He had no fear of the sea, nor ofmen, nor of death. It seemed he never rested, never slept, never letanybody 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 theCaribbean 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 emptyhold. I could not stay below in that gloomy, ill-smelling pit, so Itried to sleep on deck. I lay on a hatch under the great boom, and whatwith its creaking, and the hollow roar of the sail, and the wash of thewaves, and the dazzling starlight, I could not sleep. C. Sat on a coilof rope, smoked, and watched in silence. I wondered about him then. Sunrise on the Caribbean was glorious to behold--a vast burst of silverand gold over a level and wrinkling blue sea. By day we sailed, tackinghere and there, like lost mariners standing for some far-off unknownshore. That night a haze of clouds obscured the stars, and it developedthat our red-shirted skipper steered by the stars. We indeed became lostmariners. They sounded with a greased lead and determined our latitudeby the color and character of the coral or sand that came up on thelead. Sometimes they knew where we were and at others they did not haveany more idea than had I. On the second morning out we reached Alacranes lighthouse; and when Isaw the flat strip of sand, without a tree or bush to lend it grace andcolor, the bleak lighthouse, and the long, lonely reaches of barrenreefs from which there came incessant moaning, I did not wonder that twoformer lighthouse-keepers had gone insane. The present keeper receivedme with the welcome always accorded a visitor to out-of-the-worldplaces. He corroborated all that my Indian sailors had claimed forthe _rabihorcado_, and added the interesting information thatlighthouse-keepers desired the extinction of the birds because theguano, deposited by them on the roofs of the keepers' houses, poisonedthe 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 realwonder of coral reefs. Ridges of white and brown showed their teethagainst the crawling, tireless, insatiate sea. Islets of dead coralgleamed like bleached bone, and beds of live coral, amber as wine, laywreathed in restless surf. From near to far extended the rollers, thecurving channels, and the shoals, all colorful, all quivering with thelight of jewels. Golden sand sloped into the gray-green of shallowwater, and this shaded again into darker green, which in turn mergedinto purple, reaching away to the far barrier reef, a white wall againstthe blue, heaving ocean. The crew had rowed us ashore with my boatmen Manuel and Augustine. Andthen the red-shirted captain stated he would like to go back to Progresoand return for us at our convenience. Hesitating over this, I finallygave permission, on the promise that he would bring back the _Xpit_ inone week. So they sailed away, and left us soon to find out that we were maroonedon a desert island. When I saw how C. Took it I was glad of our enforcedstay. Solitude and loneliness pervaded Alacranes. Of all the places Ihad 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 ithad me. He was a much older man, and, though so unfailingly cheerful andhelpful, he seemed to me to desire loneliness. He did not fish or shoot. His pleasure appeared to be walking the strand, around and around thelittle island, gathering bits of coral and shells and seaweeds andstrange things cast up by the tides. For hours he would sit high on thelighthouse stairway and gaze out over the variegated mosaic of coloredreefs. My bed was a hammock in the loft of the keeper's house and ithung close to an open door. At night I woke often, and I would look outupon the lonely beach and sea. When the light flashed its long wheelinggleam out into the pale obscurity of the night it always showed C. 'sdark figure on the lonely beach. I got into the habit of watching forhim, and never, at any time I happened to awake, did I fail to see himout there. How strange he looms to me now! But I thought it was naturalthen. The loneliness of that coral reef haunted me. The sound of thesea, eternally slow and sad and moaning, haunted me like a passion. Menare the better for solitude. Our bark, the _Xpit_, did not come back for us. Day by day we scannedthe heaving sea, far out beyond the barrier reef, until I began to feellike Crusoe upon his lonely isle. We had no way to know then that ourcrew had sailed twice from Progreso, getting lost the first time, andgetting drunk the second, eventually returning to the home port. Somemisfortunes turn out to be blessings. What adventures I had at Alacranes! But, alas! I cannot relate a singlestory about really catching a fish. There were many and ferocious fishthat would rush any bait I tried, only I could not hold them. My tacklewas not equal to what it is now. Perhaps, however, if it had been itwould 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 achannel of varying width meandered between the coral reefs out to thedeep blue sea. This must have been a lane for big fish to come insidethe barrier. Almost always there were great shadows drifting around inthe water. First I tried artificial baits. Some one, hoping to convertme, had given me a whole box of those ugly, murderous plug-baits madefamous by Robert H. Davis. Whenever I made a cast with one of these abig 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, onlythey were almost as silvery as a tarpon. One looked ten feet long and asbig around as a telegraph pole. When this one smashed the water whiteand 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 knowthen, as I know now, that barracuda grow to twelve feet in theCaribbean. That fact is mentioned in records and natural histories. Out in the deeper lagoons I hooked huge fish that swam offponderously, dragging the skiff until my line parted. Once I wasfortunate enough to see one, which fact dispelled any possibility of itsbeing a shark. Manuel called it "_Cherna!_" It looked like a giantsea-bass and would have weighed at least eight hundred pounds. The colorwas lighter than any sea-bass I ever studied. My Indian boatmen claimedthis fish was a man-eater and that he and his crew had once fought oneall day and then it broke away. The fish I saw was huge enough toswallow a man, that was certain. I think this species must have been thegreat June-fish of the Gulf. I hooked one once at the mouth of thePanuco 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 usetiny hooks and thread lines--because I was going to fish, by hook orcrook! This method, however, which I learned first of all, is not to bedespised. Whenever I get my hand on a thin, light, stiff reed pole and along, light line of thread with a little hook, then I revert to boyhooddays and sunfish and chubs and shiners and bullheads. Could anyfisherman 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 schoolof little fish like sardines. They drifted, floated, hovered beside thedock, and when one of the big fish would rush near they would make abreaking roar on the surface. Of me they evinced no fear whatever. Butno bait, natural or artificial, that I could discover, tempted them tobite. This roused my cantankerous spirit to catch some of those littlefish or else fall inestimably in my own regard. I noted that whenever Icast 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 hooksettled to the bottom the dark circle narrowed and closed until theschool was densely packed as before. Whereupon I tied several of thetiny hooks together with a bit of lead, and, casting that out, I waitedtill all was black around my line, then I jerked. I snagged one of thelittle fish and found him to be a beautiful, silvery, flat-sided shinerof unknown species to me. Every cast I made thereafter caught one ofthem. And they were as good to eat as a sardine and better than amullet. My English comrade, C. , sometimes went with me, and when he did go, theinterest and kindly curiosity and pleasure upon his face were a constantsource of delight to me. I knew that I was as new a species to him asthe little fish were to me. But C. Had become so nearly a perfectlyeducated man that nothing surprised him, nothing made him wonder. Hesympathized, he understood, he could put himself in the place ofanother. What worried me, however, was the simple fact that he did notcare to fish or shoot for the so-called sport of either. I think myeducation on a higher plane began at Alacranes, in the society of thatlonely Englishman. Somehow I have gravitated toward the men who havebeen 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 shoalswhen Manuel harpooned a huge hawk-bill turtle--the valuable species fromwhich 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 theturtle left us stranded high upon a coral bed. On moonlight nights when the tide was low C. Especially enjoyed wadingon the shoals and hunting for the _langustas_, or giant lobsters. Thiswas exciting sport. We used barrel-hoops with nets, and when we saw alobster shining in the shallow water we waded noiselessly close to swoopdown upon him with a great splash. I was always afraid of these hugecrayfish, but C. Was not. His courage might have been predatory, for hecertainly liked to eat lobster. But he had a scare one night when adevilfish or tremendous ray got between him and the shore and made thewater fly aloft in a geyser. It was certainly fun for me to see thatdignified Englishman make tracks across the shoal. To conclude about C. , when I went on to Mexico City with him I metfriends of his there, a lord and a duke traveling incognito. C. Himselfwas a peer of England and a major in the English army. But I neverlearned this till we got to Tampico, where they went with me for thetarpon-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 forCastleton, the Englishman, in _The Light of Western Stars_. I have beentold that never was there an Englishman on earth like the one Iportrayed 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 andgood luck. We were to part there, they to take ship for London, and I totake train for the headwaters of the Panuco River, down which unknownstreams I was to find my way through jungle to the Gulf. Here I was toldthat C. Had lost his only son in the Boer War, and since then had neverbeen able to rest or sleep or remain in one place. That stunned me, forI remembered that he had seemed to live only to forget himself, to thinkof others. It was a great lesson to me. And now, since I have not heardfrom him during the four years of the world war, I seem to divine thathe 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 thata man cannot fish for other game than fish. I remember when I was a boythat I went with my brother--the R. C. And the Reddy of the accompanyingpages--to fish for bass at Dillon's Falls in Ohio. Alas for Bill Dilgand Bob Davis, who never saw this blue-blooded home of bronze-backblack-bass! In the heat of the day my brother and I jabbed our polesinto the bank, and set off to amuse ourselves some other way for awhile. When we returned my pole was pulled down and wabbling so as tomake a commotion in the water. Quickly I grasped it and pulled, whileReddy stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Surely a big bass had taken mybait 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 nearlypulled the pole out of my hands. Reddy yelled wildly. The duck broke theline and sped away. .. . That moment will never be forgotten. It took usso long to realize that the duck had swallowed my minnow, hookedhimself, 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 Iset out to catch fish, and, failing, found for such loss abundantrecompense. * * * * * Manuel and Augustine, my Indian sailors, embarked with me in a boat forthe Island of the Dead. Millions of marine creatures swarmed in thelabyrinthine 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 milelong, lying only a few feet above the level of the sea. Hundreds ofgreat, black birds flew out to meet us and sailed over the boat, asable-winged, hoarse-voiced crowd. When we beached I sprang ashore andran up the sand to the edge of green. The whole end of the island waswhite with birds--large, beautiful, snowy birds with shiny black barsacross their wings. "Boobies, " said Manuel and motioned me to go forward. They greeted our approach with the most discordant din it had ever beenmy fortune to hear. A mingling of honk and cackle, it manifested notexcitement so much as curiosity. I walked among the boobies, and theynever moved except to pick at me with long, sharp bills. Many weresitting on nests, and all around in the sand were nests with eggs, andlittle boobies just hatched, and others in every stage of growth, up tobig babies of birds like huge balls of pure white wool. I wondered wherethe thousands of mothers were. The young ones showed no concern when Ipicked 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 launchedhimself into the air and started out to sea. Presently I noticed severalmore 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 andincoming. 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 fixedand staring as to seem accusing. One of the little white balls of woolwaddled up and, rubbing its fuzzy head against the booby, proclaimed thefilial relation. After a few rubs and wabbles the young bird opened wideits bill and let out shrill cries. The mother bobbed up and down inevident consternation, walked away, came back, and with an eye on meplainly sought to pacify her fledgling. Suddenly she put her bill fardown into the wide-open bill, effectually stifling the cries. Then thetwo boobies stood locked in amazing convulsions. The throat of themother swelled, and a lump passed into and down the throat of the youngbird. The puzzle of the flying boobies was solved in the startlingrealization that the mother had returned from the sea with a fish in herstomach 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 amother booby into withdrawing her bill and dropping a fish on the sand. It was a flying-fish fully ten inches long. I interrupted several littledinner-parties, and in each case found the disgorged fish to be of theflying species. The boobies flew ten, twenty miles out to the open seafor fish, while the innumerable shoals that lay around their island werealive with sardine and herring! I had raised a tremendous row; so, leaving the boobies to quiet down, Imade my way toward the flocks of _rabihorcados_. Here and there in thethick growth of green weed were boobies squatting on isolated nests. Nosooner had I gotten close to the _rabihorcados_ than I made sure theywere the far-famed frigate pelicans, or man-of-war birds. They were astame 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 acircle, uttering deep-throated cries, not unlike the dismal croak ofravens. Perfectly built for the air, they were like feathers blown by abreeze. 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 wereeverywhere. The little ones were covered with white down, and thedeveloping feathers on their wings were turning black. They squalledunremittingly, which squalling I decided was not so much on my accountas because of a swarm of black flies that attacked them when the mothersflew away. I was hard put to it myself to keep these flies, large aspennies and as flat, from eating me alive. They slipped up my sleevesand trousers and their bite made a wasp-sting pleasure by comparison. By rushing into a flock of _rabihorcados_ I succeeded several times incatching one in my hands. And spreading it out, I made guesses as towidth from tip to tip of wings. None were under seven feet; one measuredall of eight. They made no strenuous resistance and regarded me withcold eyes. Every flock that I put to flight left several dozen littleones squalling in the nests; and at one place an old booby waddled tothe nests and began to maltreat the young _rabihorcados_. Instincts ofhumanity bade me scare the old brute away until I happened to rememberthe relation existing between the two species. Then I watched. With myown eyes I saw that grizzled booby pick and bite and wring those poorlittle birds with a grim and deadly deliberation. When the mothers, soonreturning, fluttered down, they did not attack the booby, but protectedtheir little ones by covering them with body and wings. Conviction cameupon me that it was instinctive for the booby to kill the parasitical_rabihorcado_; and likewise instinctive for the _rabihorcado_ topreserve the life of the booby. A shout from Manuel directed me toward the extreme eastern end of theisland. On the way I discovered many little dead birds, and the fartherI went the more I found. Among the low bushes were also many old_rabihorcados_, dead and dry. Some were twisted among the network ofbranches, and several were hanging in limp, grotesque, horriblysuggestive attitudes of death. Manuel had all of the Indian's leaningtoward the mystical, and he believed the _rabihorcados_ had destroyedthemselves. Starved they may very well have been, but to me the gales ofthat wind-swept, ocean desert accounted for the hanging _rabihorcados_. Still, when face to face with the island, with its strife, and itsillustration of the survival of the fittest, all that Manuel had claimedand more, I had to acknowledge the disquieting force of the thing andits stunning blow to an imagined knowledge of life and its secrets. Suddenly Manuel shouted and pointed westward. I saw long white streamsof sea-birds coming toward the island. My glass showed them to beboobies. An instant later thousands of _rabihorcados_ took wing as ifimpelled by a common motive. Manuel ran ahead in his excitement, turningto shout to me, and then to point toward the wavering, swelling, whitestreams. I hurried after him, to that end of the island where we hadlanded, and I found the colony of boobies in a state of greatperturbation. All were squawking, flapping wings, and waddlingfrantically about. Here was fear such as had not appeared on my advent. Thousands of boobies were returning from deep-sea fishing, and as theyneared the island they were met and set upon by a swarming army of_rabihorcados_. Darting white and black streaks crossed the blue of skylike a changeful web. The air was full of plaintive cries and hoarsecroaks and the windy rush of wings. So marvelous was this scene ofincredibly swift action, of kaleidoscopic change, of streaking lines andcurves, that the tragedy at first was lost upon me. Then the shriekingof a booby told me that the robber birds were after their prey. Manuellay flat on the ground to avoid being struck by low-flying birds, but Iremained standing in order to see the better. Faster and faster circledthe pursued and pursuers and louder grew the cries and croaks. My gazewas bewildered by the endless, eddying stream of birds. Then I turned my back on sea and beach where this bee-swarm confused myvision, and looked to see single boobies whirling here and there withtwo or three black demons in pursuit. I picked out one group and turnedmy glass upon it. Many battles had I seen by field and stream andmountain, but this unequal battle by sea eclipsed all. The booby'smother instinct was to get to her young with the precious fish thatmeant life. And she would have been more than a match for any one thief. But she could not cope successfully with two fierce _rabihorcados_; forone soared above her, resting, watching, while the other darted andwhirled to the attack. They changed, now one black demon swooping down, and then the other, in calculating, pitiless pursuit. How glorious shewas in poise and swerve and sweep! For what seemed a long time neither_rabihorcado_ touched her. What distance she could have placed betweenthem but for that faithful mother instinct! She kept circling, everreturning, drawn back toward the sand by the magnet of love; and thepowerful wings seemed slowly to lose strength. Closer the _rabihorcados_swooped and rose and swooped again, till one of them, shooting down likea black flash, struck her in the back. The white feathers flew away onthe wind. She swept up, appeared to pause wearily and quiver, thendisgorged 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 theworld before me with its myriads of wild creatures preying upon oneanother; 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 withfire behind it, framed the birds of power and prey in colors suitable totheir spirit. My ears were filled with the haunting sound of the sea, the sad wash of the surf, the harmonious and mournful music of theIsland of the Dead. III THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA To the great majority of anglers it may seem unreasonable to placeswordfishing in a class by itself--by far the most magnificent sport inthe world with rod and reel. Yet I do not hesitate to make thisstatement and believe I can prove it. The sport is young at this writing--very little has been written by menwho have caught swordfish. It was this that attracted me. Quite a numberof fishermen have caught a swordfish. But every one of them will havesomething different to tell you and the information thus gleaned is aptto leave you at sea, both metaphorically and actually. Quite a number offishermen, out after yellowtail, have sighted a swordfish, and with theassistance of heavy tackle and their boatmen have caught that swordfish. Some few men have caught a small swordfish so quickly and easily thatthey cannot appreciate what happened. On the other hand, one very largeswordfish, a record, was caught in an hour, after a loggy rolling about, like a shark, without leaping. But these are not fighting swordfish. Ofcourse, under any circumstances, it is an event to catch a swordfish. But the accidents, the flukes, the lucky stabs of the game, do not inany 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 confessthat all this experience made me--well, somewhat too assured. Any onewill excuse my enthusiasm. The day of my arrival I met Parker, thegenial taxidermist of Avalon, and I started to tell him how I wanted myswordfish mounted. He interrupted me: "Say, young fellow, you want tocatch 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'llget a strike. And one swordfish caught out of ten strikes is good work!"But Danielson was optimistic and encouraging, as any good boatman oughtto be. If I had not been fortunate enough to secure Captain Dan as myboatman, it is certain that one of the most wonderful fishingexperiences on record would have fallen to some other fisherman, insteadof to me. We went over to Clemente Island, which is thirty-six miles from CatalinaIsland. 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 shallnever forget the sight of the first swordfish, with his greatsickle-shaped tail and his purple fin. Nor am I likely to forget mydisappointment when he totally ignored the flying-fish bait we trolledbefore him. That experience was but a forerunner to others just like it. Every daywe 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 aswordfish that was not visible rolling on the surface. Now a flying-fishbait makes a rather heavy bait to troll; and as it is imperative to havethe reel free running and held lightly with the thumb, after a few hourssuch trolling becomes hard work. Hard as it was, it did not wear on melike the strain of being always ready for a strike. I doubt if anyfisherman could stand this strain. In twenty-one days I had seen nineteen swordfish, several of which hadleaped playfully, or to shake off the remoras--parasite, blood-suckinglittle fish--and the sight of every one had only served to increase myfascination. By this time I had realized something of the difficultnature of the game, and I had begun to have an inkling of what sport itmight be. During those twenty-one days we had trolled fifteen hundredmiles, altogether, up and down that twenty-five-mile coast of ruggedClemente. And we had trolled round these fish in every conceivable way. I cannot begin to describe my sensations when we circled round aswordfish, and they grew more intense and acute as the strain andsuspense dragged. Captain Dan, of course, was mostly dominated by myfeeling. All the same, I think the strain affected him on his ownaccount. Then one day Boschen came over to Clemente with Farnsworth--and let meexplain, by the way, that Boschen is probably the greatest heavy tacklefisherman living. Boschen would not fish for anything except tuna orswordfish, and up to this visit to Clemente he had caught many tuna, butonly one swordfish, a _Xiphias_. This is the broadbill, or true, swordfish; and he is even rarer, and certainly larger and fiercer, thanthe Marlin, or roundbill, swordfish. This time at Clemente, Boschencaught his first Marlin and it weighed over three hundred pounds, leapedclear into the air sixty-three times, and gave a spectacular andmagnificent 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 spentseveral more endless days in vain. Then on the twenty-fifth day, way offthe east end of Clemente, we sighted a swordfish with a tail almostpink. 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 shookall over. And when I felt him take that bait, thrill on thrillelectrified me. Steadily the line ran off the reel. Then Captain Danleaned over and whispered, hoarsely: "When you think he's had enough throw on your drag and strike. Then windquick 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 atall. Suddenly my line rose--and then, bewilderingly near the boat, whenI 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 wentwith a crash. I wound the reel like a madman, but I never even half gotup the slack line. The swordfish had run straight toward the boat. Heleaped again, in a place I did not expect, and going down, instantlycame up in another direction. His speed, his savageness, stunned me. Icould not judge of his strength, for I never felt his weight. The nextleap I saw him sling the hook. It was a great performance. Then thatswordfish, finding himself free, leaped for the open sea, and every fewyards he came out in a clean jump. I watched him, too fascinated tocount the times he broke water, but he kept it up till he was out ofsight on the horizon. At first Captain Dan took the loss harder than I took it. But graduallyI realized what had happened, and, though I made a brave effort to begame and cheerful, I was sick. It did seem hard that, after all thosetwenty-five days of patience and hope and toil, I could not have hookedthe swordfish. I see now that it was nothing, only an incident, but Ishall 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 mightbe. I assured Captain Dan I would come back in 1915, but at the time hedid not believe me. He said: "If you hadn't stuck it out so long I wouldn't care. Most of thefishermen 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 learnedthe value of companions and I dreaded the strain of this swordfishinggame. I needed some one to help lessen it. Besides that, I neededsnapshot pictures of leaping swordfish, and it was obvious that CaptainDan and I would have our hands full when a fish got hooked. We hadmusic, books, magazines--everything that could be thought of. Murphy, the famous old Avalon fisherman and tackle-maker, had made me adouble split-bamboo rod, and I had brought the much-talked-of B-Oceanreel. This is Boschen's invention--one he was years in perfecting. Itheld fifteen hundred feet of No. 24 line. And I will say now that it isa grand reel, the best on the market. But I did not know that then, andhad 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 fightswordfish. For weeks I rowed a boat at home to get arms and back inshape, and especially my hands. Let no fisherman imagine he can land afighting swordfish with soft hands! So, prepared for a long, hard strain, like that of 1914, I left Avalonhopeful, of course, but serious, determined, and alive to thepossibilities of failure. I did not troll across the channel between the islands. There was a bigswell running, and four hours of it gave me a disagreeable feeling. Nowand then I got up to see how far off Clemente was. And upon the last ofthese occasions I saw the fins of a swordfish right across our bow. Iyelled to Captain Dan. He turned the boat aside, almost on top of theswordfish. Hurriedly I put a bait on my hook and got it overboard, andlet the line run. Then I looked about for the swordfish. He had gonedown. It seemed then that, simultaneously with the recurrence of a peculiarand familiar disappointment, a heavy and powerful fish viciously took mybait 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 Ihooked him and a yell of joy when he broke water--a big swordfish, overtwo hundred pounds. What really transpired on Captain Dan's boat thefollowing few moments I cannot adequately describe. Suffice to say thatit was violent effort, excitement, and hilarity. I never counted theleaps 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 anymistakes. At the end of perhaps a quarter of an hour the swordfish quit hissurface work and settled down to under-water fighting, and I began tofind myself. Captain Dan played the phonograph, laughed, and joked whileI 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, herolled on the top of the great swells. But he could not be drawn nearthe 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 thegreat B-Ocean reel. It worked hard. When a big swell carried theswordfish 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 hadvon Hofe and other reels freeze. But in this instance, it seemed thatfor the reel to freeze would be simply heartbreaking. Well--it froze, tight as a shut vise! I sat there, clutching the vibrating rod, and Iwatched the swordfish as the swells lifted him. I expected the line tobreak, but, instead, the hook tore out. Next day we sighted four swordfish and tried in vain to coax one tobite. Next day we sighted ten swordfish, which is a record for one day. Theywere indifferent. The next three. The next one, with like result. The next day no fishwere sighted, and that fact encouraged Captain Dan. The next day, late in the afternoon, I had a strike and hooked aswordfish. He leaped twice and threw the hook. The next day I got eleven jumps out of another before he gracefullyflung the hook at the boat. The next day, a big swordfish, with a ragged purple fin, took my baitright astern of the boat and sounded deep. I hooked him. Time and timeagain 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 andcurious. "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 hookfast in him. When he showed his flippers, as Captain Dan called them, weall burst out with wonder and awe. As yet I had no reason to fear aswordfish. "He's a whale!" yelled Captain Dan. Probably this fish measured eight feet between his dorsal fin and thegreat curved fluke of his tail, and that would make his total lengthover twelve feet. No doubt the swordfish associated the thing fast in his jaw with theboat, for he suddenly awoke. He lifted himself, wagging his sword, showing his great silvery side. Then he began to thresh. I never felt aquarter 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 moreactive. 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 massivehead, jaws open, sword sweeping, and seemed to move across the water ina growing, boiling maelstrom of foam. This was the famous "walking onhis tail" I had heard so much about. It was an incredible feat. He musthave covered fifty yards. Then he plunged down, and turned swiftly in acurve toward the boat. He looked threatening to me. I could not managethe slack line. One more leap and he threw the hook. I found the pointof the hook bent. It had never been embedded in his jaw. And also Ifound that his violent exercise had lasted just one minute. I wonderedhow 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 afterfooling with it for a while he ejected it. Next day I got a great splashing strike from another, without even asight of the fish. Next day I hooked one that made nineteen beautiful leaps straightawaybefore he got rid of the hook. And about that time I was come to a sad pass. In fact, I could notsleep, eat, or rest. I was crazy on swordfish. Day after day, from early morning till late afternoon, aboard on thesea, trolling, watching, waiting, eternally on the alert, I had kept atthe game. My emotional temperament made this game a particularly tryingone. And every possible unlucky, unforeseen, and sickening thing thatcould happen to a fisherman had happened. I grew morbid, hopeless. Icould no longer see the beauty of that wild and lonely island, nor thewonder of that smooth, blue Pacific, nor the myriad of strangesea-creatures. It was a bad state of mind which I could not whollyconquer. Only by going at it so hard, and sticking so long, without anyrests, could I gain the experience I wanted. A man to be a greatfisherman should have what makes Stewart White a great hunter--noemotions. If a lion charged me I would imagine a million things. Oncewhen a Mexican _tigre_, a jaguar, charged me I--But that is not thisstory. Boschen has the temperament for a great fisherman. He isphlegmatic. All day--and day after day--he sits there, on trigger, so tospeak, waiting for the strike that will come. He is so constituted thatit does not matter to him how soon or how late the strike comes. To methe wait, the suspense, grew to be maddening. Yet I stuck it out, and inthis I claim a victory, of which I am prouder than I am of the recordthat gave me more swordfish to my credit than any other fisherman hastaken. On the next day, August 11th, about three o'clock, I saw a long, movingshadow back of my bait. I jumped up. There was the purple, driftingshape of a swordfish. I felt a slight vibration when he hit the baitwith his sword. Then he took the bait. I hooked this swordfish. Heleaped 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. CaptainDan would take no chances of losing him. He risked much when he graspedthe waving sword with his right hand, and with the gaff in his left hehauled the swordfish aboard and let him slide down into the cockpit. ForCaptain Dan it was no less an overcoming of obstinate difficulty thanfor 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, mottledbronze green; mother-of-pearl tint fading into the green; and greatopal eyes with dark spots in the center. The colors came out mostvividly and exquisitely, the purple blazing, just as the swordfishtrembled his last and died. He was nine feet two inches long and weighedone 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. Foughtanother the next day and he threw the hook after a half-hour. Caught twothe following day--one hundred and twenty, and one hundred and sixty-sixpounds. 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, wherea wind was whipping the water white. Clemente Island towered with itssteep 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, andwe put on full speed. He must have been a mile out and just where thebreeze ruffled the water. As good luck would have it, we came upon thefish on the surface. I consider this a fine piece of judgment forCaptain Dan, to locate him at that distance. He was a monster and freshrun from the outside sea. That is to say, his great fin and tail wereviolet, almost pink in color. They had not had time to get sunburnt, asthose 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, Ithought, with despair--these floating fish will not bite. We circledover the place where he had gone down, and I watched my bait rising andfalling in the low swells. Suddenly Captain Dan yelled and I saw a great blaze of purple and silvergreen flashing after my bait. It was the swordfish, and he took the baiton the run. That was a moment for a fisherman! I found it almostimpossible to let him have enough line. All that I remember about thehooking of him was a tremendous shock. His first dash was irresistiblypowerful, and I had a sensation of the absurdity of trying to stop afish like that. Then the line began to rise on the surface and tolengthen in my sight, and I tried to control my rapture and fear enoughto be able to see him clearly when he leaped. The water split, and up heshot--a huge, glittering, savage, beautiful creature, all purple andopal in the sunlight. He did not get all the way out of the water, butwhen he dropped back he made the water roar. Then, tearing off line, he was out of the water in similar leaps--seventimes more. Captain Dan had his work cut out for him as well as I hadmine. It was utterly impossible to keep a tight line, and when I feltthe slacking of weight I grew numb and sick--thinking he was gone. Buthe suddenly straightened the line with a jerk that lifted me, and hestarted inshore. He had about four hundred feet of line out, and moreslipping out as if the drag was not there. Captain Dan headed the boatafter him at full speed. Then followed a most thrilling race. It wasover very quickly, but it seemed an age. When he stopped and went downhe had pulled thirteen hundred feet off my reel while we were chasinghim at full speed. While he sounded I got back half of this line. I wishI could give some impression of the extraordinary strength and speed ofthis 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 performedfor me the feature of which I had heard so much and which has made theswordfish the most famous of all fish--he rose two-thirds out of thewater, I suppose by reason of the enormous power of his tail, though itseemed like magic, and then he began to walk across the sea in a greatcircle of white foam, wagging his massive head, sword flying, jaws wide, dorsal fin savagely erect, like a lion's mane. He was magnificent. Ihave never seen fury so expressed or such an unquenchable spirit. Thenhe dropped back with a sudden splash, and went down and down and down. All swordfish fight differently, and this one adopted tuna tactics. Hesounded and began to plug away and bang the leader with his tail. Hewould 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 onthe reel. This kept up for an hour--surely the hardest hour's work of mylife. But a swordfish is changeable. That is the beauty of his gameness. Heleft off sounding and came up to fight on the surface. In the next hourhe 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 ingreat, 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 everbefell a fisherman. I was hooked to a monster fighting swordfish; I waswet with sweat, and salt water that had dripped from my reel, and I wasaching in every muscle. The sun was setting in banks of gold and silverfog over the west end, and the sea was opalescent--vast, shimmering, heaving, beautiful. And at this sunset moment, or hour--for time seemednothing--a school of giant tuna began leaping around us, smashing thewater, making the flying-fish rise in clouds, like drifting bees. I sawa whole flock of flying-fish rise into the air with that sunset glow andcolor in the background, and the exquisite beauty of life and movementwas indescribable. Next a bald eagle came soaring down, and, swoopingalong the surface, he lowered his talons to pick up a crippledflying-fish. And when the hoary-headed bird rose, a golden eagle, largerand more powerful, began to contest with him for the prey. Then the sky darkened and the moon whitened--and my fight went on. I hadtaken the precaution to work for two months at rowing to harden my handsfor just such a fight as this. Yet my hands suffered greatly. A man whois not in the best of physical trim, with his hands hard, cannot hope toland a big swordfish. I was all afternoon at this final test, and all in, too, but at last Ibrought him near enough for Captain Dan to grasp the leader. .. . Thenthere was something doing around that boat for a spell! I was positivea German torpedo had hit us. But the explosion was only the swordfish'stail and Dan's voice yelling for another gaff. When Captain Dan got thesecond gaff in him there was another submarine attack, but the boat didnot sink. Next came the job of lassoing the monster's tail. Here I shone, for Ihad lassoed mountain-lions with Buffalo Jones, and I was efficient andquick. Captain Dan and I were unable to haul the fish on board, and wehad to get out the block and tackle and lift the tail on deck, securethat, and then pull up the head from the other side. After that I neededsome kind of tackle to hold me up. We were miles from camp, and I was wet and cold and exhausted, and thepain in my blistered hands was excruciating. But not soon shall I forgetthat ride down the shore with the sea so rippling and moon-blanched, andthe boom of the surf on the rocks, and the peaks of the island standingbold and dark against the white stars. This swordfish weighed three hundred and sixteen pounds on faulty scalesat Clemente. He very likely weighed much more. He was the largestCaptain Dan ever saw, up to that time. Al Shade guessed his weight atthree hundred and sixty. The market fishermen, who put in at the littleharbor the next day, judged him way over three hundred, and these menare accurate. The fish hung head down for a day and night, lost all thewater and blood and feed in him, and another day later, when landed atAvalon, he had lost considerable. There were fishermen who discreditedCaptain 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 andimportant, and they are fostered by unsportsman-like fishermen. Andfishermen live among past associations; they grow to believe theirperformances unbeatable and they hate to see a new king crowned. Thismay be human, since we are creatures who want always to excel, but it isirritating to the young fishermen. As for myself, what did I care howmuch the swordfish weighed? He was huge, magnificent, beautiful, andgame to the end of that four-hour battle. Who or what could changethat--or the memory of those schools of flying-fish in the sunsetglow--or the giant tuna, smashing the water all about me--or the eaglesfighting over my head--or the beauty of wild and lonely Clemente underits silver cloud-banks? * * * * * I went on catching one or two swordfish every day, and Captain Danaverred that the day would come when we would swamp the boat. These dayswere fruitful of the knowledge of swordfish that I had longed to earn. They are indeed "queer birds. " I learned to recognize the sharpvibration of my line when a swordfish rapped the bait with his sword. Nodoubt he thought he thus killed his prey. Then the strike would comeinvariably soon after. No two swordfish acted or fought alike. I hookedone 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 showfor two hours. We were sure we had a broadbill, and were correspondinglyworried. The broadbill swordfish is a different proposition. He islarger, fiercer, and tireless. He will charge the boat, and nothing butthe churning propeller will keep him from ramming the boat. There wereeight broadbill swordfish hooked at Avalon during the summer, and notone brought to gaff. This is an old story. Only two have been caught todate. They are so powerful, so resistless, so desperate, and so cunningthat it seems impossible to catch them. They will cut bait after baitoff your hook as clean as if it had been done with a knife. For thatmatter, 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 byfishermen. But it certainly is not doubted by the few who know. I haveseen two swordfish threaten my boat, and one charge it. Walker, anAvalon boatman, tells of a prodigious battle his angler had with abroadbill giant calculated to weigh five hundred pounds. This fightlasted eight hours. Many times the swordfish charged the boat and losthis nerve. If that propeller had stopped he would have gone through theboat as if it had been paper. After this fish freed himself he was somad that he charged the boat repeatedly. Boschen fought a big broadbillfor eleven hours. And during this fight the swordfish sounded to thebottom forty-eight times, and had to be pumped up; he led the boatalmost around Catalina Island--twenty-nine miles; and he had gotten outinto the channel, headed for Clemente, when he broke away. This fish dideverything. I consider this battle the greatest on record. Only a man ofenormous strength and endurance could have lasted so long--not to speakof the skill and wits necessary on the part of both fisherman andboatman. All fishermen fish for the big fish, though it is sport tocatch any game fish, irrespective of size. But let any fisherman who hasnerve see and feel a big swordfish on his line, and from that moment heis obsessed. Why, a tarpon is child's play compared to holding a fastswordfish. It is my great ambition now to catch a broadbill. That would completelyround out my fishing experience. And I shall try. But I doubt that Iwill be so fortunate. It takes a long time. Boschen was years catchinghis fish. Moreover, though it is hard to get a broadbill to bite--andharder to hook him--it is infinitely harder to do anything with himafter you do get fast to him. * * * * * A word about Avalon boatmen. They are a fine body of men. I have heardthem maligned. Certainly they have petty rivalries and jealousies, butthis is not their fault. They fish all the seasons around and have beenthere for years. Boatmen at Long Key and other Florida resorts--atTampico, 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 patronsfor the future. And the boats--nowhere are there such splendid boats. Captain Danielson's boat had utterly spoiled me for fishing out ofany other. He had it built, and the ideas of its construction were aproduct of fifteen years' study. It is thirty-eight feet long, and wide, with roomy, shaded cockpit and cabin, and comfortable revolving chairsto fish from. These chairs have moving sockets into which you can jamthe butt of your rod; and the backs can be removed in a flash. Then youcan 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 constructedso your line can slip under the boat without fouling. It is equippedwith sail and a powerful engine. Danielson can turn this boat, going atfull speed, in its own length! Consider the merit of this when a tunastrikes, or a swordfish starts for the open sea. How many tarpon, barracuda, amberjack, and tuna I have lost on the Atlantic seaboard justbecause 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 ofvolcanic origin, and when the lava rose, hot and boiling, greatblow-holes formed, and hardened to make the caves. It is an exceedinglybeautiful island. The fishing side is on the north, or lee, shore, wherethe water is very deep right off the rocks. There are kelp-beds alongthe shore, and the combination of deep water, kelp, and small fish iswhat holds the swordfish there in August and September. I have seenacres 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 ascrystal. Always a fascinating thing for me was to watch the water fornew and different fish, strange marine creatures, life of some kind. Andthe watching was always rewarded. I have been close to schools ofdevilish 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 bendand sound, lifting the huge, glistening flukes of his tail, wide as ahouse! I hate sharks and have caught many, both little and big. When youare watching for swordfish it is no fun to have a big shark break foryour 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 wasreally a swordfish! I used to love to watch the sunfish leap, they areso round and glistening and awkward. I could tell one two miles away. The blue shark leaps often and he always turns clear over. You cannotmistake it. Nor can you mistake a swordfish when he breaks, even thoughyou only see the splash. He makes two great sheets of water rise andfall. Probably all these fish leap to shake off the remoras. A remora isa parasite, a queer little fish, pale in color, because he probablylives inside the gills of the fish he preys upon, with the suckers ontop of his head, arranged in a shield, ribbed like a washboard. Thislittle fish is as mysterious as any creature of the sea. He is as swiftas lightning. He can run over the body of a swordfish so quickly youcan scarcely follow his movement, and at all times he is fast to theswordfish, holding with that flat sucker head. Mr. Holder wrote yearsago that the remora sticks to a fish just to be carried along, as ameans of travel, but I do not incline to this belief. We found manyremoras inside the gills of swordfish, and their presence there wasevidence of their blood-sucking tendencies. I used to search everyswordfish for these remoras, and I would keep them in a bucket tillwe got to our anchorage. A school of tame rock-bass there, and tameyellowtail, and a few great sea-bass were always waiting for us--for ourdiscarded 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, sosweet, 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 killshimself in his good humor and kindness and usefulness. Men who livelonely lives are always glad to see their fellow-men. But he lovesClemente Island. Who would not? When I think of it many pictures come to mind--evening with the searolling high and waves curving shoreward in great dark ripples, thatbreak and spread white and run up the strand. The sky is pale blueabove, a green sheen low down, with white stars blinking. Thepromontories run down into the sea, sheer, black, rugged, bold, mighty. The surf is loud and deep, detonating, and the pebbles scream as thewaves draw them down. Strange to realize that surf when on the morrowthe 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 andcliffs--lilac and cactus and ice-plant and arbor-vitæ and ironwood, withthe wild goats silhouetted dark against the bold sky-line! * * * * * There came that day of all days. I never believed Captain Dan, but now Ishall never forget. The greatest day that ever befell me! I brought fourswordfish to gaff and whipped another, the biggest one of the wholetrip, and saw him tear away from the hook just at the last--in all, ninehours of strenuous hanging on to a rod. I caught the first one before six o'clock, as the sun was risingred-gold, dazzling, glorious. He leaped in the sun eleven times. Heweighed one hundred and eighty-seven. After breakfast we sighted two swordfish on the smooth sea. Both chargedthe bait. I hooked one of these and he leaped twenty-three times. Heweighed one hundred and sixty-eight. Then off the east end we saw a big swordfish leap five times. We wentout toward the open sea. But we never got anywhere near him. I had threestrikes, one after another, when we were speeding the boat. Then we shutdown and took to slow trolling. I saw another swordfish sail for mybait, and yelled. He shot off with the bait and his dorsal fin stuck outof the water. I hooked him. He leaped thirty-eight times. How the cameradid 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 swellspile 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 nothurt or scare him. Finally I pulled the hook out of him. While I wasreeling in my line suddenly a huge purple shadow hove in sight. It wasthe 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 onthat boat. I jumped up on the stern, holding the bait Captain Dan hadput on my hook. Then I paused to look. We all looked, spellbound. Thatwas a sight of a lifetime. There he swam, the monster, a few feet underthe surface, only a rod back of the boat. I had no calm judgment withwhich to measure his dimensions. I only saw that he was tremendous andbeautiful. His great, yard-wide fins gleamed royal purple. And thepurple strips crossed his silver sides. He glowed in the water, changedcolor like a chameleon, and drifted, floated after us. I thought of mybrother Reddy--how he would have gloried in that sight! I thought ofDilg, of Bob Davis, of Professor Kellogg--other great fishermen, all ina 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 myheart ceased to beat. There, in plain sight, he took the bait, as atrout might have taken a grasshopper. Slowly he sank. The line began toslip off the reel. He ceased to be a bright purple mass--grew dim--thenvague--and disappeared. I sat down, jammed the rod in the socket, and got ready. For the life ofme 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 linedup, two on one side and one on the other, I began to strike at that fishwith all my might and main. I must have had at least twelve powerfulstrikes before he began to wake up. Then! He came up, throwing the water in angry spouts. If he did not threatenthe boat I was crazy. He began an exhibition that dwarfed any other Ihad seen, and it was so swift that I could scarcely follow him. Yet whenI saw the line rise, and then the wonderful, long, shiny body, instinctwith fury, shoot into the air, I yelled the number of the leap, and thiswas the signal for the camera-workers. They held the cameras close, without trying to focus, facing the fish, and they snapped when Iyelled. It was all gloriously exciting. I could never describe thatexhibition. I only know that he leaped clear forty-six times, and aftera swift, hard hour for me he got away. Strangely, I was almost happythat he had shaken loose, for he had given such remarkable opportunitiesfor pictures. Captain Dan threw the wheel hard over and the boat turned. Theswordfish, tired out and unconscious of freedom, was floating near thesurface, a drifting blaze of purple. The boat sheered close to him. Captain Dan reached over with a gaff--and all but gaffed that swordfishbefore he sank too deep. Captain Dan was white with disappointment. Thatmore 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 bluestreak after my bait, and I was ready before the swordfish got to it. Hestruck viciously and I dared not let him have much line. When I hookedhim 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. Thenit 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 keptsteadily leaping ahead. He cleared the water thirty-nine times before hegave up leaping. Then he sounded. The line went slack. I thought he wasgone. Suddenly he showed again, in a white splash, and he was not halfas far away as when he went down. Then I felt the pull on the line. Itwas heavy, for he had left a great bag in it. I endeavored to recoverline, but it came in very slowly. The swordfish then threshed on thesurface so that we could hear the water crack. But he did not leapagain. He had gone mad with rage. He seemed to have no sense ofdirection. He went down again, only to rush up, still closer to us. Thenit was plain he saw the nature of his foe. Splitting water like a swiftmotor-boat, he charged us. I had a cold sensation, but was too excited to be afraid. Almost Iforgot to reel in. "He's after us!" I said, grimly. Captain Dan started the boat ahead fast. The swordfish got out of linewith the boat. But he was close, and he made me think of the chargingrhinoceros Dugmore photographed. And then I yelled for the cameras to besnapped. They all clicked--and then, when the swordfish shot closebehind us, presenting the most magnificent picture, no one was ready! As he passed I thought I saw the line round his body. Then he soundedand began to plug. He towed us six miles out to sea. I could not stophim. I had begun to weaken. My hands were sights. My back hurt. But Istayed 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 thinkthat. Presently this swordfish turned inshore and towed us back the sixmiles. By this time it was late and I _was_ all in. But the swordfishdid 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 Iwas blind and could scarcely feel. My old blisters opened and bled. Myleft arm was dead. I seemed to have no more strength than a kitten. Icould not lead the fish nor turn him. I had to drag and drag, inch byinch. It was agonizing. But finally I was encouraged by sight of him, along, fine, game fellow. A hundred times I got the end of the doubleline near the leader in sight, only to lose it. Seven o'clock passed. I had fought this swordfish nearly three hours. Icould not last much longer. I rested a little, holding hard, and thenbegan a last and desperate effort to bring him to gaff. I was absolutelydripping with sweat, and red flashes passed before my eyes, and queerdots. The last supreme pull--all I had left--brought the end of theleader 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 notbeen hooked. He had been lassoed. In some way the leader had loopedaround him with the hook catching under the wire. No wonder it hadnearly killed me to bring him to the boat, and surely I never would havesucceeded had it not been for the record Captain Dan coveted. That wasthe strangest feature in all my wonderful Clemente experience--to seethat superb swordfish looped in a noose of my long leader. He waswithout a scratch. It may serve to give some faint idea of thebewildering possibilities in the pursuit of this royal purple game ofthe Pacific. IV TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH My first day at Avalon, 1916, was one likely to be memorable among myfishing experiences. The weather (August 2d) was delightful--smooth, rippling sea, no wind, clear sky and warm. The Sierra Nevada Mountains shone dark above thehorizon. A little before noon we passed my friend Lone Angler, who hailed us andsaid there was a big broadbill swordfish off in the steamer-course. Westeered 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 inscattered 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 upwe discovered the huge, brown, leathery tail and dorsal of a broadbillswordfish. Captain Dan advised a long line out so that we could circle the fishfrom a distance and not scare him. I do not remember any unusualexcitement. I was curious and interested. Remembering all I had heardabout 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 nearit. As it was, I had to reel in some. Presently we had the bait sometwenty yards ahead of him. Then Captain Dan slowed down. The broadbillwiggled his tail and slid out of sight. Dan said he was going for mybait. But I did not believe so. Several moments passed. I had given upany little hope I might have had when I received a quick, strong, vibrating strike--different from any I had ever experienced. I supposethe strangeness was due to the shock he gave my line when he struck thebait with his sword. The line paid out unsteadily and slowly. I lookedat Dan and he looked at me. Neither of us was excited nor particularlyelated. 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 topossibilities. Throwing on the drag and winding in until my line wastaut, I struck hard--four times. He made impossible any more attempts atthis 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 ofline before we ran up on him. Presently he came to the surface to thresharound. He did not appear scared or angry. Probably he was annoyed atthe pricking of the hook. But he kept moving, sometimes on the surfaceand sometimes beneath. I did not fight him hard, preferring to let himpull out the line, and then when he rested I worked on him to recoverit. 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 anhour sped by. My first big thrill came when he leaped. This was asurprise. He was fooling round, and then, all of a sudden, he brokewater clear. It was an awkward, ponderous action, and looked as if hehad come up backward, like a bucking bronco. His size and his long, sinister sword amazed me and frightened me. It gave me a cold sensationto realize I was hooked to a huge, dangerous fish. But that in itselfwas a new kind of thrill. No boatman fears a Marlin as he does the truebroadbill 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 morehelpless. He sounded about five hundred feet and then sulked. I had thepleasant task of pumping him up. This brought the sweat out upon me andloosened me up. I began to fight him harder. And it seemed that as Iincreased the strain he grew stronger and a little more active. Stillthere was not any difference in his tactics. I began to get a conceptionof the vitality and endurance of a broadbill in contrast with the speedand savageness of his brother fish, the Marlin, or roundbill. At two o'clock matters were about the same. I was not tired, butcertainly the fish was not tired, either. He came to the surface justabout as much as he sounded. I had no difficulty at all in getting backthe line he took, at least all save a hundred feet or so. When I triedto lead him or lift him--then I got his point of view. He would notbudge 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 himand I reeled in the line. Now and then I put all the strain I could onthe rod and worked him that way. At three o'clock I began to get tired. My hands hurt. And I concluded Ihad been rather unlucky to start on a broadbill at the very beginning. From that time he showed less frequently, and, if anything, he grewslower and heavier. I felt no more rushes. And along about this time Ifound I could lead him somewhat. This made me begin to work hard. Yet, notwithstanding, I had no hope of capturing the fish. It was onlyexperience. 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. Severaltimes 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 ofhim. At four o'clock I made the alarming discovery that the great B-Oceanreel was freezing, just as my other one had frozen on my first swordfishthe year previous. Captain Dan used language. He threw up his hands. Hegave up. But I did not. "Dan, see here, " I said. "We'll run up on him, throw off a lot of slackline, 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 theTuna 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 arod or is driven to the expedient I had proposed. But I do not fish forclubs or records. I fish for the fun, the excitement, the thrill of thegame, 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 theregulation tackle, and to my mind the more tackle we use, provided weland the fish, the more credit is due us. It is not an easy matter tochange 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 thelight drag and the thumb-brake. So far only the heavy drag had frozen. Itried Dan's idea, to my exceeding discomfort; and the result was thatthe swordfish drew far away from us. Presently the reel froze solid. Thehandle 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 abig slack we took the risk of cutting the line and tying it on the otherreel. We had just got this done when the line straightened tight! Iwound in about twelve hundred feet of line and was tired and wet when Ihad gotten in all I could pull. This brought us to within a couple ofhundred feet of our quarry. Also it brought us to five o'clock. Fivehours!. .. 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 pullhim. I worked. The word "worked" is not readily understood until a manhas tried to pull a big broadbill close to the boat. I pulled until Isaw stars and my bones cracked. Then there was another crack. The rodbroke at the reel seat! And the reel seat was bent. Fortunately the linecould still pay out. And I held the tip while Dan pried and hammered thereel off the broken butt on to another one. Then he put the tip in thatbutt, and once more I had to reel in what seemed miles and miles ofline. Five thirty! It seemed around the end of the world for me. We haddrifted into a tide-rip about five miles east of Avalon, and in thisrough water I had a terrible time trying to hold my fish. When Idiscovered that I could hold him--and therefore that he was playingout--then there burst upon me the dazzling hope of actually bringing himto gaff. It is something to fight a fish for more than five hourswithout 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 andslippery, and aching in every muscle. These next few minutes seemedlonger than all the hours. I found that to put the old strain on therod made me blind with pain. There was no fun, no excitement, no thrillnow. As I labored I could not help marveling at the strange, imbecilepursuits of mankind. Here I was in an agony, absolutely useless. Why didI keep it up? I could not give up, and I concluded I was crazy. I conceived the most unreasonable hatred for that poor swordfish thathad done nothing to me and that certainly would have been justified inramming the boat. To my despair the fish sounded deep, going down and down. Captain Danwatched 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 thingmost desirable and beautiful in all the universe was rest. It was sosweet to think of that I was hard put to it to keep from tossing the rodoverboard. There was something so desperately trying and painful in thisfight with a broadbill. At last I drew a deep, long breath, and, with apang 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 thebottom 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 myhands 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 feetof double line showed at the surface. I pumped and I reeled inch byinch. A long dark object showed indistinctly, wavered as the swells rose, thenshowed 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 andup 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 assurancein 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-lookingmonster, two feet thick across the back, twelve feet long over all, andhe would have weighed at the least over four hundred pounds. And I hadbeaten him! That was there to be seen. He had none of the beauty andcolor of the roundbill swordfish. He was dark, almost black, with hugedorsal and tail, and a wicked broad sword fully four feet long. Whatterrified me was his enormous size and the deadly look of him. Iexpected to see him rush at the boat. Watching him thus, I reveled in my wonderful luck. Up to this date therehad been only three of these rare fish caught in twenty-five years ofAvalon fishing. And this one was far larger than those that had beentaken. "Lift him! Closer!" called Captain Dan. "In two minutes I'll have a gaffin 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 vanishin the blue water. * * * * * After resting my blistered hands for three days, which time was scarcelylong 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 asand-dabber who said he had seen a big broadbill back a ways. So weturned round. After a while I saw a big, vicious splash half a mileeast, and we made for it. Then I soon espied the fish. We worked around him awhile, but he would not take a barracuda or aflying-fish. It was hard to keep track of him, on account of rough water. Soon hewent 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 abouthalf out, with belly toward us. He looked huge, but just how big it wasimpossible to say. After a while he came up, and we circled him. As the bait drifted roundbefore him--twenty yards or more off--he gave that little wiggle of thetail sickle, and went under. I waited. I had given up hope when I felthim hit the bait. Then he ran off, pretty fast. I let him have a longline. Then I sat down and struck him. He surged off, and we all gotready to watch him leap. But he did not show. He swam off, sounded, came up, rolled around, went down again. But wedid 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 sawhim. But I did not get a good look at him as he wove to and fro behindthe boat. Then he sounded. I began to work on him, and worked harder. He seemed to get stronger allthe 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, theseverity of which I did not realize at the time. In hours like thosetime has wings. My hands grew hot. They itched, and I wanted to removethe wet gloves. But I did not, and sought to keep my mind off what hadbeen half-healed blisters. Neither the fish nor I made any new moves, itall being plug on his part and give and take on mine. Slowly anddoggedly he worked out toward the sea, and while the hours passed, justas persistently he circled back. Captain Dan came to stand beside me, earnestly watching the rod bend andthe line stretch. He shook his head. "That's a big Marlin and you've got him foul-hooked, " he asserted. Thisstatement 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 somesuch situation as this--for then, of course, he had the best of it. Mybrother 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 tofavor my side; at least they were sorry for the fish and said he must bevery big. "Dan, I could tell a foul-hooked fish, " I asserted, positively. "Thisfellow 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 thecaptain. Cheerful acquiescence is a desirable trait in any one, especially anangler who aspires to things, but that was left out in the ordering ofmy 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. Thiscontrivance, by the way, is a thing of straps and buckles, and its useis to fit over an angler's shoulders and to snap on the rod. It helpshim 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 drownme!" "We'll hold on to you, " replied Dan, cheerily, as he strapped it aroundme. Later it turned out that I had exactly the right view concerning thisharness, for Dustin Farnum was nearly pulled overboard and--But I havenot space for that story here. My brother Rome wants to write thatstory, anyhow, because it is so funny, he says. On the other hand, the fact soon manifested itself to me that I couldlift a great deal more with said harness to help. The big fish began tocome nearer and also he began to get mad. Here I forgot the pain in myhands. I grew enthusiastic. And foolishly I bragged. Then I lifted sohard that I cracked the great Conroy rod. Dan threw up his hands. He quit, same as he quit the first day out, whenI 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, whichtheory 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 nothave been. Then I got Dan to tie splints on the rod, after which Ifought my quarry some more. The splints broke. Dan had to bind thecracked rod with heavy pieces of wood and they added considerable weightto what had before felt like a ton. The fish had been hooked at eleven o'clock and it was now five. We haddrifted or been pulled into the main channel, where strong currents anda 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 bringthe fish up, if not to gaff, at least so we could see what he lookedlike. How strange and unfathomable a feeling this mystery of him gaverise to! If I could only see him once, then he could get away andwelcome. Captain Dan, in anticipation of a need of much elbow room inthat cockpit, ordered my brother and the ladies to go into the cabin orup on top. And they all scrambled up and lay flat on the deck-roof, withtheir 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 ofline--then my hands and my back refused any more. "Dan, here's the great chance you've always hankered for!" I said. "Nowlet's see you pull him right in!" And I passed him the rod and got up. Dan took it with the pleasedexpression of a child suddenly and wonderfully come into possession of along-unattainable toy. Captain Dan was going to pull that fish right upto the boat. He was! Now Dan is big--he weighs two hundred; he has armsand hands like the limbs of a Vulcan. Perhaps Dan had every reason tobelieve he would pull the fish right up to the boat. But somehow I knewthat he would not. My fish, perhaps feeling a new and different and mightier hand at therod, showed how he liked it by a magnificent rush--the greatest of thewhole 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 wellhands, and with my lacerated and stinging ones I surely made a mess ofit. This brought language from my boatman--well, to say the least, quitedisrespectable. Fortunately, however, I got the boat around and we randown 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 tome. 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 andsavage. The line smoked off that reel. Dan's expression was one ofutmost gratification to me. A boatman at last cornered--tied up to awhale of a fish! Somewhere out there a couple of hundred yards the big fish came up androared on the surface. I saw only circling wake and waves like thosebehind a speedy motor-boat. But Dan let out a strange shout, and upabove the girls screamed, and brother Rome yelled murder or something. Igathered that he had a camera. "Steady up there!" I called out. "If you fall overboard it's goodnight!. .. For we want this fish!" I had all I could do. Dan would order me to steer this way and that--tothrow out the clutch--to throw it in. Still I was able to keep track ofevents. This fish made nineteen rushes in the succeeding half-hour. Never for an instant did Captain Dan let up. Assuredly during that timehe 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 underwater many a time. I was hard put to it to stay at my post; and whatsaved the watchers above could not be explained by me. "Mebbe I can hold him now--a little, " called Dan once, as he got thehundred-foot mark over the reel. "Strap the harness on me!" I fastened the straps round Dan's broad shoulders. His shirt was as wetas if he had fallen overboard. Maybe some of that wet was spray. Hisface 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. Hehad, of course, worked too desperately hard. Meanwhile the sun sank and the sea went down. All the west was gold andred, with the towers of Church Rock spiring the horizon. A flock ofgulls were circling low, perhaps over a school of tuna. The whitecottages of Avalon looked mere specks on the dark island. Captain Dan had the swordfish within a hundred feet of the boat and wasable to hold him. This seemed hopeful. It looked now just a matter of alittle more time. But Dan needed a rest. I suggested that my brother come down and take a hand in the finalround, 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 sensein what he said. "Dan, I'll take the rod--rest you a bit--so you can finish him, " Ioffered. The half-hour Dan recorded as my further work on this fish will alwaysbe a dark and poignant blank in my fishing experience. When it was overtwilight had come and the fish was rolling and circling perhaps fiftyyards from the boat. Here Dan took the rod again, and with the harness on and fresh gloveswent at the fish in grim determination. Suddenly the moon sailed out from behind a fog-bank and the sea wastransformed. It was as beautiful as it was lucky for us. By Herculean effort Dan brought the swordfish close. If any anglerdoubts the strength of a twenty-four thread line his experience is stillyoung. 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 doubleline, and as I pulled and Dan reeled the fish came up nearer. But Icould not see him. Then I reached the leader and held on as for dearlife. "I've got the leader!" I yelled. "Hurry, Dan!" Dan dropped the rod and reached for his gaff. But he had neglected tounhook the rod from the harness, and as the fish lunged and tore theleader away from me there came near to being disaster. However, Dan gotstraightened 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 meremovement of his tail irresistibly drew out the line. Then the tip of the rod broke off short just even with the splints andit slid down the line out of sight. Dan lowered the rod so most of thestrain 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!" Ideclared. The sea was almost calm now, and moon-blanched so that we could plainlysee the line. Despite Dan's efforts, the swordfish slowly ran off ahundred feet more of line. Dan groaned. But I yelled with sheerexultation. For, standing up on the gunwale, I saw the swordfish. He hadcome up. He was phosphorescent--a long gleam of silver--and he rolled inthe unmistakable manner of a fish nearly beaten. Suddenly he headed for the boat. It was a strange motion. I wassurprised--then frightened. Dan reeled in rapidly. The streak of whitegleamed 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 inwith fierce energy. I felt the end of the double line go by me, and atthis I let out another shout to warn Dan. Then I had the end of theleader--a good strong grip--and, looking down, I saw the clear silveroutline of the hugest fish I had ever seen short of shark or whale. Hemade 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 hisbig thumbs biting into the line. I did my best. My sight failed me foran instant. But the fish pulled the leader through my hands. My brotherleaped 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 thegunwale. I saw him--a monster--pale, wavering. His tail had anenormous spread. I could no longer see his sword. Almost he was ready togive up. Then the double line snapped. I fell back in the boat and Dan fell backin the chair. Nine hours! V SAILFISH--THE ATLANTIC BROTHER TO THE PACIFIC SWORDFISH In the winter of 1916 I persuaded Captain Sam Johnson, otherwise famousas Horse-mackerel Sam, of Seabright, New Jersey, to go to Long Key withme and see if the two of us as a team could not outwit those illusiveand strange sailfish of the Gulf Stream. Sam and I have had many adventures going down to sea. At Seabright weused to launch a Seabright skiff in the gray gloom of early morning andshoot the surf, and return shoreward in the afternoon to ride a greatswell clear till it broke on the sand. When I think of Sam I think oftuna--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 wasplaying him the _Lusitania_ bore down the channel. Like a mountain sheloomed over us. I felt like an atom looking up and up. Passengers waveddown to us as the tuna bent my rod. The great ship passed on in aseething roar--passed on to her tragic fate. We rode the heavy swellsshe lifted--and my tuna got away. Sam Johnson is from Norway. His ancestors lived by fishing. Sam knowsand loves the sea. He has been a sailor before the mast, but he is morefisherman than sailor. He is a stalwart man, with an iron, stern, weather-beaten face and keen blue eyes, and he has an arm like thebranch of an oak. For many years he has been a market fisherman atSeabright, where on off days he pursued the horse-mackerel for the funof it, and which earned him his name. Better than any man I ever met Samknows the sea; he knows fish, he knows boats and engines. And I havereached a time in my experience of fishing where I want that kind of aboatman. * * * * * Sam and I went after sailfish at Long Key and we got them. But I do notconsider the experience conclusive. If it had not been for myhard-earned knowledge of the Pacific swordfish, and for Sam's keennesson the sea, we would not have been so fortunate. We established therecord, but, what is more important, we showed what magnificent sport ispossible. This advent added much to the attractiveness of Long Key forme. 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 ofsailfish had been accident--mere fisherman's luck. Anglers have fishedalong the reef and inside, trolling with heavy tackle for anything thatmight 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 anotherangler who had this happen. I know of one gentleman who told me hehooked a fish that he supposed was a barracuda, and while he wasfighting this supposed barracuda he was interested in the leaping of asailfish near his boat. His boatman importuned him to hurry in thebarracuda 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 wentout with heavy rod, the great B-Ocean reel, and two big hooks (which isan outfit suitable only for large tuna or swordfish), and this fellowhooked a sailfish which had no chance and was dead in less than tenminutes. 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 daysafter sailfish. Scarcely had these men left the reef when five sailfishloomed up and all of them, with that perversity and capriciousness whichmakes fish so incomprehensible, tried to climb on board the boat. One, aheavy fish, did succeed in hooking himself and getting aboard. I couldmultiply events of this nature, but this is enough to illustrate mypoint--that there is a vast difference between several fishermen out ofthousands bringing in several sailfish in one season and one fishermandeliberately going after sailfish with light tackle and eventuallygetting them. It is not easy. On the contrary, it is extremely hard. It takes infinitepatience, and very much has to be learned that can be learned only byexperience. But it is magnificent sport and worth any effort. It makestarpon-fishing tame by comparison. Tarpon-fishing is easy. Anybody cancatch a tarpon by going after him. But not every fisherman can catch asailfish. One fisherman out of a hundred will get his sailfish, but onlyone out of a thousand will experience the wonder and thrill and beautyof the sport. Sailfishing is really swordfishing, and herein lies the secret of mysuccess at Long Key. I am not satisfied that the sailfish I caught wereall Marlin and brothers to the Pacific Marlin. The Atlantic fish arevery much smaller than those of the Pacific, and are differently markedand 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 whichdescriptions follow. There is another species, _Tetrapturus albidus_, that is not uncommon in the Gulf Stream. It is my impression that thisspecies is larger. The Indians, with whom I fished in the Caribbean, tell of a great swordfish--in Spanish the _Aguja de casta_, and thisspecies must be related to _Xiphias_, the magnificent flatbilledswordfish of the Atlantic and Pacific. * * * * * The morning of my greatest day with sailfish I was out in the GulfStream, seven miles offshore, before the other fishermen had gotten outof bed. We saw the sun rise ruddy and bright out of the eastern sea, andwe saw sailfish leap as if to welcome the rising of the lord of day. Adark, glancing ripple wavered over the water; there was just enoughswell to make seeing fish easy. I was using a rod that weighed nine ounces over all, and twelve hundredfeet of fifteen-thread line. I was not satisfied then that the regularlight outfit of the Tuna Club, such as I used at Avalon, would do forsailfish. No. 9 breaks of its own weight. And I have had a sailfish runoff 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 onethat 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 theStream before I felt that inexplicable rap at my bait which swordfishand sailfish make with their bills. I jumped up and got ready. I saw along bronze shape back of my bait. Then I saw and felt him take hold. Hecertainly did not encounter the slightest resistance in running out myline. He swam off slowly. I never had Sam throw out the clutch and stopthe boat until after I had hooked the fish. I wanted the boat to keepmoving, so if I did get a chance to strike at a fish it would be with atight line. These sailfish are wary and this procedure is difficult. Ifthe fish had run off swiftly I would have struck sooner. Everythingdepends on how he takes the bait. This fellow took fifty feet of linebefore I hooked him. He came up at once, and with two-thirds of his body out of the water hebegan to skitter toward us. He looked silver and bronze in the morninglight. There was excitement on board. Sam threw out the clutch. Mycompanions dove for the cameras, and we all yelled. The sailfish cameskittering toward us. It was a spectacular and thrilling sight. He wasnot powerful enough to rise clear on his tail and do the famous trick ofthe Pacific swordfish--"walking on the water. " But he gave a mightygood imitation. Then before the cameras got in a snap he went down. Andhe ran, to come up far astern and begin to leap. I threw off the dragand 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 awonderful exhibition of high and lofty tumbling, with the result, ofcourse, that he quickly exhausted himself. Then came a short periodduring which he sounded and I slowly worked him closer. Presently heswam toward the boat--the old swordfish trick. I never liked it, butwith the sailfish I at least was not nervous about him attacking theboat. Let me add here that this freedom from dread--which is neverabsent during the fighting of a big swordfish--is one of the features soattractive in sailfishing. Besides, fish that have been hooked for anylength of time, if they are going to shake or break loose, always do sonear the boat. We moved away from this fellow, and presently he came upagain, 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, tookhim cautiously by the sword, and then by the gills, and slid him intothe boat. Sailfish are never alike, except in general outline. This one was silverand bronze, with green bars, rather faint, and a dark-blue sail withoutany spots. He measured seven feet one inch. But we measured his qualityby 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 Ilet my bait far enough astern when a sailfish hit it. In fact, he rushedit. Quick as I was, which was as quick as a flash, I was not quickenough for that fish. He felt the hook and he went away. But he had beenthere long enough to get my bait. Just then Sam pointed. I saw a sailfish break water a hundred yardsaway. "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 hasbroken water. I never missed it far, but Sam seldom missed it at all. Hecould tell by a slight foam always left by the break. We had two baitsout, as one or another of my companions always holds a rod. The morebaits out the better! We had two vicious, smashing strikes at the sametime. The fish on the other rod let go just as I hooked mine. He came up beautifully, throwing the spray, glinting in the sun, anangry fish with sail spread and his fins going. Then on the boat was thesame old thrilling bustle and excitement and hilarity I knew so well andwhich always pleased me so much. This sailfish was a jumper. "Look at him yump!" exclaimed Sam, with as much glee as if he had notseen it before. The cameras got busy. Then I was attracted by something flashing in thewater nearer the boat than my fish. Suddenly a sailfish leaped, straightaway, over my line. Then two leaped at once, both directly overmy 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 wasexcitement 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 beenquicker I could have counted more. Presently they went down. And I, returning to earth and the business of fishing, discovered that duringthe excitement my sailfish had taken advantage of a perfectly loose lineto free himself. Nine leaps we recorded him! Assuredly we all felt that there would be no difficulty in soon hookingup with another sailfish. And precisely three minutes later I wasstanding up, leaning forward, all aquiver, watching my line fly off thereel. I hooked that fellow hard. He was heavy, and he did not come up ortake off any length of line. Settling down slowly, he descended three orfour hundred feet, or so it seemed, and began to plug, very much like analbacore, only much heavier. He fooled around down there for tenminutes, with me jerking at him all the time to irritate him, before heshowed 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, waswonderful. But it was so quick that the cameras could not cover it, andwe missed a great picture. He went down, only to leap again. I reeledin the slack line and began to jerk at him to torment him, and I got himto jumping and threshing right near the boat. The sun was in the facesof the cameras and that was bad. And as it turned out not one of theseexposures 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. Inthis way, which was not careless, but deliberate, I played with himuntil he shook out the hook. Fifteen leaps was his record. Then it was interesting to see how soon I could raise another fish. Iwas on the _qui vive_ for a while, then settled back to the oldexpectant watchfulness. And presently I was rewarded by that vibratingrap at my bait. I stood up so the better to see. The swells were justright and the sun was over my shoulder. I spied the long, dark shapeback of my bait, saw it slide up and strike, felt the sharp rap--andagain. Then came the gentle tug. I let out line, but he let go. Still Icould 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-fishbait when after swordfish. He sheered off, then turned with a rush, broadside on, with his sail up. I saw him clearly, his whole length, andhe appeared blue and green and silver. He took the bait and turned awayfrom me, and when I struck the hook into his jaw I felt that it wouldstay. He was not a jumper--only breaking clear twice. I could not makehim leap. He fought hard enough, however, and with that tackle tookthirty minutes to land. It was eight o'clock. I had two sailfish in the boat and had fought twobesides. And at that time I sighted the first fishing-boat coming outtoward the reef. Before that boat got out near us I had struck and lostthree more sailfish, with eleven leaps in all to my credit. This boatmanhad followed Sam and me the day before and he appeared to be bent uponrepeating himself. I thought I would rather enjoy that, because he hadtwo inexperienced anglers aboard, and they, in the midst of a school ofstriking sailfish, would be sure to afford some fun. Three other boatscame out across the reef, ventured a little way in the Gulf Stream, andthen went back to grouper and barracuda. But that one boatman, B. , stuckto us. And right away things began to happen to his anglers. No one solucky in strikes as a green hand! I saw them get nine strikes withouthooking a fish. And there appeared to be a turmoil on board that boat. Isaw B. Tearing his hair and the fishermen frantically jerking, and thenwaving rods and arms. Much as I enjoyed it, Sam enjoyed it more. But Iwas not mean enough to begrudge them a fish and believed that sooner orlater they would catch one. Presently, when B. 's boat was just right for his anglers to seeeverything my way, I felt a tug on my line. I leaped up, let the reelrun. 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 lethim run. Then threw on the drag and got ready. But, no, he let go. AgainI threw off the drag and again he came back. He was hungry, but he wascunning, 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 Ithrew off the drag, let out more line back to him, and he took the baitthe fourth time, and harder than ever. I let him run perhaps a hundredfeet. All the time, of course, my boat was running. I had out a longline--two hundred yards. Then I threw on the drag and almost cracked therod. This time I actually felt the hook go in. How heavy and fast he was! The line slipped off and I was afraid of thedrag. I threw it off--no easy matter with that weight on it--and thenthe line whistled. The sailfish was running straight toward B. 's boatand, 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 leapedmagnificently, not twenty yards back of that boat. He must have beenbeyond the lines of the trolling anglers. I expected him to cross themor cut himself loose. We yelled to B. To steer off, and while we yelledthe big sailfish leaped and leaped, apparently keeping just as close tothe boat. He certainly was right upon it and he was a savage leaper. Hewould shoot up, wag his head, his sail spread like the ears of a madelephant, and he would turn clear over to alight with a smack and splashthat we plainly heard. And he had out nine hundred feet of line. Becauseof his size I wanted him badly, but, badly as that was, I fought himwithout a drag, let him run and leap, and I hoped he would jump rightinto that boat. Afterward these anglers told me they expected him to dojust that and were scared to death. Also they said a close sight of himleaping was beautiful and thrilling in the extreme. I did not keep track of all this sailfish's leaps, but Sam recordedtwenty-three, and that is enough for any fisherman. I venture to statethat it will not be beaten very soon. When he stopped leaping we drewhim away from the other boat, and settled down to a hard fight with aheavy, stubborn, game fish. In perhaps half an hour I had him twentyyards away, and there he stayed while I stood up on the stern to watchhim and keep clear of the propeller. He weaved from side to side, exactly like a tired swordfish, and every now and then he would stickout his bill and swish! he would cut at the leader. This fish was notonly much larger than any I had seen, but also more brilliantly colored. There were suggestions of purple that reminded me of the swordfish--thatroyal purple game of the Pacific. Another striking feature was that incertain lights he was a vivid green, and again, when deeper, he assumeda 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 thatthis sail afforded him any particular aid. It took me an hour to tireout this sailfish, and when we got him in the boat he measured sevenfeet and six inches, which was four inches longer than any record Icould find then. At eleven o'clock I had another in the boat, making four sailfish inall. We got fourteen jumps out of this last one. That was the end of myremarkable luck, though it was luck to me to hook other sailfish duringthe 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 couldonly say that it was a chance of a lifetime and I was after photographsof leaping sailfish. Besides, I had a great opportunity to beat myrecord 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 goodmany. The sport is young and it is as difficult as it is trying. Thiscatch of mine made fishermen flock to the Stream all the rest of theseason, and more fish were caught than formerly. But the proportion heldabout the same, although I consider that fishing for a sailfish andcatching one is a great gain in point. Still, we do not know much aboutsailfish or how to take them. If I got twenty strikes and caught onlyfour fish, very likely the smallest that bit, I most assuredly was notdoing skilful fishing as compared with other kinds of fishing. And thereis the rub. Sailfish are not any other kind of fish. They have a waryand cunning habit, with an exceptional occasion of blind hunger, andthey have small, bony jaws into which it is hard to sink a hook. Not oneof my sailfish was hooked deep down. Yet I let nearly all of them runout a long line. Moreover, as I said before, if a sailfish is hookedthere 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 thesailfish is the gamest, the most beautiful and spectacular, and thehardest fish to catch on light tackle, just as his brother, the Pacificswordfish, is the grandest fish to take on the heaviest of tackle. Long Key, indeed, has its charm. Most all the anglers who visit there goback again. Only the queer ones--and there are many--who want threekinds of boats, and nine kinds of bait, and a deep-sea diver for aboatman, and tackle that cannot be broken, and smooth, calm seas always, and five hundred pounds of fish a day--only that kind complain of LongKey and kick--and yet go back again! Sailfish will draw more and finer anglers down to the white strip ofcolor that shines white all day under a white sun and the same all nightunder white stars. But it is not alone the fish that draws realsportsmen 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 littlehermit-crab, which crawls over the coral sand in his stolen shell, andkeeps to his lonely course, and loves his life so well--sunshine, whichis best of all for men; and the wind in the waving palms; and thelonely, wandering coast with the eternal moan out on the reefs, thesweet, fresh tang, the clear, antiseptic breath of salt, and always bythe glowing, hot, colorful day or by the soft dark night with itsshadows and whisperings on the beach, that significant presence--thesense of something vaster than the heaving sea. _Light Tackle in the Gulf Stream_ In view of the present controversy between light tackle and heavy tacklechampions, I think it advisable for me to state more definitely my standon 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 andlight tackle that is wrong. So few anglers ever seem to think of thecase of the poor fish! In Borneo there is a species of lightning-bugthat tourists carry around at night on spits, delighted with thenovelty. But is that not rather hard on the lightning-bugs? As a matterof fact, if we are to develop as anglers who believe in conservation andsportsmanship, 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 chancefor his life; likewise it is brutal to hook a fish on tackle so lightthat, 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 ofexhaustion. I have had many tarpon and many tuna taken off my hooks by sharksbecause I was using tackle too light. It never appeared an impossiblefeat to catch Marlin swordfish on a nine-thread line, nor sailfish on asix-thread line. But those lines are too light. My business is to tell stories. If I can be so fortunate as to make themthrilling and pleasing, for the edification of thousands who have otherbusiness and therefore less leisure, then that is a splendid thing forme. It is a responsibility that I appreciate. But on the other hand Imust tell the truth, I must show my own development, I must be ofservice to the many who have so much more time to read than fish. It isnot enough to give pleasure merely; a writer should instruct. And ifwhat I say above offends any fisherman, I am sorry, and I suggest thathe read it twice. What weight tackle to use is not such a hard problem to decide. All ittakes is some experience. To quote Mr. Bates, "The principle is that theangler should subdue the fish by his skill with rod and line, and puthis strength into the battle to _end_ it, and not employ a worryingprocess 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 LongKey. In the early days of this famous resort most fishermen used handlines or very heavy outfits. The difficulties of introducing asportsman-like ideal have been manifold. A good rule of anglingphilosophy is not to interfere with any fisherman's peculiar ways ofbeing happy, unless you want to be hated. It is not easy to influence amajority of men in the interests of conservation. Half of them do notknow the conditions and are only out for a few days' or weeks' fun; therest do not care. But the facts are that all food fish and game fishmust be conserved. The waste has been enormous. If fishermen will onlystudy 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 andthey preach the gospel of conservation. But the boatmen of Long Key, with the exception of Jordon, are allagainst light tackle. I must say that James Jordon is to becongratulated and recommended. The trouble at Long Key is that newboatmen are hired each season, and, as they do not own their boats, alltheir interest centers in as big a catch as possible for each anglerthey take out, in the hope and expectation, of course, of a generoustip. Heavy tackle means a big catch and light tackle the reverse. And sotons of good food and game fish are brought in only to be thrown to thesharks. I mention this here to give it a wide publicity. It is criminalin these days and ought to be stopped. The season of 1918 was a disappointment in regard to any greatenthusiasm over the use of light tackle. We have tried to introduceprinciples of the Tuna Club of Avalon. President Coxe of the Pacificorganization is doing much to revive the earlier ideals of DoctorHolder, founder of the famous club. This year at Long Key a number ofprizes were offered by individual members. The contention was that thelight tackle specified was too light. This is absolutely a mistake. Ihave proved that the regulation Tuna Club nine-thread line and six-ouncetip are strong enough, if great care and skill be employed, to take thetricky, hard-jawed, wild-leaping sailfish. And for bonefish, that rare fighter known to so few anglers, thethree-six tackle--a three-ounce tip and six-thread line--is just theideal rig to make the sport exceedingly difficult, fascinating, andthrilling. Old bonefishermen almost invariably use heavy tackle--stiffrods and twelve-or fifteen-thread lines. They have their arguments, andindeed these are hard nuts to crack. They claim three-six for the swiftand powerful bonefish is simply absurd. No! I can prove otherwise. Butthat must be another story. Some one must pioneer these sorely needed reforms. It may be a thanklesstask, but it is one that some of us are standing by. We need the help ofbrother anglers. * * * * * One morning in February there was a light breeze from the north and theday promised to be ideal. We ran out to the buoy and found the GulfStream a very dark blue, with a low ripple and a few white-caps here andthere. Above the spindle we began to see sailfish jumping everywhere. Oneleaped thirteen times, and another nineteen. Many of them came outsidewise, with a long, sliding plunge, which action at first I took tobe that made by a feeding fish. After a while, however, and upon closerview, I changed my mind about this. My method, upon seeing a fish jump, was to speed up the boat until wewere in the vicinity where the fish had come up. Then we would slow downand begin trolling, with two baits out, one some forty or fifty feetback and the other considerably farther. We covered several places where we had seen the sheetlike splashes; andat the third or fourth I felt the old electrifying tap at my bait. Ileaped up and let my bait run back. The sailfish tapped again, then tookhold so hard and ran off so swiftly that I jerked sooner than usual. Ipulled the bait away from him. All this time the boat was running. Instead of winding in I let the bait run back. Suddenly the sailfishtook it fiercely. I let him run a long way before I struck at him, andthen I called to the boatman to throw out the clutch. When the boat ismoving there is a better chance of a tight line while striking, and thatis imperative if an angler expects to hook the majority of theseillusive sailfish. I hooked this fellow, and he showed at once, a smallfish, and began to leap toward the boat, making a big bag in the line. Icompletely lost the feel of his weight. When he went down, and with allthat slack line, I thought he was gone. But presently the line tightenedand he began to jump in another direction. He came out twice with hissail 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. Afterthat it took me half an hour to land him. He was not hurt and we let himgo. Soon after we got going again we raised a school of four or moresailfish. 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 fishin action, and there is considerable difference between the hitting andthe taking of a bait. R. C. Jerked his bait away from his fish and Iyelled for him to let it run back. He did so. A bronze and silver blazeand a boil on the water told me how hungry R. C. 's sailfish was. "Lethim run with it!" I yelled. Then I attended to my own troubles. Therewas a fish rapping at my bait. I let out line, yard after yard, but hewould not take hold, and, as R. C. 's line was sweeping over mine, Ithought best to reel in. "Hook him now!" I yelled. I surely did shiver at the way my brother came up with that lighttackle. But he hooked the sailfish, and nothing broke. Then came a bigwhite splash on the surface, but no sign of the fish. R. C. 's linesagged 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 brokewater on a slack line and showed us all his dripping, colorful bodynearer than a hundred feet. R. C. Thereupon performed with incrediblespeed at the reel and quickly had a tight line. Mr. Sailfish did notlike that. He slid out, wrathfully wagging his bill, and left a seamy, foamy track behind him, finally to end that play with a splendid longleap. He was headed away from us now, with two hundred yards of lineout, going hard and fast, and we had to follow him. We had a finestraightaway run to recover the line. This was a thrilling chase, andone, I think, we never would have had if R. C. Had been using heavytackle. 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 hispurple and bronze colors and the strange, triangular form of him, whichpeculiar shape came mostly from the waving sail. I thought I saw othershapes 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 orgood-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 ourquarry. R. C. Said things, and pulled hard on the light tackle. I gothold of the leader and drew the sailfish close to the boat. He began tothresh, and the big shark came with a rush. Instinctively I let go ofthe leader, which action was a blunder. The sailfish saw the shark and, waking up, he fought a good deal harder than before the sharks appearedupon the scene. He took off line, and got so far away that I gave up anyhope that the sharks might not get him. There was a heavy commotion outin the water. The shark had made a rush. So had the sailfish, and hecame right back to the boat. R. C. Reeled in swiftly. "Hold him hard now!" I admonished, and I leaped up on the stern. Thesailfish sheered round on the surface, with tail and bill out, while theshark swam about five feet under him. He was a shovel-nosed, big-finnedyellow shark, weighing about five hundred pounds. He saw me. I waved myhat at him, but he did not mind that. He swam up toward the surface andhis prey. R. C. Was now handling the light tackle pretty roughly. It isreally remarkable what can be done with nine-thread. In another momentwe would have lost the sailfish. The boatman brought my rifle and a shotscared the shark away. Then we got the sailfish into the boat. He was abeautiful specimen for mounting, weighing forty-five pounds, the firstmy brother had taken. After that we had several strikes, but not one of them was what I couldcall a hungry, smashing strike. These sailfish are finicky biters. I hadone 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 thatjust missed boarding the boat. They came out to the left of us andsailed ahead together. Then they must have been turned by the wind, forthey made a beautiful, graceful curve until they came around so that Iwas sure they would fly into the boat. Their motion was indescribablyairy and feathery, buoyant and swift, with not the slightest quiver offins or wings as they passed within five feet of me. I could see throughthe crystal wings. Their bodies were white and silvery, and they hadstaring black eyes. They were not so large as the Californiaflying-fish, nor did they have any blue color. They resembled theCalifornia species, however, in that same strange, hunted look whichalways struck me. To see these flying-fish this way was provocative ofthought. They had been pursued by some hungry devil of a fish, and witha birdlike swiftness with which nature had marvelously endowed them theyhad escaped the enemy. Here I had at once the wonder and beauty andterror of the sea. These fish were not leaping with joy. I have notoften seen fish in the salt water perform antics for anything exceptflight or pursuit. Sometimes kingfish appear to be playing when theyleap so wonderfully at sunset hour, but as a rule salt-water fish do notseem to be playful. * * * * * At Long Key the Gulf Stream is offshore five miles. The water shoalsgradually anywhere from two feet near the beach to twenty feet fivemiles 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 andthe fish and marine creatures are an endless source of interest to thefisherman. Of course a large boat, in going out on the reef, must usethe 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 acrossthe reef into shoal water. Barracuda come right up to the shore, andlikewise the big sharks. The bottom is a clean, white, finely ribbedcoral sand, with patches of brown seaweed here and there and goldenspots, and in the shallower water different kinds of sponges. Out on thereef the water is a light green. The Gulf Stream runs along the outeredge 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 thesefishes, 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 thelarger fishes. The ballyhoo is about a foot long, slim and flat, shinyand 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 thelength of the upper. He has a very strange feature in the fact that hislower 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. Thishalf-bill must be used in relation to his food, but I do not have anyidea how this is done. One day I found the Gulf Stream a mile off Tennessee Buoy, whereas onother days it would be close in. On this particular day the water was adark, clear, indigo blue and appreciably warmer than the surroundingsea. This Stream has a current of several miles an hour, flowing up thecoast. Everywhere we saw the Portuguese men-of-war shining on the waves. There was a slight, cool breeze blowing, rippling the water just enoughto make fishing favorable. I saw a big loggerhead turtle, weighing aboutthree hundred pounds, coming around on the surface among thesePortuguese men-of-war, and as we ran up I saw that he was feeding onthese queer balloon-like little creatures. Sometimes he would come upunder one and it would stick on his back, and he would turn laboriouslyaround 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 thestinging poison these Portuguese men-of-war secrete about them, theturtle must have had a very tabasco-sauce meal. Right away I began tosee evidence of fish on the surface, which is always a good sign. Wewent past a school of bonita breaking the water up into little swirls. Then I saw a smashing break of a sailfish coming out sideways, sendingthe water in white sheets. We slowed down the boat and got our baitsoverboard at once. I was using a ballyhoo bait hooked by a small hookthrough 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 bethe preferred bait from Palm Beach to Long Key. And the obvious reasonis that nobody seems to take the trouble to get what might be properbait for sailfish. Mullet is an easy bait to get and commands just ashigh a price as anything else, which, as a matter of fact, is highwayrobbery. With a bait like a ballyhoo or a shiner I could get ten bitesto one with mullet. We trolled along at slow speed. The air was cool, the sun pleasant, thesea beautiful, and this was the time to sit back and enjoy a sense offreedom and great space of the ocean, and watch for leaping fish orwhatever might attract the eye. Here and there we passed a strange jellyfish, the like of which I hadnever before seen. It was about as large as a good-sized cantaloup, andpale, clear yellow all over one end and down through the middle, andthen commenced a dark red fringe which had a waving motion. Inside thisfringe was a scalloped circular appendage that had a sucking motion, which must have propelled it through the water, and it made quite fairprogress. Around every one of these strange jellyfish was a littleschool of tiny minnows, as clear-colored as crystals. These all swam onin the same direction as the drift of the Gulf Stream. When we are fishing for sailfish everything that strikes we take to be asailfish until we find out it is something else. They are inconsistentand queer fish. Sometimes they will rush a bait, at other times theywill tug at it and then chew at it, and then they will tap it with theirbills. I think I have demonstrated that they are about the hardest fishto hook that swims, and also on light tackle they are one of the gamestand most thrilling. However, not one in a hundred fishermen who come toLong Key will go after them with light tackle. And likewise not one outof twenty-five sailfish brought in there is caught by a fisherman whodeliberately went out after sailfish. Mostly they are caught by accidentwhile drags are set for kingfish or barracuda. At Palm Beach I believethey fish for them quite persistently, with a great deal of success. Butit 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 abig sailfish break water nine times. He was perhaps five hundred yardsdistant. My boatman put on speed, and, as my boat is fast, it did nottake us long to get somewhere near where this big fish broke. We did ourbest to get to the exact spot where he came up, then slowed down andtrolled over the place. In this instance I felt a light tap on my baitand I jumped up quickly, both to look and let him take line. But I didnot see him or feel him any more. We went on. I saw a flash of brightsilver 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 andthey almost invariably hook themselves when the drag is set. But as Ifish for sailfish with a free-running reel, of course I am exasperatedwhen a kingfish takes hold. My brother pulled in this kingfish, whichwas small, and we rebaited our hooks and went on again. I saw moreturtles, and one we almost ran over, he was so lazy in getting down. These big, cumbersome sea animals, once they get headed down andstarted, can disappear with remarkable rapidity. I rather enjoywatching them, but my boatman, who is a native of these parts andtherefore a turtle-hunter by instinct, always wore a rather disappointedlook when we saw one. This was because I would not allow him to harpoonit. [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 struckme. So that once in a while when I did see a lonely white gull I watchedhim with pleasure. And once I saw a cero mackerel jump way in along thereef, and even at a mile's distance I could see the wonderful curve hemade. The wind freshened, and all at once it seemed leaping sailfish were allaround us. Then as we turned the boat this way and that we had thrillsof anticipation. Suddenly R. C. Had a strike. The fish took the baithungrily 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 thehook. He jumped here and there and then went down deep. And then he tooka good deal of line off the reel. I was surprised to see a sailfishstick his bill out of the water very much closer to the boat than whereR. C. 's fish should have been. I had no idea then that this was a fishother than the one R. C. Had hooked. But when he cut the line eitherwith his bill or his tail, and R. C. Wound it in, we very soondiscovered that it was not the fish that he had hooked. This is one ofthe handicaps of light tackle. We went on fishing. Sailfish would jump around us for a while and thenthey would stop. We would not see one for several minutes. It is alwaysvery exciting to be among them this way. Presently I had one take holdto run off slowly and steadily, and I let him go for fifty feet, andwhen I struck I tore the hook away from him. Quickly I let slack linerun back to him ten or fifteen feet at a time, until I felt him take itonce more. He took it rather suspiciously, I felt, and I honestlybelieve 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 herushed off, making the reel smoke. I let him run one hundred and fiftyfeet and then stood up, throwing on the drag, and when the linestraightened tight I tried to jerk at him as hard as the tackle wouldstand. As a matter of fact, however, he was going so fast and hard thathe hooked himself. It is indeed seldom that I miss one when he runs likethis. This fellow came up two hundred yards from the boat and slid alongthe water with half of his body raised, much like one of thosecoasting-boards I have seen bathers use, towed behind a motor-launch. Hewent down and came up in a magnificent sheer leap, with his broad sailshining in the sun. Very angry he was, and he reminded me of a Marlinswordfish. Next he went down, and came up again bent in a curve, withthe big sail stretched again. He skittered over the water, going downand coming up, until he had leaped seven times. This was a big, heavyfish, and on the light six-ounce tip and nine-thread line I had my workcut out for me. We had to run the boat toward him so I could get back myline. 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 hecame up again and set my heart aflutter by a long surface play in whichhe took off one hundred yards of line and then turned, leaping straightfor the boat. Fortunately the line was slack and I could throw off thedrag and let him run. Slack line never bothers me when I really get oneof these fish well hooked. If he is not well hooked he is going to getaway, anyhow. After that he went down into deep water and I had one longhour of hard work in bringing him to the boat. Six hours later heweighed fifty-eight and a half pounds, and as he had lost a good deal ofblood 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. Thecaptain called our attention to a tail and a sail a few yards apart notfar from the boat. We circled around them to drive them down. I saw abig wave back of R. C. 's bait and I yelled, "Look out!" I felt somethinghit my bait and then hit it again. I knew it was a sailfish rapping atit. I let the line slip off the reel. Just then R. C. Had a viciousstrike and when he hooked the fish the line snapped. He claimed that hehad jerked too hard. This is the difficulty with light tackle--to strikehard, yet not break anything. I was standing up and leaning forward, letting my line slip off the reel, trying to coax that sailfish to comeback. 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 thesailfish. But when I hooked him I had my doubts. The weight was heavyand ponderous and tugging. He went down and down and down. The boatmansaid amberjack. I was afraid so, but I still had my hopes. For a while Icould not budge him, and at last, when I had given up hope that it was asailfish, I worked a good deal harder than I would have otherwise. Ittook me twenty-five minutes to subdue a forty-pound amberjack. Here wasproof of what could be done with light tackle. About ten-thirty of this most delightful and favorable day we ran into aschool of barracuda. R. C. Hooked a small one, which was instantly setupon by its voracious comrades and torn to pieces. Then I had atremendous strike, hard, swift, long--everything to make a tingle ofnerve and blood. The instant I struck, up out of a flying splash rose along, sharp, silver-flashing tiger of the sea, and if he leaped an inchhe leaped forty feet. On that light tackle he was a revelation. Fivetimes more he leaped, straight up, very high, gills agape, jaws wide, body curved--a sight for any angler. He made long runs and short runsand all kinds of runs, and for half an hour he defied any strain I daredput on him. Eventually I captured him, and I considered him superior toa tarpon of equal or even more weight. Barracuda are a despised fish, apparently because of their voracious andmurderous nature. But I incline to the belief that it is because theinvariable use of heavy tackle has blinded the fishermen to thewonderful leaping and fighting qualities of this long-nosed, long-toothed sea-tiger. The few of us who have hooked barracuda on lighttackle know him as a marvelous performer. Van Campen Heilner wroteabout a barracuda he caught on a bass rod, and he is not likely toforget it, nor will the reader of his story forget it. R. C. Had another strike, hooked his fish, and brought it in readily. Itwas a bonita of about five pounds, the first one my brother had evercaught. We were admiring his beautiful, subdued colors as he swam nearthe boat, when up out of the blue depths shot a long gray form as swiftas lightning. It was a big barracuda. In his rush he cut that bonita intwo. 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 oneI heard them both yell. Then I bent over to see half a dozen big graystreaks rush for what was left of that poor little bonita. The bigbarracuda with incredible speed and unbelievable ferocity rushed rightto the side of the boat at the bonita. He got hold of it and R. C. Instriking at him to gaff him hit him over the head several times. Thenthe gaff hook caught him and R. C. Began to lift. The barracuda lookedto me to be fully seven feet long and half as big around as a telegraphpole. He made a tremendous splash in the water. R. C. Was deluged. Heand the boatman yelled in their excitement. But R. C. Was unable to holdthe big fish on this small gaff, and I got there too late. The barracudabroke loose. Then, equally incredibly, he turned with still greaterferocity and rushed the bonita again, but before he could get to itanother and smaller barracuda had hold of it. At this instant I leanedover with a club. With one powerful sweep I hit one of the barracuda onthe head. When I reached over again the largest one was contending witha smaller one for the remains of the bonita. I made a vicious pass atthe big one, missing him. Quick as I was, before I could get back, thebig 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 oneanother. It had all happened in a minute. We were all wringing wet andpanting from excitement and exertion. This is a gruesome tale of the seaand I put it here only to illustrate the incomparable savageness ofthese tigers of the Gulf Stream. The captain put the fish away and cleaned up the boat and we resumedfishing. I ate lunch holding the rod in one hand, loath to waste anytime on this wonderful day. Sailfish were still jumping here and thereand far away. The next thing to happen was that R. C. Hooked a smallkingfish, and at the same instant a big one came clear out in anunsuccessful 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 mysmall tackle for all it was worth. But I managed to keep him fromgetting on the bottom, and at length brought him in. The littlesix-ounce tip now looked like a buggy-whip that was old and wornout. After that nothing happened for quite a little spell. We hadopportunity to get rested. Presently R. C. Had a sailfish tap his baitand 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 strainon the line. Here is where great skill is required. But the linebroke. After that he took one of my other tackles. Something wentwrong 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 Ihooked it and found myself fast to a deep-sea, hard-fighting fish ofsome 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, muchprized for food. I had now gotten six varieties of fish in the GulfStream and we were wondering what next. I was hoping it would be adolphin or a waahoo. It happened, however, to be a beautiful ceromackerel, one of the shapeliest and most attractive fish in thesewaters. He is built something like the brook-trout, except for a muchsharper head and wider fins and tail. But he is speckled very muchafter the manner of the trout. We trolled on, and all of a suddenraised a school of sailfish. They came up with a splashing rush verythrilling to see. One hit R. C. 's bait hard, and then another, by wayof 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 whichhe was bringing toward the boat. He was a big purple-and-bronze fellowand he would have taken a whole bait if it could have been gotten tohim. But he sheered away, frightened by the boat. I failed to hook myfish. It was getting along pretty well into the afternoon by this timeand the later it got the better the small fish and kingfish seemed tobite. I caught one barracuda and six kingfish, while R. C. Wasperforming a somewhat similar feat. Then he got a smashing strikefrom a sailfish that went off on a hard, fast rush, so that he hookedit perfectly. He jumped nine times, several of which leaps Iphotographed. 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 thelight tackle. I made sure that the fish was as good as caught and Idid not look to see where he was hooked. My boatman is not skilled inthe handling of the fish when they are brought in. Few boatmen are. Hetook hold of the leader, and as he began to lift I saw that the hookwas 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 boatmanto let go, but either I was not quick enough or he did not obey, forthe hook snapped free and the sailfish slowly swam away, his greatpurple-and-blue spotted sail waving in the water, and his bronze sidesshining. And we were both glad that he had gotten away, because we hadhad the fun out of him and had taken pictures of him jumping, and hewas now alive and might make another fisherman sport some day. VII BONEFISH In my experience as a fisherman the greatest pleasure has been thecertainty of something new to learn, to feel, to anticipate, to thrillover. An old proverb tells us that if you wish to bring back the wealthof the Indias you must go out with its equivalent. Surely the longer aman fishes the wealthier he becomes in experience, in reminiscence, inlove of nature, if he goes out with the harvest of a quiet eye, freefrom the plague of himself. As a boy, fishing was a passion with me, but no more for the conquest ofgolden sunfish and speckled chubs and horny catfish than for thehaunting sound of the waterfall and the color and loneliness of thecliffs. As a man, and a writer who is forever learning, fishing is stilla passion, stronger with all the years, but tempered by an understandingof the nature of primitive man, hidden in all of us, and by a keenreluctance to deal pain to any creature. The sea and the river and themountain have almost taught me not to kill except for the urgent needsof life; and the time will come when I shall have grown up to that. WhenI read a naturalist or a biologist I am always ashamed of what I havecalled a sport. Yet one of the truths of evolution is that not topractise strife, not to use violence, not to fish or hunt--that is tosay, not to fight--is to retrograde as a natural man. Spiritual andintellectual growth is attained at the expense of the physical. Always, then, when I am fishing I feel that the fish are incidental, andthat the reward of effort and endurance, the incalculable and intangibleknowledge emanate from the swelling and infinite sea or from the shadedand 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 everspoke to me about this species said to me, very quietly with seriousintentness: "Have you had any experience with bonefish?" I said no, andasked him what kind that was. His reply was enigmatical. "Well, don't goafter bonefish unless you can give up all other fishing. " I remember Ilaughed. But I never forgot that remark, and now it comes back to meclear in its significance. That fisherman read me as well as Imisunderstood him. Later that season I listened to talk of inexperienced bonefishermentelling what they had done and heard. To me it was absurd. So muchfishing talk seems ridiculous, anyway. And the expert fishermen, wherever they were, received the expressive titles: "Bonefish Bugs andBonefish Nuts!" Again I heard arguments about tackle rigged for thesemysterious fish and these arguments fixed my vague impression. By and bysome bonefishermen came to Long Key, and the first sight of a bonefishmade 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 questionthe bonefishermen. At once I found this type of angler to be remarkably reticent as toexperience and method. Moreover, the tackle used was amazing to me. Stiff rods and heavy lines for little fish! I gathered anotherimpression, and it was that bonefish were related to dynamite and chainlightning. Everybody who would listen to my questions had differentthings to say. No two men agreed on tackle or bait or ground oranything. I enlisted the interest of my brother R. C. , and we decided, just to satisfy curiosity, to go out and catch some bonefish. Thecomplacent, 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 noone will read my stories. My brother and I could not bring ourselves to try for bonefish withheavy tackle. It was preposterous. Three--four--five-pound fish! We hadseen no larger. Bass tackle was certainly heavy enough for us. So in theinnocence of our hearts and the assurance of our vanity we sallied forthto catch bonefish. That was four years ago. Did we have good luck? No! Luck has nothing todo with bonefishing. What happened? For one solid month each winter ofthose four years we had devoted ourselves to bonefishing with lighttackle. We stuck to our colors. The space of this whole volume would notbe half enough to tell our experience--the amaze, the difficulty, theperseverance, the defeat, the wonder, and at last the achievement. Theseason of 1918 we hooked about fifty bonefish on three-six tackles--thatis, three-ounce tips and six-thread lines--and we landed fourteen ofthem. I caught nine and R. C. Caught five. R. C. 's eight-pound fishjustified our contention and crowned our efforts. To date, in all my experience, I consider this bonefish achievement themost thrilling, fascinating, difficult, and instructive. That is a broadstatement and I hope I can prove it. I am prepared to state that I feelalmost certain, if I spent another month bonefishing, I would becomeobsessed and perhaps lose my enthusiasm for other kinds of fish. Why? There is a multiplicity of reasons. My reasons range from theexceedingly graceful beauty of a bonefish to the fact that he is thebest 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 exceptingthe great _Xiphias gladius_--the broadbill swordfish. As for the speedof a bonefish, I claim no salmon, no barracuda, no other fish celebratedfor swiftness of motion, is in his class. A bonefish is so incrediblyfast that it was a long time before I could believe the evidence of myown eyes. You see him; he is there perfectly still in the clear, shallowwater, a creature of fish shape, pale green and silver, butcrystal-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 inthe water. As for the strength of a bonefish, I actually hesitate togive my impressions. No one will ever believe how powerful a bonefishis until he has tried to stop the rush and heard the line snap. As forhis cunning, it is utterly baffling. As for his biting, it is almostimperceptible. 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 hopethat a bare, bald statement of fact will help my argument. * * * * * First experience on a bonefish shoal. This wide area of coral mud wasdry at low tide. When we arrived the tide was rising. Water scarcely afoot deep, very clear. Bottom white, with patches of brown grass. We sawbonefish everywhere and expected great sport. But no matter where westopped we could not get any bites. Schools of bonefish swam up to theboat, only to dart away. Everywhere we saw thin white tails stickingout, as they swam along, feeding with noses in the mud. When we drew inour baits we invariably found them half gone, and it was our assumptionthat the blue crabs did this. At sunset the wind quieted. It grew very still and beautiful. The waterwas rosy. Here and there we saw swirls and tails standing out, and weheard 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-crabbaits had been sucked off by bonefish. Did not believe that. Tide bothered us again this morning. It seems exceedingly difficult totell one night before what the tide is going to do the next morning. Atten o'clock we walked to the same place we were yesterday. It was abright, warm day, with just enough breeze to ruffle the water and makefishing pleasant, and we certainly expected to have good luck. But wefished for about three hours without any sign of a fish. This wasdiscouraging and we could not account for it. So we moved. About half a mile down the beach I thought I caught aglimpse of a bonefish. It was a likely-looking contrast to the whitemarl all around. Here I made a long cast and sat down to wait. Mybrother lagged behind. Presently I spied two bonefish nosing along notten feet from the shore. They saw me, so I made no attempt to drag thebait near them, but I called to my brother and told him to try to get abait ahead of them. This was a little after flood-tide. It struck methen that these singular fish feed up the beach with one tide and downwith another. Just when my brother reached me I got a nibble. I called to him and thenstood up, ready to strike. I caught a glimpse of the fish. He looked bigand dark. He had his nose down, fooling with my bait. When I struck himhe felt heavy. I put on the click of the reel, and when the bonefishstarted off he pulled the rod down hard, taking the line fast. He madeone swirl on the surface and then started up-shore. He seemedexceedingly swift. I ran along the beach until presently the lineslackened and I felt that the hook had torn out. This wasdisappointment. I could not figure that I had done anything wrong, but Idecided in the future to use a smaller and sharper hook. We went on downthe beach, seeing several bonefish on the way, and finally we ran intoa big school of them. They were right alongshore, but when they saw uswe could not induce them to bite. * * * * * Every day we learn something. It is necessary to keep out of sight ofthese fish. After they bite, everything depends upon the skilful hookingof the fish. Probably it will require a good deal of skill to land themafter you have hooked them, but we have had little experience at that sofar. When these fish are along the shore they certainly are feeding, andpresumably they are feeding on crabs of some sort. Bonefish appear to begame worthy of any fisherman's best efforts. It was a still, hot day, without any clouds. We went up the beach to apoint opposite an old construction camp. To-day when we expected thetide to be doing one thing it was doing another. Ebb and flow andflood-tide have become as difficult as Sanskrit synonyms for me. Mybrother took an easy and comfortable chair and sat up the beach, and I, like an ambitious fisherman, laboriously and adventurously waded out onehundred and fifty feet to an old platform that had been erected there. Iclimbed upon this, and found it a very precarious place to sit. Come tothink about it, there is something very remarkable about the places afisherman will pick out to sit down on. This place was a two-by-fourplank full of nails, and I cheerfully availed myself of it and, castingmy 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 forbonefish. But all at once I got a hard bite. It quite excited me. Ijerked and pulled the bait away from the fish and he followed it andtook it again. I saw this fish and several others in the white patch ofground where there were not any weeds. But in my excitement I did nothave out a long enough line, and when I jerked the fish turned over andgot away. This was all right, but the next two hours sitting in the sunon that seat with a nail sticking into me were not altogetherpleasurable. When I thought I had endured it as long as I could I saw aflock 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 swamright for my bait, and for all I could see they did not know it wasthere. I waited another long time. The sun was hot--there was nobreeze--the heat was reflected from the water. I could have stood allthis well enough, but I could not stand the nails. So I climbed down offmy 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 infiniteamusement of my brother. After that I fished from the shore. Presently my brother shouted and I looked up to see him pulling on afish. There was a big splash in the water and then I saw his linerunning out. The fish was heading straight for the framework on which Ihad been seated and I knew if he ever did get there he would break theline. All of a sudden I saw the fish he had hooked. And he reached theframework all right! I had one more strike this day, but did not hook the fish. It seems thisbonefishing takes infinite patience. For all we can tell, these fishcome swimming along with the rising tide close in to shore and they areexceedingly shy and wary. My brother now has caught two small bonefishand each of them gave a good strong bite, at once starting off with thebait. We had been under the impression that it was almost impossible tofeel 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 nearthe mangroves where we had seen some bonefish. Arriving there, we foundthe tide almost flood, with the water perfectly smooth and very clearand about a foot deep up at the mangrove roots. Here and there at alittle distance we could see splashes. We separated, and I took theoutside, while R. C. Took the inside close to the mangroves. We wadedalong. Before I had time to make a cast I saw a three-pound bonefishcome sneaking along, and when he saw me he darted away like an arrow. Imade 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 turnedout that he had only seen one. He moved forward very cautiously in thewater and presently made a cast. He then said that a big bonefish wasright near his hook, and during the next few minutes this fish circledhis 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 awhopper. I stood up myself and saw one over to my right, of about fivepounds, sneaking along with his nose to the bottom. When I made a castover in his direction he disappeared as suddenly as if he had dissolvedin the water. Looking out to my left, I saw half a dozen bonefishswimming toward me, and they came quite close. When I moved theyvanished. Then I made a cast over in this direction. The bonefish cameback and swam all around my bait, apparently not noticing it. They wereon the feed, and the reason they did not take our bait must have beenthat they saw us. We fished there for an hour without having a sign of abite, and then we gave it up. To-day about flood-tide I had a little strike. I jerked hard, but failedto see the fish, and then when I reeled in I found he still had hold ofit. 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 aboutbonefishing. He said he had caught a good many ranging up to eightpounds. His claim was that soldier crabs were the best bait. He said hehad fished with professional boatmen who knew the game thoroughly. Theywould pole the skiff alongshore and keep a sharp lookout for what hecalled bonefish mud. And I assume that he meant muddy places in thewater that had been stirred up by bonefish. Of course, any place wherethese 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 betweenthe forefingers, and to feel for the very slightest vibration. Bonefishhave a sucker-like mouth. They draw the bait in, and smash it. Sometimes, of course, they move away, drawing out the line, but thatkind of a bite is exceptional. It is imperative to strike the fish whenthis vibration is felt. Not one in five bonefish is hooked. We have had two northers and the water grew so cold that it drove thefish out. The last two or three days have been warm and to-day it washot. However, I did not expect the bonefish in yet, and when we went inbathing at flood-tide I was very glad to see two fish. I hurried out andgot my rod and began to try. Presently I had a little strike. I waitedand it was repeated; then I jerked and felt the fish. He made a wave andthat was the last I knew of him. Reeling in, I looked at my bait, to find that it had been pretty badlychewed, but I fastened it on again and made another cast. I set down therod. Then I went back after the bucket for the rest of the bait. Upon myreturn I saw the line jerking and I ran to the rod. I saw a littlesplash, and a big white tail of a bonefish stick out of the water. I putmy thumb on the reel and jerked hard. Instantly I felt the fish, heavyand powerful. He made a surge and then ran straight out. The line burnedmy thumb so I could not hold it. I put on the click and the fish made aswifter, harder run for at least a hundred yards, and he tore the hookout. This makes a number of fish that have gotten away from me in thismanner. It is exasperating and difficult to explain. I have to use apretty heavy sinker in order to cast the bait out. I have arranged thissinker, 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 notwork after the fish is hooked. That sinker drags on the bottom. This isthe best rigging that I can plan at the present stage of the game. Ihave an idea now that a bonefish should be hooked hard and then verycarefully handled. I fished off the beach awhile in front of the cabin. We used both kindsof crabs, soldier and hermit. I fished two hours and a half, from thelate rising tide to the first of the ebb, without a sign or sight of afish. R. C. Finally got tired and set his rod and went in bathing. Thenit happened. I heard his reel singing and saw his rod nodding; then Imade 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. Wemust 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, androwed 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 allover the flats. We anchored at the outer edge and began to fish. We hadmade elaborate preparations in the way of tackle, bait, canoe, etc. , andit really would have been remarkable if we had had any luck. After alittle while I distinctly felt something at my hook, and upon jerking Ihad one splendid surge out of a good, heavy bonefish. That was all thathappened in that place. It was near flood-tide when we went back. I stood up and kept a keenwatch for little muddy places in the water, also bonefish. At last I sawseveral 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 onhis line, he jerked, all to no avail. The third time he yelled as hestruck, and I turned in time to see the white thresh of a bonefish. Hemade 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, apparentlytired, he came close. I made ready to lift him into the boat, when, loand behold! he made a wonderful run of fully three hundred feet beforeR. C. Could stop him. Finally he was led to the boat, and turned out tobe a fish of three and a half pounds. It simply made R. C. And me gaspto speak of what a really large bonefish might be able to do. There issomething irresistible about the pursuit of these fish, and perhaps thisis 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 Ihooked a fish. He wiggled and jerked and threshed around so that I toldR. C. That it was not a bonefish, but R. C. Contended it was. Anyway, hecame toward the boat rather easily until we saw him and he saw us, andthen he made a dash similar to that of R. C. 's fish and he tore out thehook. This was the extent of our adventure that day, and we were verymuch 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 stayinside. There is a big flat there cut up by channels, and it is said tobe a fine ground for bonefish. The tide was right and the water wasclear, but even in the lee of the bank the wind blew pretty hard. Weanchored in about three feet of water and began to fish. After a while we moved. The water was about a foot deep, and the bottomclean white marl, with little patches of vegetation. Crabs andcrab-holes were numerous. I saw a small shark and a couple of rays. Whenwe got to the middle of a big flat I saw the big, white, glisteningtails of bonefish sticking out of the water. We dropped anchor and, muchexcited, were about to make casts, when R. C. Lost his hat. He swore. Wehad to pull up anchor and go get the hat. Unfortunately this scared thefish. Also it presaged a rather hard-luck afternoon. In fishing, as inmany other things, if the beginning is tragedy all will be tragedy, growing worse all the time. We moved around up above where I had seenthese bonefish, and there we dropped anchor. No sooner had we gotten ourbaits overboard than we began to see bonefish tails off at quite somedistance. The thing to do, of course, was to sit right there and bepatient, but this was almost impossible for us. We moved again andagain, but we did not get any nearer to the fish. Finally I determinedthat we would stick in one place. This we did, and the bonefish began tocome around. When they would swim close to the boat and see us theywould give a tremendous surge and disappear, as if by magic. But theyalways left a muddy place in the water. The speed of these fish isbeyond belief. I could not cast where I wanted to; I tried again andagain. When I did get my bait off at a reasonable distance, I could feelcrabs nibbling at it. These pests robbed us of many a good bait. One ofthem cut my line right in two. They seemed to be very plentiful, andthat must be why the bonefish were plentiful, too. R. C. Kept losingbait after bait, which he claimed was the work of crabs, but I ratherbelieved it to be the work of bonefish. It was too windy for us to tellanything about the pressure of the line. It had to be quite a strong tugto be felt at all. Presently I felt one, and instead of striking at onceI waited to see what would happen. After a while I reeled in to find mybait gone. Then I was consoled by the proof that a bonefish had takenthe bait off for me. Another time three bonefish came along for my baitand stuck their tails up out of the water, and were evidently nosingaround it, but I felt absolutely nothing on the line. When I reeled inthe bait was gone. We kept up this sort of thing for two hours. I knew that we were doingit wrong. R. C. Said bad conditions, but I claimed that these were onlypartly 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 allmeans we should not have cracked bait on the bottom of the boat, andparticularly we did not know when we had a bite! But it is one thing tobe sure of a fact and another to be able to practise it. At last we gaveup in despair, and upon paddling back toward the launch we saw a schoolof bonefish with their tails in the air. We followed them around for awhile, apparently very much to their amusement. At sunset we got backto the launch and started for camp. This was a long, hard afternoon's work for nothing. However, it is myidea that experience is never too dearly bought. I will never do somethings again, and the harder these fish are to catch, the more time andeffort it takes--the more intelligence and cunning--all the more will Iappreciate success if it ever does come. It is in the attainment ofdifficult tasks that we earn our reward. There are several old bonefishexperts here in camp, and they laughed when I related some of ourexperiences. Bonefishermen are loath to tell anything about theirmethods. This must be a growth of the difficult game. I had an expertbonefisherman tell me that when he was surprised while fishing on one ofthe shoals, he always dropped his rod and pretended to be digging forshells. And it is a fact that the bonefish guides at Metacumbe did notlet any one get a line on their methods. They will avoid abonefishing-ground while others are there, and if they are surprisedthere ahead of others, they will pull up anchor and go away. May I bepreserved from any such personal selfishness and reticence as this! Oneof these bonefish experts at the camp told me that in all his years ofexperience he had never gotten a bonefish bite. If you feel a tug, it iswhen the bonefish is ejecting the hook. Then it is too late. Thebonefish noses around the bait and sucks it in without any apparentmovement of the line. And that can be detected first by a little saggingof 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 leadto prevent the jar from frightening the fish. Doctor B. Tells a couple of interesting experiences with bonefish. Onone occasion he was fishing near another boat in which was a friend. Thewater was very clear and still, and he could see his friend's bait lyingupon the sand. An enormous bonefish swam up and took the bait, andDoctor B. Was so thrilled and excited that he could not yell. When theman hooked the fish it shot off in a straightaway rush, raising a ridgeupon the water. It ran the length of the line and freed itself. LaterDoctor B. 's friend showed the hook, that had been straightened out. Theymeasured 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 estimatedthat he would have weighed not less than fifteen pounds. On another occasion Dr. B. Saw a heavy bonefish hooked. It ranstraight off shore, and turning, ran in with such speed that itcame shooting out upon dry land and was easily captured. These twoinstances are cases in point of the incredible speed and strengthof this strange fish. R. C. Had a splendid fight with a bonefish to-day. The wind was blowinghard and the canoe was not easy to fish out of. We had great difficultyin 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 ranup-shore quite a long way. Then it headed out to sea and made a longrun, 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 toput on a glove. We were both excited and thrilled with the gameness ofthis 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 dartedunder the anchor rope and we lost it. This battle lasted about fifteenminutes, and afforded us an actual instance of the wonderful qualitiesof this fish. Yesterday R. C. Hooked a bonefish that made a tremendous rush straightoffshore, and never stopped until he had pulled out the hook. This musthave been a very heavy and powerful fish. I had my taste of the same dose to-day. I felt a tiny little tug upon myline that electrified me and I jerked as hard as I dared. I realizedthat I had hooked some kind of fish, but, as it was wiggling and did notfeel 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. Iwound in the slack and then felt a heavy fish. He made a short plungeand then a longer one, straight out, making my reel scream. I was afraidto thumb the line, so I let him go. With these jerky plunges he ranabout three hundred feet. Then I felt my line get fast, and, handing myrod 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 asponge on the bottom, and he had broken free just above the hook. * * * * * Yesterday the fag end of the northeast gale still held on, but wedecided 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 toface 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 bonefishtails standing up out of the water. Hurriedly baiting our hooks, wewaded to get ahead of them. But we could not catch them wading, so wentback to the canoe and paddled swiftly ahead, anchored, and got out towade once more. R. C. Was above me. We saw the big tail of one bonefish and both of uswaded to get ahead of him. At last I made a cast, but did not see himany more. The wind was across my line, making a big curve in it, and Iwas afraid I could not tell a bite if I had one. Was about to reel inwhen I felt the faint tug. I swept my rod up and back, hard as I dared. The line came tight, I felt a heavy weight; a quiver, and then my rodwas pulled down. I had hooked him. The thrill was remarkable. He took ashort dash, then turned. I thought I had lost him. But he was runningin. Frantically I wound the reel, but could not get in the slack. I sawmy line coming, heard it hiss in the water, then made out the dark shapeof a bonefish. He ran right at me--almost hit my feet. When he saw me hedarted off with incredible speed, making my reel scream. I feared thestrain on the line, and I plunged through the water as fast as I couldafter him. He ran four hundred feet in that dash, and I ran fifty. Notoften have I of late years tingled and thrilled and panted with suchexcitement. It was great. It brought back the days of boyhood. When hestopped that run I was tired and thoroughly wet. He sheered off as Iwaded and wound in. I got him back near me. He shot off in a shoal placeof white mud where I saw him plainly, and he scared a school of bonefishthat split and ran every way. My fish took to making short circles; Icould not keep a tight line. Lost! I wound in fast, felt him again, thenabsolutely lost feel of him or sight of him. Lost again! My sensationswere remarkable, considering it was only a fish of arm's-length at theend of the line. But these bonefish rouse an angler as no other fishcan. All at once I felt the line come tight. He was still on, nowrunning inshore. The water was about a foot deep. I saw the bulge, or narrow wave, hemade. He ran out a hundred feet, and had me dashing after him again. Icould not trust that light line at the speed he swam, so I ran torelease the strain. He led me inshore, then up-shore, and out toward seaagain, all the time fighting with a couple of hundred feet of line out. Occasionally he would make a solid, thumping splash. He worked offshoresome two hundred yards, where be led me in water half to my hips. I hadto try to stop him here, and with fear and trepidation I thumbed thereel. The first pressure brought a savage rush, but it was short. Heturned, and I wound him back and waded inshore. From that moment I had him beaten, although I was afraid of his shortthumps as he headed away and tugged. Finally I had him within twentyfeet circling around me, tired and loggy, yet still strong enough torequire careful handling. He looked short and heavy, pale checked green and silver; and hisstaring black eye, set forward in his pointed white nose, could beplainly seen. This fish made a rare picture for an angler. So I led him to the canoe and, ascertaining that I had him well hooked, I lifted him in. Never have I seen so beautiful a fish. A golden trout, a white sea-bass, a dolphin, all are beautiful, but not so exquisite as this bonefish. Heseemed all bars of dazzling silver. His tail had a blue margin andstreaks of lilac. His lower (anal) fins were blazing with opal fire, andthe pectoral fins were crystal white. His eye was a dead, piercingblack, staring and deep. We estimated his weight. I held for six pounds, but R. C. Shook his head. He did not believe that. But we agreed on themagnificent fight he had made. Then we waded up-shore farther and began to fish. In just five minutes Ihad the same kind of strike, slight, almost imperceptible, vibrating, and I hooked a fish exactly as I had the first one. He was light ofweight, but swift as a flash. I played him from where I stood. This timeI essayed with all skill to keep a taut line. It was impossible. Now Ifelt his weight and again only a slack line. This fish, too, ran rightto my feet, then in a boiling splash sheered away. But he could not gofar. I reeled him back and led him to the canoe. He was small, and thesmallness of him was such a surprise in contrast to what his fight hadled me to imagine he was. R. C. Had one strike and broke his line on the jerk. We had to give upon account of sunset at hand. * * * * * There was another hard thunder-storm last night. The last few days havebegun the vernal equinox. It rained torrents all night and stopped atdawn. The wind was northeast and cool. Cloudy overhead, with purplehorizon all around--a forbidding day. But we decided to go fishing, anyhow. We had new, delicate three-six tackles to try. About seven thewind died away. There was a dead calm, and the sun tried to show. Thenanother breeze came out of the east. We went up on the inside after bait, and had the luck to find some. Crossing the island, we came out at the old construction camp where wehad left the canoe. By this time a stiff breeze was blowing and the tidewas rising fast. We had our troubles paddling and poling up to the groveof cocoanuts. Opposite this we anchored and began to fish. Conditions were not favorable. The water was choppy and roily, the canoebobbed a good deal, the anchors dragged, and we did not see any fish. All the same, we persevered. At length I had a bite, but pulled toolate. We tried again for a while, only to be disappointed. Then wemoved. We had to put the stern anchor down first and let it drag till it heldand the canoe drifted around away from the wind, then we dropped the bowanchor. After a time I had a faint feeling at the end of my line--anindescribable feeling. I jerked and hooked a bonefish. He did not feelheavy. He ran off, and the wind bagged my line and the waves also helpedto pull out the hook. Following that we changed places several times, in one of which R. C. Had a strike, but failed to hook the fish. Just opposite the old wreckon the shore I had another fish take hold, and, upon hooking him, hadprecisely the same thing happen as in the first instance. I think thebag of my line, which I could not avoid, allowed the lead to sag downand drag upon the bottom. Of course when it caught the bonefish pulledfree. In some places we found the water clearer than in others. Flood-tide hadlong come when we anchored opposite the old camp. R. C. Cast out upon abrown patch of weeds where we have caught some fine fish, and I castbelow. Perhaps in five minutes or less R. C. Swept up his rod. I saw itbend forward, down toward the water. He had hooked a heavy fish. Theline hissed away to the right, and almost at once picked up a good-sizedpiece of seaweed. "It's a big fish!" I exclaimed, excitedly. "Look at him go!. .. Thatseaweed will make you lose him. Let me wade out and pull it off?" "No! Let's take a chance. .. . Too late, anyhow! Gee! He's going!. .. He'sgot two hundred yards out!" Two-thirds of the line was off the reel, and the piece of seaweed seemedto be a drag on the fish. He slowed up. The line was tight, the rodbent. Suddenly the tip sprang back. We had seen that often before. "Gone!" said R. C. , dejectedly. But I was not so sure of that, although I was hopeless. R. C. Wound in, finding the line came slowly, as if weighted. I watched closely. Wethought that was on account of the seaweed. But suddenly the reel beganto screech. "I've got him yet!" yelled R. C. , with joy. I was overjoyed, too, but I contained myself, for I expected direresults from that run. Zee! Zee! Zee! went the reel, and the rod nodded in time. "We must get rid of that seaweed or lose him. .. . Pull up your anchorwith one hand. .. . Careful now. " He did so, and quickly I got mine up. What ticklish business! "Keep a tight line!" I cautioned, as I backed the canoe hard with all mypower. It was not easy to go backward and keep head on to the wind. Thewaves broke over the end of the canoe, splashing me in the face so Icould taste and smell the salt. I made half a dozen shoves with thepaddle. Then, nearing the piece of seaweed, I dropped my anchor. In a flash I got that dangerous piece of seaweed off R. C. 's line. "Good work!. .. Say, but that helps. .. . We'd never have gotten him, " saidR. C. , beaming. I saw him look then as he used to in our sunfish, bent-pin days. "We've not got him yet, " I replied, grimly. "Handle him as easily as youcan. " Then began a fight. The bonefish changed his swift, long runs, and tookto slow sweeps to and fro, and whenever he was drawn a few yards closerhe would give a solid jerk and get that much line back. There was muchdanger from other pieces of floating weed. R. C. Maneuvered his line tomiss them. All the time the bonefish was pulling doggedly. I had littlehope we might capture him. At the end of fifteen minutes he was still ahundred yards from the canoe and neither of us had seen him. Ourexcitement grew tenser every moment. The fish sheered to and fro, andwould not come into shallower water. He would not budge. He took onelong run straight up the shore, in line with us, and then circled out. This alarmed me, but he did not increase his lead. He came slowlyaround, yard by yard. R. C. Reeled carefully, not hard enough toantagonize him, and after what seemed a long time got him within ahundred feet, and I had a glimpse of green and silver. Then off he ranagain. How unbelievably swift! He had been close--then almost the sameinstant he was far off. "I saw him! On a wave!" yelled R. C. "That's no bonefish! What can hebe, anyhow? I believe I've got a barracuda!" I looked and looked, but I could not see him. "No matter what you think you saw, that fish is a bonefish, " I declared, positively. "The runs he made! I saw silver and green! Careful now. I_know_ he's a bonefish. And he must be big. " "Maybe it's only the wind and waves that make him feel so strong, "replied R. C. "No! You can't fool me! Play him for a big one. He's been ontwenty-three minutes now. Stand up--I'll steady the canoe--and watch forthat sudden rush when he sees the canoe. The finish is in sight. " It was an indication of a tiring fish that he made his first circle ofthe canoe, but too far out for us to see him. This circling a boat is aremarkable feature, and I think it comes from the habit of a bonefish ofpulling broadside. I cautioned R. C. To avoid the seaweed and to leadhim a little more, but to be infinitely careful not to apply too muchstrain. He circled us again, a few yards closer. The third circle he didnot gain a foot. Then he was on his fourth lap around the canoe, drawingcloser. On his fifth lap clear round us he came near as fifty feet. Icould not resist standing up to see. I got a glimpse of him and helooked long. But I did not say anything to R. C. We had both hooked toomany big bonefish that got away immediately. This was another affair. He circled us the sixth time. Six times! Then he came rather close. Onthis occasion he saw the canoe. He surged and sped out so swiftly that Iwas simply paralyzed. R. C. Yelled something that had a note ofadmiration of sheer glory in the spirit of that fish. "Here's where he leaves us!" I echoed. But, as luck would have it, he stopped that run short of two hundredyards; and turned broadside to circle slowly back, allowing R. C. To getin line. He swam slower this time, and did not make the heavy tugs. Hecame easily, weaving to and fro. R. C. Got him to within twenty-fivefeet of the boat, yet still could not see him. It was my job to thinkquick and sit still with ready hands on the anchor rope. He began toplunge, taking a little line each time. Then suddenly I saw R. C. 's linecoming toward us. I knew that would happen. "Now! Look out! Reel in fast!" I cried, tensely. As I leaned over to heave up the anchor, I saw the bonefish flashingnearer. At that instant of thrilling excitement and suspense I could nottrust my eyesight. There he was, swimming heavily, and he looked threefeet long, thick and dark and heavy. I got the anchor up just as hepassed under the canoe. Maybe I did not revel in pride of my quicknessof thought and action! "Oh! He's gone under the rope!" gasped R. C. "No!" I yelled, sharply. "Let your line run out! Put your tip down!We'll drift over your line. " R. C. Was dominated to do so, and presently the canoe drifted over wherethe line was stretched. That second ticklish moment passed. It hadscared me. But I could not refrain from one sally. "I got the anchor up. What did you think I'd do?" R. C. Passed by my remark. This was serious business for him. He lookedquite earnest and pale. "Say! did you see him?" he ejaculated, looking at me. "Wish I hadn't, " I replied. We were drifting inshore, which was well, provided we did not drift toohard to suit the bonefish. He swam along in plain sight, and he seemedso big that I would not have gazed any longer if I could have helped it. I kept the canoe headed in, and we were not long coming to shallowwater. Here the bonefish made a final dash for freedom, but it was shortand feeble, compared with his first runs. He got about twenty feet away, then sheered, showing his broad, silver side. R. C. Wound him in close, and an instant later the bow of the canoe grated on shore. "Now what?" asked R. C. As I stepped out into the water. "Won't it berisky to lift him into the canoe?" "Lift nothing! I have this all figured out. Lead him along. " R. C. Stepped out upon the beach while I was in the water. The bonefishlay on his side, a blaze of silver. I took hold of the line very gentlyand led the fish a little closer in. The water was about six inchesdeep. There were waves beating in--a miniature surf. And I calculated onthe receding of a wave. Then with one quick pull I slid our beautifulquarry up on the coral sand. The instant he was out of the water theleader snapped. I was ready for this, too. But at that it was an awfulinstant! As the wave came back, almost deep enough to float thebonefish, I scooped him up. "He's ours!" I said, consulting my watch. "Thirty-three minutes! I giveyou my word that fight was comparable to ones I've had with a Pacificswordfish. " "Look at him!" R. C. Burst out. "Look at him! When the leader broke Ithought he was lost. I'm sick yet. Didn't you almost bungle that?" "Not a chance, R. C. , " I replied. "Had that all figured. I never put anystrain on your line until the wave went back. Then I slid him out, theleader broke, and I scooped him up. " R. C. Stood gazing down at the glistening, opal-spotted fish. What acontrast he presented to any other kind of a fish! How many beautifulspecies have we seen lying on sand or moss or ferns, just come out ofthe water! But I could remember no other so rare as this bonefish. Theexceeding difficulty of the capture of this, our first really largebonefish, had a great deal to do with our admiration and pride. For thehard work of any achievement is what makes it worth while. But this hadnothing to do with the exquisite, indescribable beauty of the bonefish. He was long, thick, heavy, and round, with speed and power in everyline; a sharp white nose and huge black eyes. The body of him was live, quivering silver, molten silver in the sunlight, crossed and barred withblazing stripes. The opal hues came out upon the anal fin, and the broadtail curled up, showing lavender tints on a background of brilliantblue. He weighed eight pounds. Symbolic of the mysterious life andbeauty in the ocean! Wonderful and prolific as nature is on land, she isinfinitely more so in the sea. By the sun and the sea we live; and Ishall never tire of seeking and studying the manifold life of the deep. VIII SOME RARE FISH It is very strange that the longer a man fishes the more there seems tobe to learn. In my case this is one of the secrets of the fascination ofthe game. Always there will be greater fish in the ocean than I haveever caught. Five or six years ago I heard the name "waahoo" mentioned at Long Key. The boatmen were using it in a way to make one see that they did notbelieve there was such a fish as a waahoo. The old conch fishermen hadnever heard the name. For that matter, neither had I. Later I heard the particulars of a hard and spectacular fight JudgeShields had had with a strange fish which the Smithsonian declared to bea waahoo. The name waahoo appears to be more familiarly associated witha shrub called burning-bush, also a Pacific coast berry, and again asmall tree of the South called winged elm. When this name is mentionedto a fisherman he is apt to think only fun is intended. To be sure, Ithought so. In February, 1915, I met Judge Shields at Long Key, and, remembering hiscapture of this strange fish some years previous, I questioned him. Hewas singularly enthusiastic about the waahoo, and what he said excitedmy curiosity. Either the genial judge was obsessed or else this waahoowas a great fish. I was inclined to believe both, and then I forgot allabout the matter. This year at Long Key I was trolling for sailfish out in the GulfStream, a mile or so southeast of Tennessee Buoy. It was a fine day forfishing, there being a slight breeze and a ripple on the water. Myboatman, Captain Sam, and I kept a sharp watch on all sides forsailfish. I was using light tackle, and of course trolling, with thereel free running, except for my thumb. Suddenly I had a bewildering swift and hard strike. What a wonder that Ikept the reel from over-running! I certainly can testify to the burn onmy thumb. Sam yelled "Sailfish!" and stooped for the lever, awaiting my order tothrow out the clutch. Then I yelled: "Stop the boat, Sam!. .. It's no sailfish!" That strike took six hundred feet of line quicker than any other I hadever experienced. I simply did not dare to throw on the drag. But theinstant the speed slackened I did throw it on, and jerked to hook thefish. I felt no weight. The line went slack. "No good!" I called, and began to wind in. At that instant a fish savagely broke water abreast of the boat, aboutfifty yards out. He looked long, black, sharp-nosed. Sam saw him, too. Then I felt a heavy pull on my rod and the line began to slip out. Ijerked and jerked, and felt that I had a fish hooked. The line appearedstrained and slow, which I knew to be caused by a long and wide bag init. "Sam, " I yelled, "the fish that jumped is on my line!" "No, " replied Sam. It did seem incredible. Sam figured that no fish could run astern fortwo hundred yards and then quick as a flash break water abreast of us. But I knew it was true. Then the line slackened just as it had before. Ibegan to wind up swiftly. "He's gone, " I said. Scarcely had I said that when a smashing break in the water on the otherside of the boat alarmed and further excited me. I did not see the fish. But I jumped up and bent over the stern to shove my rod deep into thewater back of the propeller. I did this despite the certainty that thefish had broken loose. It was a wise move, for the rod was nearly pulledout of my hands. I lifted it, bent double, and began to wind furiously. So intent was I on the job of getting up the slack line that I scarcelylooked up from the reel. "Look at him yump!" yelled Sam. I looked, but not quickly enough. "Over here! Look at him yump!" went on Sam. That fish made me seem like an amateur. I could not do a thing with him. The drag was light, and when I reeled in some line the fish got most ofit back again. Every second I expected him to get free for sure. It wasa miracle he did not shake the hook, as he certainly had a loose reinmost all the time. The fact was he had such speed that I was unable tokeep a strain upon him. I had no idea what kind of a fish it was. AndSam likewise was nonplussed. I was not sure the fish tired quickly, for I was so excited I had nothought of time, but it did not seem very long before I had him withinfifty yards, sweeping in wide half-circles back of the boat. Occasionally I saw a broad, bright-green flash. When I was sure he wasslowing up I put on the other drag and drew him closer. Then in theclear water we saw a strange, wild, graceful fish, the like of which wehad never beheld. He was long, slender, yet singularly round andmuscular. His color appeared to be blue, green, silver crossed by bars. His tail was big like that of a tuna, and his head sharper, more wolfishthan a barracuda. He had a long, low, straight dorsal fin. We watchedhim swimming slowly to and fro beside the boat, and we speculated uponhis species. But all I could decide was that I had a rare specimen formy collection. Sam was just as averse to the use of the gaff as I was. I played thefish out completely before Sam grasped the leader, pulled him close, lifted him in, and laid him down--a glistening, quivering, wonderfulfish nearly six feet long. He was black opal blue; iridescent silver underneath; pale blue dorsal;dark-blue fins and copper-bronze tail, with bright bars down his body. I took this thirty-six pound fish to be a sea-roe, a game fish latelynoticed on the Atlantic seaboard. But I was wrong. One old conchfisherman who had been around the Keys for forty years had never seensuch a fish. Then Mr. Schutt came and congratulated me upon landing awaahoo. The catching of this specimen interested me to inquire when I could, andfind out for myself, more about this rare fish. Natives round Key West sometimes take it in nets and with the grains, and they call it "springer. " It is well known in the West Indies, whereit bears the name "queenfish. " After studying this waahoo there wereboatmen and fishermen at Long Key who believed they had seen schools ofthem. Mr. Schutt had observed schools of them on the reef, low down nearthe coral--fish that would run from forty to one hundred pounds. It mademe thrill just to think of hooking a waahoo weighing anywhere near ahundred pounds. Mr. Shannon testified that he had once observed a schoolof waahoo leaping in the Gulf Stream--all very large fish. And once, ona clear, still day, I drifted over a bunch of big, sharp-nosed, game-looking fish that I am sure belonged to this species. The waahoo seldom, almost never, is hooked by a fisherman. This factmakes me curious. All fish have to eat, and at least two waahoo havebeen caught. Why not more? I do not believe that it is just a new fish. I see Palm Beach notices printed to the effect that sailfish were neverheard of there before the Russo-Japanese War, and that the explosions offloating mines drove them from their old haunts. I do not take stock insuch theory as that. As a matter of fact, Holder observed the sailfish(_Histiophorus_) in the Gulf Stream off the Keys many years ago. Likewise the waahoo must always have been there, absent perhaps invarying seasons. It is fascinating to ponder over tackle and bait andcunning calculated to take this rare denizen of the Gulf Stream. * * * * * During half a dozen sojourns at Long Key I had heard of two or threedolphin being caught by lucky anglers who were trolling for anythingthat would bite. But until 1916 I never saw a dolphin. Certainly I neverhoped to take one of these rare and beautiful deep-sea fish. Never wouldhave the luck. But in February I took two, and now I am forbidden thepeculiar pleasure of disclaiming my fisherman's luck. Dolphin seems a singularly attractive name. It always made me think ofthe deep blue sea, of old tars, and tall-sparred, white-sailed brigs. Itis the name of a fish beloved of all sailors. I do not know why, but Isuspect that it is because the dolphin haunts ships and is an omen ofgood luck, and probably the most exquisitely colored fish in the ocean. One day, two miles out in the Gulf Stream, I got a peculiar strike, quite unlike any I had ever felt. A fisherman grows to be a specialistin strikes. This one was quick, energetic, jerky, yet strong. And it wasa hungry strike. A fish that is hungry can almost always be hooked. Ilet this one run a little and then hooked him. He felt light, butsavage. He took line in short, zigzag rushes. I fancied it was a bonita, but Sam shook his head. With about a hundred yards of line out, the fishleaped. He was golden. He had a huge, blunt, bow-shaped head and anarrow tail. The distance was pretty far, and I had no certainty to goby, yet I yelled: "Dolphin!" Sam was not so sure, but he looked mighty hopeful. The fish sounded andran in on me, then darted here and there, then began to leap and threshupon the surface. He was hard to lead--a very strong fish for his lightweight. I never handled a fish more carefully. He came up on a lowswell, heading toward us, and he cut the water for fifty feet, with onlyhis dorsal, a gleam of gold, showing in the sunlight. Next he jumped five times, and I could hear the wrestling sound he madewhen he shook himself. I had no idea what he might do next, and if hehad not been securely hooked would have gotten off. I tried hard to keepthe line taut and was not always successful. Like the waahoo, heperformed tricks new to me. One was an awkward diving leap that somehowjerked the line in a way to alarm me. When he quit his tumbling andrushing I led him close to the boat. This has always been to me one of the rewards of fishing. It quiteoutweighs that doubtful moment for me when the fish lies in the boat orhelpless on the moss. Then I am always sorry, and more often than notlet the fish go alive. My first sight of a dolphin near at hand was one to remember. The fishflashed gold--deep rich gold--with little flecks of blue and white. Thenthe very next flash there were greens and yellows--changing, colorful, brilliant bars. In that background of dark, clear, blue Gulf Streamwater this dolphin was radiant, golden, exquisitely beautiful. It was ashame to lift him out of the water. But-- The appearance of the dolphin when just out of the water beggarsdescription. Very few anglers in the world have ever had thisexperience. Not many anglers, perhaps, care for the beauty of a fish. But I do. And for the sake of those who feel the same way I wish I couldpaint him. But that seems impossible. For even while I gazed the fishchanged color. He should have been called the chameleon of the ocean. Helooked a quivering, shimmering, changeful creature, the color ofgolden-rod. He was the personification of beautiful color alive. Thefact that he was dying made the changing hues. It gave me a pang--that Ishould be the cause of the death of so beautiful a thing. If I caught his appearance for one fleeting instant here it is: Vividgreen-gold, spotted in brilliant blue, and each blue spot was a circleinclosing white. The long dorsal extending from nose to tail seemedblack and purple near the head, shading toward the tail to rich olivegreen with splashes of blue. Just below the dorsal, on the background ofgold, was a line of black dots. The fins were pearly silver beneath, anddark green above. All the upper body was gold shading to silver, andthis silver held exquisite turquoise-blue spots surrounded with whiterings, in strange contrast to those ringed dots above. There was even asuggestion of pink glints. And the eyes were a deep purple with goldiris. The beauty of the dolphin resembled the mystery of the Gulf Stream--tooillusive for the eye of man. * * * * * More than once some benighted angler had mentioned bonefish to me. Theseindividuals always appeared to be quiet, retiring fishermen whohesitated to enlarge upon what was manifestly close to their hearts. Ihad never paid any attention to them. Who ever heard of a bonefish, anyway? The name itself did not appeal to my euphonious ear. But on this 1916 trip some faint glimmering must have penetrated thedensity of my cranium. I had always prided myself upon my convictionthat I did not know it all, but, just the same, I had looked down frommy lofty height of tuna and swordfish rather to despise littlesalt-water fish that could not pull me out of the boat. The waahoo andthe dolphin had opened my eyes. When some mild, quiet, soft-voicedgentleman said bonefish to me again I listened. Not only did I listen, Igrew interested. Then I saw a couple of bonefish. They shone likesilver, were singularly graceful in build, felt heavy as lead, andlooked game all over. I made the mental observation that the man who hadnamed them bonefish should have had half of that name applied to hishead. After that I was more interested in bonefish. I never failed to askquestions. But bonefishermen were scarce and as reticent as scarce. Tosum up all of my inquiries, I learned or heard a lot that left mecompletely bewildered, so that I had no idea whether a bonefish was ajoke or the grandest fish that swims. I deducted from the amazinginformation that if a fisherman sat all day in the blazing sun and hadthe genius to discover when he had a bite he was learning. No oneever caught bonefish without days and days of learning. Then there wereincidents calculated to disturb the peace of a contemplative angler likemyself. [Illustration: AT LONG KEY, THE LONELY CORAL SHORE WHERE THE SUN SHINES WHITE ALL DAY AND THE STARS SHINE WHITE ALL NIGHT] [Illustration: THE FAMOUS STUNT OF A MARLIN SWORDFISH, "WALKING ON HIS TAIL"] One man with heavy tackle yanked some bonefish out of the tide right infront of my cabin, quite as I used to haul out suckers. Other men triedit for days without success, though it appeared bonefish were passingevery tide. Then there was a loquacious boatman named Jimmy, who, whenhe had spare time, was always fishing for bonefish. He would tell themost remarkable tales about these fish. So finally I drifted to thatfatal pass where I decided I wanted to catch bonefish. I imagined itwould be easy for me. So did Captain Sam. Alas! the vanity of man! Forthwith Captain Sam and I started out to catch soldier-crabs for bait. The directions we got from conch fishermen and others led us to assumethat it would be an easy matter to find crabs. It was not! We had to gopoking round mangrove roots until we learned how to catch the soldiers. If this had not been fun for me it would have been hard work. But eversince I was a little tad I have loved to chase things in the water. Andupon this occasion it was with great satisfaction that I caught morebait than Captain Sam. Sam is something of a naturalist and he wasalways spending time over a curious bug or shell or object he found. Eventually we collected a bucketful of soldier-crabs. Next day, about the last of the ebb-tide, we tied a skiff astern andwent up the Key to a cove where there were wide flats. While working ourway inshore over the shoals we hit bottom several times and finallywent aground. This did not worry us, for we believed the rising tidewould float us. Then we got in the skiff and rowed toward the flats. I was ratherconcerned to see that apparently the tide was just about as high alongthis shore as it ever got. Sam shook his head. The tides were strangearound the Keys. It will be high on the Gulf side and low on theAtlantic side, and sometimes it will run one way through the channelsfor thirty-six hours. But we forgot this as soon as we reached thebonefish shoals. Sam took an oar and slowly poled inshore, while I stood up on a seat towatch for fish. The water was from six to eighteen inches deep and veryclear and still. The bottom appeared to be a soft mud, gray, almostwhite in color, with patches of dark grass here and there. It was reallymarl, which is dead and decayed coral. Scarcely had we gotten over the edge of this shoal when we began to seethings--big blue crabs, the kind that can pinch and that play havoc withthe fishermen's nets, and impudent little gray crabs, and needle-fish, and small chocolate-colored sharks--nurse sharks, Sam called them--andbarracuda from one foot to five feet in length, and whip-rays andsting-rays. It was exceedingly interesting and surprising to see allthese in such shallow water. And they were all tame. Here and there we saw little boils of the water, and then a muddy patchwhere some fish had stirred the marl. Sam and I concluded these weremade by bonefish. Still, we could not be sure. I can see a fish a longway in the water and I surely was alert. But some time elapsed and wehad poled to within a few rods of the mangroves before I really caughtsight of our coveted quarry. Then I saw five bonefish, two of themlarge, between the boat and the mangroves. They were motionless. Somehowthe sight of them was thrilling. They looked wary, cunning, game, andreminded me of gray wolves I had seen on the desert. Suddenly theyvanished. It was incredible the way they disappeared. When we got up tothe place where they had been there were the little swirls in the roiledwater. Then Sam sighted two more bonefish that flashed away too swiftly for meto see. We stuck an oar down in the mud and anchored the boat. It seemedabsolutely silly to fish in water a foot deep. But I meant to try it. Putting a crab on my hook, I cast off ten or a dozen yards, and composedmyself to rest and watch. Certainly I expected no results. But it was attractive there. The wideflat stretched away, bordered by the rich, dark mangroves. Cranes andpelicans were fishing off the shoals, and outside rippled the greenchannel, and beyond that the dark-blue sea. The sun shone hot. There wasscarcely any perceptible breeze. All this would have been enjoyable andfruitful if there had not been a fish within a mile. Almost directly I felt a very faint vibration of my line. I waited, expectantly, thinking that I might be about to have a bite. But the lineslackened and nothing happened. There were splashes all around us and waves and ripples here and there, and occasionally a sounding thump. We grew more alert and interested. Sam saw a bonefish right near the boat. He pointed, and the fish wasgone. After that we sat very still, I, of course, expecting a bite everymoment. Presently I saw a bonefish not six feet from the boat. Where hecame from was a mystery, but he appeared like magic, and suddenly, justas magically, he vanished. "Funny fish, " observed Sam, thoughtfully. Something had begun to dawnupon Sam, as it had upon me. No very long time elapsed before we had seen a dozen bonefish, any oneof which I could have reached with my rod. But not a bite! I reeled into find my bait gone. "That bait was eaten off by crabs, " I said to Sam, as I put on another. Right away after my cast I felt, rather than saw, that slight vibrationof my line. I waited as before, and just as before the line almostimperceptibly slackened and nothing happened. Presently I did see a blue crab deliberately cut my line. We had to movethe boat, pick up the lost piece of line, and knot it to the other. ThenI watched a blue crab tear off my bait. But I failed to feel or see thatfaint vibration of my line. We moved the boat again, and again my linewas cut. These blue crabs were a nuisance. Sam moved the boat again. Weworked up the flat nearer where the little mangroves, scarce a foothigh, lifted a few leaves out of the water. Whenever I stood up I sawbonefish, and everywhere we could hear them. Once more we composedourselves to watch and await developments. [Illustration: SURGING IN A HALF-CIRCLE] [Illustration: BROADBILL SWORDFISH ON THE SURFACE--THE MOST THRILLING SIGHT TO A SEA ANGLER] In the succeeding hour I had many of the peculiar vibrations of my line, and, strange to see, every time I reeled in, part of my bait or all ofit was gone. Still I fished on patiently for a bonefish bite. Meanwhile the sun lost its heat, slowly slanted to the horizon ofmangroves, and turned red. It was about the hour of sunset and it turnedout to be a beautiful and memorable one. Not a breath of air stirred. There was no sound except the screech of a gull and the distant splashesof wading birds. I had not before experienced silence on or near saltwater. The whole experience was new. We remarked that the tide had notseemed to rise any higher. Everywhere were little swells, little waves, little wakes, all made by bonefish. The sun sank red and gold, and allthe wide flat seemed on fire, with little mangroves standing clear anddark against the ruddy glow. And about this time the strangest thinghappened. It might have been going on before, but Sam and I had not seenit. All around us were bonefish tails lifted out of the water. Theyglistened like silver. When a bonefish feeds his head is down and histail is up, and, the water being shallow, the upper fluke of his tailstands out. If I saw one I saw a thousand. It was particularly easy tosee them in the glassy water toward the sunset. A school of feeding bonefish came toward us. I counted eleven tails outof the water. They were around my bait. Now or never, I thought, waitingfrantically! But they went on feeding--passed over my line--and came sonear the boat that I could plainly see the gray shadow shapes, thelong, sharp noses, the dark, staring eyes. I reeled in to find my baitgone, as usual. It was exasperating. We had to give up then, as darkness was not far off. Sam was worriedabout the boat. He rowed while I stood up. Going back, I saw bonefish intwos and fours and droves. We passed school after school. They had justcome in from the sea, for they were headed up the flat. I saw manyten-pound fish, but I did not know enough about bonefish then toappreciate what I saw. However, I did appreciate their keen sight andwariness and wonderful speed and incredible power. Some of the bigsurges made me speculate what a heavy bonefish might do to light tackle. Sam and I were disappointed at our luck, somewhat uncertain whether itwas caused by destructive work of crabs or the wrong kind of bait orboth. It scarcely occurred to us to inquire into our ignorance. We found the boat hard and fast in the mud. Sam rowed me ashore. Iwalked back to camp, and he stayed all night, and all the next day, waiting for the tide to float the boat. After that on several days we went up to the flat to fish for bonefish. But we could not hit the right tide or the fish were not there. At anyrate, we did not see any or get any bites. Then I began to fish for bonefish in front of my cottage. Whenever Iwould stick my rod in the sand and go in out of the hot sun a bonefishwould take my bait and start off to sea. Before I could get back hewould break something. This happened several times before I became so aroused that Idetermined to catch one of these fish or die. I fished and fished. Iwent to sleep in a camp-chair and absolutely ruined my reputation as anardent fisherman. One afternoon, just after I had made a cast, I feltthe same old strange vibration of my line. I was not proof against itand I jerked. Lo! I hooked a fish that made a savage rush, pulled mybass-rod out of shape, and took all my line before I could stop him. Then he swept from side to side. I reeled him in, only to have him runout again and again and yet again. I knew I had a heavy fish. I expectedhim to break my line. I handled him gingerly. Imagine my amaze to beacha little fish that weighed scarcely more than two pounds! But it was abonefish--a glistening mother-of-pearl bonefish. Somehow the obsessionof these bonefishermen began to be less puzzling to me. Sam saw me catchthis bonefish, and he was as amazed as I was at the gameness and speedand strength of so small a fish. Next day a bonefisherman of years' experience answered a few questions Iput to him. No, he never fished for anything except bonefish. They werethe hardest fish in the sea to make bite, the hardest to land after theywere hooked. Yes, that very, very slight vibration of the line--thatstrange feeling rather than movement--was the instant of their quickbite. An instant before or an instant after would be fatal. It dawned upon me then that on my first day I must have had dozens ofbonefish bites, but I did not know it! I was humiliated--I was takendown from my lofty perch--I was furious. I thanked the gentleman forhis enlightenment and went away in search of Sam. I told Sam, and helaughed--laughed at me and at himself. After all, it was a joke. And Ihad to laugh too. It is good for a fisherman to have the conceit takenout of him--if anything can accomplish that. Then Sam and I got ourheads together. What we planned and what we did must make another story. IX SWORDFISH _From records of the New York Bureau of Fisheries, by G. B. Goode_ The swordfish, _Xiphias gladius_, ranges along the Atlantic coast ofAmerica from Jamaica (latitude 18° N. ), Cuba, and the Bermudas, to CapeBreton (latitude 47° N. ). It has not been seen at Greenland, Iceland, orSpitzbergen, but occurs, according to Collett, at the North Cape(latitude 71°). It is abundant along the coasts of western Europe, entering the Baltic and the Mediterranean. I can find no record of thespecies on the west coast of Africa south of Cape Verde, though Lutken, who may have access to facts unknown to me, states that they occur cleardown to the Cape of Good Hope, South Atlantic in mid-ocean, to the westcoast of South America and to southern California (latitude 34°), NewZealand, and in the Indian Ocean off Mauritius. The names of the swordfish all have reference to that prominent feature, the prolonged snout. The "swordfish" of our own tongue, the "zwardfis"of the Hollander, the Italian "sofia" and "pesce-spada, " the Spanish"espada" and "espadarte, " varied by "pez do spada" in Cuba, and theFrench "espadon, " "dard, " and "epee de mer, " are simply variations ofone theme, repetitions of the "gladius" of ancient Italy and "xiphius, "the name by which Aristotle, the father of zoology, called the same fishtwenty-three hundred years ago. The French "empereur" and the"imperador" and the "ocean kingfish" of the Spanish and French WestIndies, carry out the same idea, for the Roman Emperor was alwaysrepresented holding a drawn sword in his hand. The Portuguese names are"aguhao, " meaning "needle, " or "needle-fish. " This species has been particularly fortunate in escaping the numerousredescriptions to which almost all widely distributed forms have beensubjected. By the writers of antiquity it was spoken of under itsAristotelian name, and in the tenth edition of his _Systema Naturæ_, atthe very inception of binomial nomenclative, Linnaeus called it _Xiphiasgladius_. By this name it has been known ever since, and only oneadditional name is included in its synonym, _Xiphias rondeletic_ ofLeach. The swordfish has been so long and so well known that its right to itspeculiar name has seldom been infringed upon. The various species of_Tetrapturus_ have sometimes shared its title, and this is not to bewondered at, since they closely resemble _Xiphias gladius_, and theappellative has frequently been applied to the family _Xiphiidæ_--theswordfish--which includes them all. The name "bill-fish, " usually applied to our _Tetrapturus albidus_, afish of the swordfish family, often taken on our coast, must bepronounced objectionable, since it is in many districts used forvarious species of Belonidæ, the garfishes or green-bones (_Belonetruncata_ and others), which are members of the same faunas. Spear-fishis a much better name. The "sailfish, " _Histiophorus americanus_, is called by sailors in theSouth the "boohoo" or "woohoo. " This is evidently a corrupted form of"guebum, " a name, apparently of Indian origin, given to the same fish inBrazil. It is possible that _Tetrapturus_ is also called "boohoo, " sincethe two genera are not sufficiently unlike to impress sailors with theirdifferences. Blecker states that in Sumatra the Malays call the relatedspecies, _H. Gladius_, by the name "Joohoo" (Juhu), a curiouscoincidence. The names may have been carried from the Malay Archipelagoto South America, or _vice versa_, by mariners. In Cuba the spear-fish are called "aguja" and "aguja de palada"; thesailfish, "aguja prieta" or "aguja valadora"; _Tetrapturus albidus_especially known as the "aguja blanca, " _T. Albidus_ as the "aguja decastro. " In the West Indies and Florida the scabbard-fish or silvery hairy-tail, _Trichiurus lepturus_, a form allied to the _Xiphias_, though notresembling it closely in external appearance, is often called"swordfish. " The body of this fish is shaped like the blade of a saber, and its skin has a bright, metallic luster like that of polished steel, hence the name. Swordfish are most abundant on the shoals near the shore and on thebanks during the months of July and August; that they make theirappearance on the frequented cruising-grounds between Montauk Point andthe eastern part of Georges Banks sometime between the 25th of May andthe 20th of June, and that they remain until the approach of coldweather in October and November. The dates of the first fish on thecruising-grounds referred to are recorded for three years, and arereasonably reliable: in 1875, June 20th; in 1877, June 10th; in 1878, June 14th. South of the cruising-grounds the dates of arrival and departure aredoubtless farther apart, the season being shorter north and east. Thereare no means of obtaining information, since the men engaged in thisfishery are the only ones likely to remember the dates when the fish areseen. The swordfish comes into our waters in pursuit of its food. At leastthis is the most probable explanation of its movements, since the dutiesof reproduction appear to be performed elsewhere. Like the tuna, thebluefish, the bonito, and the squiteague, they pursue and prey upon theschools of menhaden and mackerel, which are so abundant in the summermonths. "When you see swordfish, you may know that mackerel are about, "said an old fisherman to me. "When you see the fin-back whale followingfood, there you may find swordfish, " said another. The swordfish alsofeeds upon squid, which are at times abundant on our banks. To what extent this fish is amenable to the influences of temperature isan unsolved problem. We are met at the outset by the fact that they arefrequently taken on trawl lines which are set at the depth of onehundred fathoms or more, on the offshore banks. We know that thetemperature of the water in these localities and at that depth is sureto be less than 40° Fahr. How is this fact to be reconciled with theknown habits of the fish, that it prefers the warmest weather of summerand swims at the surface in water of temperature ranging from 55° to70°, sinking when cool winds blow below? The case seemed clear enoughuntil the inconvenient discovery was made that swordfish are taken onbottom trawl lines. In other respects their habits agree closely withthose of the mackerel tribe, all the members of which seem sensitive toslight changes in temperature, and which, as a rule, prefer temperaturein the neighborhood of 50° or more. [Illustration: SHINING IN THE SUNLIGHT] [Illustration: THROWING WHITE WATER LIKE THE EXPLOSION OF A TORPEDO] The appearance of the fish at the surface depends largely upon thetemperature. They are seen only upon quiet summer days, in the morningbefore ten or eleven o'clock, and in the afternoon about four o'clock. Old fishermen say that they rise when the mackerel rise, and when themackerel go down they go down also. Regarding the winter abode of the swordfish, conjecture is useless. Ihave already discussed this question at length with reference to themenhaden and mackerel. With the swordfish the conditions are verydifferent. The former are known to spawn in our waters, and the schoolsof young ones follow the old ones in toward the shores. The latter donot spawn in our waters. We cannot well believe that they hibernate, noris the hypothesis of a sojourn in the middle strata of mid-ocean exactlytenable. Perhaps they migrate to some distant region, where they spawn. But then the spawning-time of this species in the Mediterranean, as isrelated in a subsequent paragraph, appears to occur in the summermonths, at the very time when the swordfish are most abundant in our ownwaters, apparently feeling no responsibility for the perpetuation oftheir species. The swordfish, when swimming at the surface, usually allows its dorsalfin and the upper lobe of its caudal fin to be visible, projecting outof the water. It is this habit which enables the fisherman to detect thepresence of the fish. It swims slowly along, and the fishing-schoonerwith a light breeze finds no difficulty in overtaking it. When excitedits motions are very rapid and nervous. Swordfish are sometimes seen toleap entirely out of the water. Early writers attributed this habit tothe tormenting presence of parasites, but this theory seems hardlynecessary, knowing what we do of its violent exertions at other times. The pointed head, the fins of the back and abdomen snugly fitting intogrooves, the absence of ventrals, the long, lithe, muscular body, sloping slowly to the tail, fits it for the most rapid and forcefulmovement through the water. Prof. Richard Owen, testifying in an Englandcourt in regard to its power, said: "It strikes with the accumulated force of fifteen double-handed hammers. Its velocity is equal to that of a swivel shot, and is as dangerous in its effect as a heavy artillery projectile. " Many very curious instances are on record of the encounter of this fishwith other fishes, or of their attacks upon ships. What can be theinducement for it to attack objects so much larger than itself is hardto surmise. We are all familiar with the couplet from Oppian: Nature her bounty to his mouth confined, Gave him a sword, but left unarmed his mind. It surely seems as if temporary insanity sometimes takes possession ofthe fish. It is not strange that when harpooned it should retaliate byattacking its assailant. An old swordfisherman told Mr. Blackman thathis vessel had been struck twenty times. There are, however, manyinstances of entirely unprovoked assaults on vessels at sea. Many ofthese are recounted in a later portion of this memoir. Their movementswhen feeding are discussed below as well as their alleged peculiaritiesof movement during breeding season. It is the universal testimony of our fishermen that two are never seenswimming close together. Captain Ashby says that they are always distantfrom each other at least thirty or forty feet. The pugnacity of the swordfish has become a byword. Without any specialeffort on my part, numerous instances of their attacks upon vessels havein the last ten years found their way into the pigeonhole labeled"Swordfish. " Ælian says (b. XXXII, c. 6) that the swordfish has a sharp-pointed snoutwith which it is able to pierce the sides of a ship and send it to thebottom, instances of which have been known near a place in Mauritaniaknown as Cotte, not far from the river Sixus, on the African side of theMediterranean. He describes the sword as like the beak of the shipknown as the trireme, which was rowed with three banks of oars. The _London Daily News_ of December 11, 1868, contained the followingparagraph, which emanated, I suspect, from the pen of Prof. R. A. Proctor. Last Wednesday the court of common pleas--rather a strange place, by the by, for inquiring into the natural history of fishes--was engaged for several hours in trying to determine under what circumstances a swordfish might be able to escape scot-free after thrusting his snout into the side of a ship. The gallant ship _Dreadnought_, thoroughly repaired and classed A1 at Lloyd's, had been insured for £3, 000 against all risks of the sea. She sailed on March 10, 1864, from Columbo for London. Three days later the crew, while fishing, hooked a swordfish. Xiphias, however, broke the line, and a few moments after leaped half out of the water, with the object, it should seem, of taking a look at his persecutor, the _Dreadnaught_. Probably he satisfied himself that the enemy was some abnormally large cetacean, which it was his natural duty to attack forthwith. Be this as it may, the attack was made, and the next morning the captain was awakened with the unwelcome intelligence that the ship had sprung a leak. She was taken back to Columbo, and thence to Cochin, where she hove down. Near the keel was found a round hole, an inch in diameter, running completely through the copper sheathing and planking. As attacks by swordfish are included among sea risks, the insurance company was willing to pay the damages claimed by the owners of the ship, if only it could be proved that the hole had been really made by aswordfish. No instances had ever been recorded in which a swordfish which had passed its beak through three inches of stout planking could withdraw without the loss of its sword. Mr. Buckland said that fish have no power of "backing, " and expressed his belief that he could hold a swordfish by the beak; but then he admitted that the fish had considerable lateral power, and might so "wriggle its sword out of the hold. " And so the insurance company will have to pay nearly £600 because an ill-tempered fish objected to be hooked and took its revenge by running full tilt against copper sheathing and oak planking. [Illustration: A LONG, SLIM SAILFISH WIGGLING IN THE AIR] [Illustration: FIGHTING A BROADBILL SWORDFISH] The food of the swordfish is of a very mixed nature. Doctor Fleming found the remains of sepias in its stomach, and alsosmall fishes. Oppian stated that it eagerly devours the _Hippuris_(probably _Coryphæna_). A specimen taken off Saconnet July 22, 1875, hadin its stomach the remains of small fish, perhaps _Stromateustriacanthus_, and jaws of a squid, perhaps _Loligo pealin_. Their foodin the western Atlantic consists for the most part of the commonschooling species of fishes. They feed on menhaden, mackerel, bonitoes, bluefish, and other species which swim in close schools. Their habits offeeding have often been described to me by old fishermen. They are saidto rise beneath the school of small fish, striking to the right and leftwith their swords until they have killed a number, which they thenproceed to devour. Menhaden have been seen floating at the surface whichhave been cut nearly in twain by a blow of a sword. Mr. John H. Thompsonremarks that he has seen them apparently throw the fish in the air, catching them on the fall. Capt. Benjamin Ashby says that they feed on mackerel, herring, whiting, and menhaden. He has found half a bucketful of small fish of these kindin the stomach of one swordfish. He has seen them in the act of feeding. They rise perpendicularly out of the water until the sword andtwo-thirds of the remainder of the body are exposed to view. He has seena school of herring at the surface on Georges Banks as closely as theycould be packed. A swordfish came up through the dense mass and fellflat on its side, striking many fish with the sides of its sword. He hasat one time picked up as much as a bushel of herrings thus killed by aswordfish on Georges Banks. But little is known regarding their time and place of breeding. They aresaid to deposit their eggs in large quantities on the coasts of Sicily, and European writers give their spawning-time occurring the latter partof spring and the beginning of summer. In the Mediterranean they occurof all sizes from four hundred pounds down, and the young are soplentiful as to become a common article of food. M. Raymond, who brought to Cuvier a specimen of aistiophorn four incheslong, taken in January, 1829, in the Atlantic, between the Cape of GoodHope and France, reported that there were good numbers of young sailfishin the place where this was taken. Meunier, quoting Spollongain, states that the swordfish does notapproach the coast of Sicily except in the season of reproduction; themales are then seen pursuing the females. It is a good time to capturethem, for when the female has been taken the male lingers near and iseasily approached. The fish are abundant in the Straits of Messina fromthe middle of April to the middle of September; early in the season theyhug the Calabrian shore, approaching from the north; after the end ofJune they are most abundant on the Sicilian shore, approaching from thesouth. From other circumstances, it seems certain that there arespawning-grounds in the seas near Sicily and Genoa, for from Novemberto the 1st of March young ones are taken in the Straits of Messina, ranging in weight from half a pound to twelve pounds. In the Mediterranean, as has been already stated, the young fish arefound from November to March, and here from July to the middle ofSeptember the male fish are seen pursuing the female over the shoals, and at this time the males are easily taken. Old swordfish fishermen, Captain Ashby and Captain Kirby, assure me that on our coast, out ofthousands of specimens they have taken, they have never seen onecontaining eggs. I have myself dissected several males, none of whichwere near breeding-time. In the European waters they are said often tobe seen swimming in pairs, male and female. Many sentimental storieswere current, especially among the old writers, concerning the conjugalaffection and unselfish devotion of the swordfish, but they seem to haveoriginated in the imaginative brain of the naturalist rather than in hisperceptive faculties. It is said that when the female fish is taken themale seems devoid of fear, approaches the boat, and allows himselfeasily to be taken, but if this be true, it appears to be the case onlyin the height of the breeding season, and is easily understood. I cannotlearn that two swordfish have ever been seen associated together in ourwaters, though I have made frequent and diligent inquiry. There is no inherent improbability, however, in this story regarding theswordfish in Europe, for the same thing is stated by Professor Poey asthe result upon the habits of _Tetrapturus_. The only individual of which we have the exact measurements was takenoff Saconnet, Rhode Island, July 23, 1874. This was seven feet seveninches long, weighing one hundred and thirteen pounds. Another, takenoff No Man's Land, July 20, 1875, and cast in plaster for the collectionof the National Museum, weighed one hundred and twenty pounds andmeasured about seven feet. Another, taken off Portland, August 15, 1878, was 3, 999 millimeters long and weighed about six hundred pounds. Many ofthese fish doubtless attain the weight of four and five hundred pounds, and some perhaps grow to six hundred; but after this limit is reached, Iam inclined to believe larger fish are exceptional. Newspapers are fondof recording the occurrence of giant fish, weighing one thousand poundsand upward, and old sailors will in good faith describe the enormousfish which they saw at sea, but could not capture; but onewell-authenticated instance of accurate weighing is much more valuable. The largest one ever taken by Capt. Benjamin Ashby, for twenty years aswordfish fisherman, was killed on the shoals back of Edgartown, Massachusetts. When salted it weighed six hundred and thirty-ninepounds. Its live weight must have been as much as seven hundred andfifty or eight hundred. Its sword measured nearly six feet. This was anextraordinary fish among the three hundred or more taken by CaptainAshby in his long experience. He considers the average size to be abouttwo hundred and fifty pounds dressed, or five hundred and twenty-fivealive. Captain Martin, of Gloucester, estimated the average size atthree to four hundred pounds. The largest known to Captain Michauxweighed six hundred and twenty-eight. The average about Block Island heconsiders to be two hundred pounds. The size of the smallest swordfish taken on our eastern coast is asubject of much deeper interest, for it throws light on the time andplace of breeding. There is some difference of testimony regarding theaverage size, but all fishermen with whom I have talked agree that verysmall ones do not find their way into our shore waters. Numerous verysmall specimens have, however, been already taken by the Fish Commissionat sea, off our middle and southern coast. Capt. John Rowe has seen one which did not weigh more than seventy-fivepounds when taken out of the water. Capt. R. H. Hurlbert killed near Block Island, in July, 1877, one whichweighed fifty pounds and measured about two feet without its sword. Captain Ashby's smallest weighed about twenty-five pounds when dressed;this he killed off No Man's Land. He tells me that a Bridgeport smackhad one weighing sixteen pounds (or probably twenty-four when alive), and measuring eighteen inches without its sword. In August, 1878, a small specimen of the mackerel-shark, _Lamnacornubica_, was captured at the mouth of Gloucester Harbor. In itsnostril was sticking a sword, about three inches long, of a youngswordfish. When this was pulled out the blood flowed freely, indicatingthat the wound was recent. The fish to which this sword belonged cannothave exceeded ten or twelve inches in length. Whether the smallswordfish met with its misfortune in our waters, or whether the sharkbrought this trophy from beyond the sea, is an unsolved problem. Lutken speaks of a very young individual taken in the Atlantic, latitude32° 50' N. , 74° 19' W. This must be about one hundred and fifty milessoutheast of Cape Hatteras. For many years from three to six hundred of these fish have been takenannually on the New England coast. It is not unusual for twenty-five ormore to be seen in the course of a single day's cruising, and sometimesas many as this are visible from the masthead at one time. Captain Ashbysaw twenty at one time, in August, 1889, between Georges Banks and theSouth Shoals. One Gloucester schooner, _Midnight_, Capt. Alfred Wixom, took fourteen in one day on Georges Banks in 1877. Capt. John Rowe obtained twenty barrels, or four thousand pounds, ofsalt fish on one trip to Georges Banks; this amount represents twentyfish or more. Captain Ashby has killed one hundred and eight swordfishin one year; Capt. M. C. Tripp killed about ninety in 1874. Such instances as these indicate in a general way the abundance of theswordfish. A vessel cruising within fifty miles of our coast, betweenCape May and Cape Sable, during the months of June, July, August, andSeptember, cannot fail, on a favorable day, to come in sight of severalof them. Mr. Earll states that the fishermen of Portland never knew themmore abundant than in 1879. This is probably due in part to the factthat the fishery there is of a very recent origin. There is no evidence of any change in their abundance, either increaseor decrease. Fishermen agree that they are as plentiful as ever, nor canany change be anticipated. The present mode does not destroy them in anyconsiderable numbers, each individual fish being the object of specialpursuit. The solitary habits of the species will always protect themfrom wholesale capture, so destructive to schooling fish. Even if thiswere not the case, the evidence proves that spawning swordfish do notfrequent our waters. When a female shad is killed, thousands of possibleyoung die also. The swordfish taken by our fishermen carry no suchprecious burden. "The small swordfish is very good meat, " remarked Josselyn, in writingof the fishes of England in the seventeenth century. Since Josselynprobably never saw a young swordfish, unless at some time he had visitedthe Mediterranean, it is fair to suppose that his information wasderived from some Italian writer. It is, however, a fact that the flesh of the swordfish, though somewhatoily, is a very acceptable article of food. Its texture is coarse; thethick, fleshy, muscular layers cause it to resemble that of the halibutin constituency. Its flavor is by many considered fine, and is notunlike that of the bluefish. Its color is gray. The meat of the youngfish is highly prized on the Mediterranean, and is said to be perfectlywhite, compact, and of delicate flavor. Swordfish are usually cut upinto steaks--thick slices across the body--and may be broiled or boiled. The apparatus ordinarily employed for the capture of the swordfish issimple in the extreme. It is the harpoon with the detachable head. Whenthe fish is struck, the head of the harpoon remains in the body of thefish, and carries with it a light rope which is either made fast or heldby a man in a small boat, or is attached to some kind of a buoy, whichis towed through the water by the struggling fish, and which marks itswhereabouts after death. The harpoon consists of a pole fifteen or sixteen feet in length, usually of hickory or some other hard wood, upon which the bark has beenleft, so that the harpooner may have a firmer hand-grip. This pole isfrom an inch and a half to two inches in diameter, and at one end isprovided with an iron rod, or "shank, " about two feet long andfive-eighths of an inch in diameter. This "shank" is fastened to thepole by means of a conical or elongated, cuplike expansion at one end, which fits over the sharpened end of the pole, to which it is secured byscrews or spikes. A light line extends from one end of the pole to thepoint where it joins the "shank" and in this line is tied a loop bywhich is made fast another short line which secures the pole to thevessel or boat, so that when it is thrown at the fish it cannot be lost. Upon the end of the "shank" fits the head of the harpoon, known by thenames swordfish-iron, lily-iron, and Indian dart. The form of thisweapon has undergone much variation. The fundamental idea may verypossibly have been derived from the Indian fish-dart, numerous specimensof which are in the National Museum, from various tribes of Indians ofNew England, British America, and the Pacific. However various themodifications may have been, the similarity of the different shapes isno less noteworthy from the fact that all are peculiarly American. Inthe enormous collection of fishery implements of all lands at the lateexhibition at Berlin, nothing of the kind could be found. What is knownto whalers as a toggle-harpoon is a modification of the lily-iron, butso greatly changed by the addition of a pivot by which the head of theharpoon is fastened to the shank that it can hardly be regarded as thesame weapon. The lily-iron is, in principle, exactly what a whalemanwould describe by the word "toggle. " It consists of a two-pointed pieceof metal, having in the center, at one side, a ring or socket the axisof which is parallel with the long diameter of the implement. In this isinserted the end of the pole-shank, and to it or near it is alsoattached the harpoon-line. When the iron has once been thrust pointfirst through some solid substance, such as the side of a fish, and isreleased upon the other side by the withdrawal of the pole from thesocket, it is free, and at once turns its long axis at right angle tothe direction in which the harpoon-line is pulling, and this isabsolutely prevented from withdrawal. The principle of the whale harpoonor toggle-iron is similar, except that the pole is not withdrawn, andthe head, turning upon a pivot at its end, fastens the pole itselfsecurely to the fish, the harpoon-line being attached to some part ofthe pole. The swordfish lily-iron head, as now ordinarily used, is aboutfour inches in length, and consists of two lanceolate blades, each aboutan inch and a half long, connected by a central piece much thicker thanthey, in which, upon one side, and next to the flat side of the blade, is the socket for the insertion of the pole-shank. In this same centralenlargement is forged an opening to which the harpoon-line is attached. The dart-head is usually made of steel; sometimes of iron, which isgenerally galvanized; sometimes of brass. The entire weight of the harpoon--pole, shank, and head--should notexceed eighteen pounds. The harpoon-line is from fifty to one hundred and fifty fathoms long, and is ordinarily what is known as "fifteen-thread line. " At the end issometimes fastened a buoy, and an ordinary mackerel-keg is generallyused for this purpose. In addition to the harpoon every swordfish fisherman carries a lance. This implement is precisely similar to a whaleman's lance, except thatit is smaller, consisting of a lanceolate blade perhaps one inch wideand two inches long, upon the end of a shank of five-eighths-inch iron, perhaps two or three feet in length, fastened in the ordinary way upon apole fifteen to eighteen feet in length. The swordfish are always harpooned from the end of the bowsprit of asailing-vessel. It is next to impossible to approach them in a smallboat. All vessels regularly engaged in this fishery are supplied with aspecial apparatus called a "rest, " or "pulpit, " for the support of theharpooner as he stands on the bowsprit, and this is almost essential tosuccess, although it is possible for an active man to harpoon a fishfrom this station without the aid of the ordinary framework. Not onlythe professional swordfish fisherman, but many mackerel-schooners andpackets are supplied in this manner. The swordfish never comes to the surface except in moderate, smoothweather. A vessel cruising in search of them proceeds to thefishing-ground, and cruises hither and thither wherever the abundance ofsmall fish indicates that they ought to be found. Vessels which are metare hailed and asked whether any swordfish have been seen, and iftidings are thus obtained the ship's course is at once laid for thelocality where they were last noticed. A man is always stationed at themasthead, where, with the keen eye which practice has given him, he caneasily descry the telltale dorsal fins at a distance of two or threemiles. When a fish has once been sighted, the watch "sings out, " and thevessel is steered directly toward it. The skipper takes his place in the"pulpit" holding the pole in both hands by the small end, and directingthe man at the wheel by voice and gesture how to steer. There is nodifficulty in approaching the fish with a large vessel, although, as hasalready been remarked, they will not suffer a small boat to come nearthem. The vessel plows and swashes through the water, plunging itsbowsprit into the waves without exciting their fears. Noises frightenthem and drive them down. Although there would be no difficulty inbringing the end of a bowsprit directly over the fish, a skilfulharpooner never waits for this. When the fish is from six to ten feet infront of the vessel it is struck. The harpoon is never thrown, the polebeing too long. The strong arm of the harpooner punches the dart intothe back of the fish, right at the side of the high dorsal fin, and thepole is withdrawn and fastened again to its place. When the dart hasbeen fastened to the fish the line is allowed to run out as far as thefish will carry it, and is then passed in a small boat, which is towingat the stern. Two men jump into this, and pull in upon the line untilthe fish is brought in alongside; it is then killed with a whale-lanceor a whale-spade, which is stuck into the gills. The fish having been killed, it is lifted upon the deck by a purchasetackle of two double blocks rigged in the shrouds. The pursuit of the swordfish is much more exciting than ordinaryfishing, for it resembles the hunting of large animals upon the land andpartakes more of the nature of the chase. There is no slow and carefulbaiting and patient waiting, and no disappointment caused by theaccidental capture of worthless "bait-stealers. " The game is seen andfollowed, and outwitted by wary tactics, and killed by strength of armand skill. The swordfish is a powerful antagonist sometimes, and sendshis pursuers' vessel into harbor leaking, and almost sinking, frominjuries he has inflicted. I have known a vessel to be struck by woundedswordfish as many as twenty times in a season. There is even the spiceof personal danger to savor the chase, for the men are occasionallywounded by the infuriated fish. One of Captain Ashby's crew was severelywounded by a swordfish which thrust his beak through the oak floor of aboat on which he was standing, and penetrated about two inches in hisnaked heel. The strange fascination draws men to this pursuit when theyhave once learned its charms. An old swordfish fisherman, who hadfollowed the pursuit for twenty years, told me that when he was on thecruising-ground, he fished all night in his dreams, and that many a timehe has rubbed the skin off his knuckles by striking them against theceiling of his bunk when he raised his arms to thrust the harpoon intovisionary monster swordfishes. _The Spear-fish or Bill-fish_ The bill-fish or spear-fish, _Tetrapturus indicus_ (with various relatedforms, which may or may not be specifically identical), occurs in thewestern Atlantic from the West Indies (latitude 10° to 20° N. ) tosouthern England (latitude 40° N. ); in the eastern Atlantic, fromGibraltar (latitude 45° N. ) to the Cape of Good Hope (latitude 30° S. )in the Indian Ocean, the Malay Archipelago, New Zealand (latitude 40°S. ), and on the west coast of Chile and Peru. In a general way, therange is between latitude 40° N. And latitude 40° S. The species of _Tetrapturus_ which we have been accustomed to call _T. Albidus_, abundant about Cuba, is not very usual on the coast ofsouthern New England. Several are taken every year by the swordfishfishermen. I have not known of their capture along the southern Atlanticcoast of the United States. All I have known about were taken betweenSandy Hook and the eastern part of Georges Banks. The Mediterranean spear-fish, _Tetrapturus balone_, appears to be alandlocked form, never passing west of the Straits of Gibraltar. The spear-fish in our waters is said by our fishermen to resemble theswordfish in its movements and manner of feeding. Professor Poeynarrates that both the Cuban species swim at a depth of one hundredfathoms, and they journey in pairs, shaping their course toward the Gulfof Mexico, the females being full of eggs. Only adults are taken. It isnot known whence they come, or where they breed, or how the youngreturn. It is not even known whether the adult fish return by the sameroute. When the fish has swallowed the hook it rises to the surface, making prodigious leaps and plunges. At last it is dragged to the boat, secured with a boat-hook, and beaten to death before it is hauled onboard. Such fishing is not without danger, for the spear-fish sometimesrushes upon the boat, drowning the fisherman, or wounding him with itsterrible weapon. The fish becomes furious at the appearance of sharks, which are its natural enemies. They engage in violent combats, and whenthe spear-fish is attached to the fisherman's line it often receivesfrightful wounds from the adversaries. The spear-fish strikes vessels in the same manner as the swordfish. I amindebted to Capt. William Spicer, of Noank, Connecticut, for this note: Mr. William Taylor, of Mystic, a man seventy-six years old, who was in the smack _Evergreen_, Capt. John Appleman, tells me that they started from Mystic, October 3, 1832, on a fishing voyage to Key West, in company with the smack _Morning Star_, Captain Rowland. On the 12th were off Cape Hatteras, the winds blowing heavily from the northeast, and the smack under double-reefed sails. At ten o'clock in the evening they struck a woho, which shocked the vessel all over. The smack was leaking badly, and they made a signal to the _Morning_ _Star_ to keep close to them. The next morning they found the leak, and both smacks kept off Charleston. On arrival they took out the ballast, hove her out, and found that the sword had gone through the planking, timber, and ceiling. The plank was two inches thick, the timber five inches, and the ceiling one-and-a-half-inch white oak. The sword projected two inches through the ceiling, on the inside of the "after run. " It struck by a butt on the outside, which caused the leak. They took out and replaced a piece of the plank, and proceeded on their voyage. _The Sailfish_ The sailfish, _Histiophorus gladius_ (with _H. Americanus_ and _H. Orientalis_, questionable species, and _H. Pulchellus_ and _H. Immaculatus_, young), occurs in the Red Sea, Indian Ocean, MalayArchipelago, and south at least as far as the Cape of Good Hope(latitude 35° S. ); in the Atlantic on the coast of Brazil (latitude 30°S. ) to the equator, and north to southern New England (latitude 42° N. );in the Pacific to southwestern Japan (latitude 30° to 10° N. ). In ageneral way the range may be said to be in tropical and temperate seas, between latitude 30° S. And 40° N. , and in the western parts of thoseseas. The first allusion to this genus occurs in Piso's _Historia NaturalisBrasiliæ_ printed in Amsterdam in 1648. In this book may be found anidentical, though rough, figure of the American species, accompanied bya few lines of description, which, though good, when the fact that theywere written in the seventeenth century is brought to mind, are of novalue for critical comparison. The name given to the Brazilian sailfish by Marcgrave, the talentedyoung German who described the fish in the book referred to, and whoafterward sacrificed his life in exploring the unknown fields ofAmerican zoology, is interesting, since it gives a clue to thederivation of the name "boohoo, " by which this fish, and probablyspear-fish, are known to English-speaking sailors in the tropicalAtlantic. Sailfish were observed in the East Indies by Renard and Valentijn, explorers of that region from 1680 to 1720, and by other Easternvoyagers. No species of the genus was, however, systematically describeduntil 1786, when a stuffed specimen from the Indian Ocean, eight feetlong, was taken to London, where it still remains in the collections ofthe British Museum. From this specimen M. Broussonet prepared adescription, giving it the name _Scomber gladius_, rightly regarding itas a species allied to the mackerel. From the time of Marcgrave until 1872 it does not appear that anyzoologist had any opportunity to study a sailfish from America or eventhe Atlantic; yet in Gunther's Catalogue, the name _H. Americanus_ isdiscarded and the species of America is assumed to be identical withthat of the Indian Ocean. The materials in the National Museum consist of a skeleton and a paintedplaster cast of the specimen taken near Newport, Rhode Island, inAugust, 1872, and given to Professor Baird by Mr. Samuel Powell, ofNewport. No others were observed in our waters until March, 1878, when, according to Mr. Neyle Habersham, of Savannah, Georgia, two were takenby a vessel between Savannah and Indian River, Florida, and were broughtto Savannah, where they attracted much attention in the market. In1873, according to Mr. E. G. Blackford, a specimen in a very mutilatedcondition was brought from Key West to New York City. No observations have been made in this country, and recourse must be hadto the statements of observers in the other hemisphere. In the Life of Sir Stamford Raffles is printed a letter from Singapore, under date of November 30, 1822, with the following statement: The only amusing discovery we have recently made is that of a sailing-fish, called by the natives "ikan layer, " of about ten or twelve feet long, which hoists a mainsail, and often sails in the manner of a native boat, and with considerable swiftness. I have sent a set of the sails home, as they are beautifully cut and form a model for a fast-sailing boat. When a school of these are under sail together they are frequently mistaken for a school of native boats. The fish referred to is in all likelihood _Histiophorus gladius_, aspecies very closely related to, if not identical with, our own. _The Cutlass-fish_ The cutlass-fish, _Trichiurus lepturus_, unfortunately known in easternFlorida and at Pensacola as the swordfish; at New Orleans, in the St. John's River, and at Brunswick, Georgia, it is known as the "silvereel"; on the coast of Texas as "saber-fish, " while in the Indian Riverregion it is called the "skip-jack. " No one of these names isparticularly applicable, and, the latter being preoccupied, it wouldseem advantageous to use in this country the name "cutlass-fish, " whichis current for the same species in the British West Indies. Its appearance is very remarkable on account of its long, compressedform and its glistening, silvery color. The name "scabbard-fish, " whichhas been given to an allied species in Europe, would be very proper alsofor this species, for in general shape and appearance it looks very likethe metallic scabbard of the sword. It attains the length of four orfive feet, though ordinarily not exceeding twenty-five or thirty inches. This species is found in the tropical Atlantic, on the coast of Brazil, in the Gulf of California, the West Indies, the Gulf of Mexico, andnorth to Woods Hole, Massachusetts, where, during the past ten years, specimens have been occasionally taken. In 1845 one was found atWellfleet, Massachusetts; and in the Essex Institute is a specimen whichis said to have been found on the shores of the Norway Frith many yearsago, and during the past decade it has become somewhat abundant insouthern England. It does not, however, enter the Mediterranean. Somewriters believed the allied species, _Trichiurus haumela_, found in theIndian Ocean and Archipelago and in various parts of the Pacific, to bespecifically the same. The cutlass-fish is abundant in the St. John's River, Florida, in theIndian River region, and in the Gulf of Mexico. Several instances wererelated to me in which these fish had thrown themselves from the waterinto rowboats, a feat which might be very easily performed by a lithe, active species like the _Trichiurus_. A small one fell into a boatcrossing the mouth of the Arlington River, where the water is nearlyfresh. Many individuals of the same species are taken every year at the mouthof the St. John's River at Mayport. Stearn states that they are caughtin the deep waters of the bays about Pensacola, swimming nearly at thesurface, but chiefly with hooks and lines from the wharves. He has knownthem to strike at the oars of the boat and at the end of the ropes thattrailed in the water. At Pensacola they reach a length of twenty tothirty inches, and are considered good food fish. Richard Hill statesthat in Jamaica this species is much esteemed, and is fished forassiduously in a "hole, " as it is called--that is, a deep portion of thewaters off Fort Augusta. This is the best fishing-place for thecutlass-fish, _Trichiurus_. The fishing takes place before day; alllines are pulled in as fast as they are thrown out, with the certaintythat the cutlass has been hooked. As many as ninety boats have beencounted on this fishing-ground at daybreak during the season. X THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA Three summers in Catalina waters I had tried persistently to capture myfirst broadbill swordfish; and so great were the chances against me thatI tried really without hope. It was fisherman's pride, I imagined, rather than hope that drove me. At least I had a remarkably keenappreciation of the defeats in store for any man who aspired toexperience with that marvel of the sea--_Xiphius gladius_, the broadbillswordsman. On the first morning of my fourth summer, 1917, I was up at five. Fine, cool, fresh, soft dawn with a pale pink sunrise. Sea rippling with aneasterly breeze. As the sun rose it grew bright and warm. We did not getstarted out on the water until eight o'clock. The east wind had whippedup a little chop that promised bad. But the wind gradually died down andthe day became hot. Great thunderheads rose over the mainland, proclaiming heat on the desert. We saw scattered sheerwater ducks and aschool of porpoises; also a number of splashes that I was sure were madeby swordfish. The first broadbill I sighted had a skinned tail, and evidently had beenin a battle of some kind. We circled him three times with flying-fishbait and once with barracuda, and as he paid no attention to them weleft him. This fish leaped half out on two occasions, once showing hisbeautiful proportions, his glistening silver white, and hisdangerous-looking rapier. [Illustration: THE ONLY PHOTOGRAPH EVER TAKEN OF LEAPING BROADBILL SWORDFISH] [Illustration: XIPHIAS GLADIUS, THE BROADSWORDED GLADIATOR OF THE SEA] The second one leaped twice before we neared him. And as we made a poorattempt at circling him, he saw the boat and would have none of ouroffers. The third one was skimming along just under the surface, difficult tosee. After one try at him we lost him. They were not up on the surface that day, as they are when the bestresults are obtained. The east wind may have had something to do withthat. These fish would average about three hundred pounds each. CaptainDan says the small ones are more wary, or not so hungry, for they do notstrike readily. I got sunburnt and a dizzy headache and almost seasick. Yet the day waspleasant. The first few days are always hard, until I get broken in. Next morning the water and conditions were ideal. The first twoswordfish we saw did not stay on the surface long enough to be worked. The third one stayed up, but turned away from the bait every time we gotit near him. So we left him. About noon I sighted a big splash a mile off shoreward, and we headedthat way. Soon I sighted fins. The first time round we got the baitright and I felt the old thrill. He went down. I waited; but in vain. He leaped half out, and some one snapped a picture. It looked like afortunate opportunity grasped. We tried him again, with flying-fish andbarracuda. But he would not take either. Yet he loafed around on thesurface, showing his colors, quite near the boat. He leaped clear outonce, but I saw only the splash. Then he came out sideways, a skitteringsort of plunge, lazy and heavy. He was about a three-hundred pounder, white and blue and green, a rare specimen of fish. We tried him againand drew a bait right in front of him. No use! Then we charged him--ranhim down. Even then he was not frightened, and came up astern. At last, discouraged at his indifference, we left him. This day was ideal up to noon. Then the sun got very hot. My wrists wereburnt, and neck and face. My eyes got tired searching the sea for fins. It was a great game, this swordfishing, and beat any other I ever tried, for patience and endurance. The last fish showed his cunning. They wereall different, and a study of each would be fascinating and instructive. Next morning was fine. There were several hours when the sea was smoothand we could have sighted a swordfish a long distance. We went eastwardof the ship course almost over to Newport. At noon a westerly windsprang up and the water grew rough. It took some hours to be out of itto the leeward of the island. I saw a whale bend his back and sound and lift his flukes high in theair--one of the wonder sights of the ocean. It was foggy all morning, and rather too cool. No fish of any kindshowed on the surface. One of those inexplicably blank days that areinevitable in sea angling. When we got to the dock we made a discovery. There was a kink in myleader about one inch above the hook. Nothing but the sword of old_Xiphius gladius_ could have made that kink! Then I remembered astrange, quick, hard jerk that had taken my bait, and which I thoughthad been done by a shark. It was a swordfish striking the bait off! Next day we left the dock at six fifteen, Dan and I alone. The day waslowering and windy--looked bad. We got out ahead of every one. Trolledout five miles, then up to the west end. We got among the Japs fishingfor albacore. About eleven I sighted a B. B. We dragged a bait near him and he wentdown with a flirt of his tail. My heart stood still. Dan and I both madesure it was a strike. But, no! He came up far astern, and then went downfor good. The sea got rough. The wind was chilling to the bone. Sheerwater duckswere everywhere, in flocks and singly. Saw one yellow patch of smallbait fish about an inch long. This patch was forty yards across. No fishappeared to be working on it. Dan sighted a big swordfish. We made for him. Dan put on an albacore. But it came off before I could let out the line. Then we tried abarracuda. I got a long line out and the hook pulled loose. This wasunfortunate and aggravating. We had one barracuda left. Dan hooked it onhard. "That'll never come off!" he exclaimed. We circled old _Xiphius_, andwhen about fifty yards distant he lifted himself clear out--a mostterrifying and magnificent fish. He would have weighed four hundred. Hiscolors shone--blazed--purple blue, pale green, iridescent copper, andflaming silver. Then he made a long, low lunge away from us. I bade himgood-by, but let the barracuda drift back. We waited a long time whilethe line slowly bagged, drifting toward us. Suddenly I felt a quick, strong pull. It electrified me. I yelled to Dan. He said, excitedly, "Feed it to him!" but the line ceased to play out. I waited, slowlylosing hope, with my pulses going back to normal. After we drifted forfive minutes I wound in the line. The barracuda was gone and the leaderhad been rolled up. This astounded us. That swordfish had taken my bait. I felt his first pull. Then he had come toward the boat, crushing thebait off the hook, without making even a twitch on the slack line. Itwas heartbreaking. But we could not have done any different. Dan decidedthe fish had come after the teasers. This experience taught us exceedingrespect for the broadbill. Again we were off early in the morning. Wind outside and growing rough. Sun bright until off Isthmus, when we ran into fog. The Japalbacore-boats were farther west. Albacore not biting well. Sea grewrough. About eleven thirty the fog cleared and the sea becamebeautifully blue and white-crested. I was up on the deck when a yell from below made me jump. I ran back. Some one was holding my rod, and on the instant that a huge swordfishgot the bait had not the presence of mind to throw off the drag and letout line. We hurried to put on another flying-fish and I let out theline. Soon Dan yelled, "There he is--behind your bait!" I saw him--huge, brown, wide, weaving after my bait. Then he hit it withhis sword. I imagined I could feel him cut it. Winding in, I found thebait cut off neatly back of the head. While Dan hurried with anotherbait I watched for the swordfish, and saw him back in the wake, ratherdeep. He was following us. It was an intensely exciting moment. I letthe bait drift back. Almost at once I felt that peculiar rap at my bait, then another. Somehow I knew he had cut off another flying-fish. Ireeled in. He had severed this bait in the middle. Frantically we baitedagain. I let out a long line, and we drifted. Hope was almost gone whenthere came a swift tug on my line, and then the reel whirred. I thumbedthe pad lightly. Dan yelled for me to let him have it. I was alltingling with wonderful thrills. What a magnificent strike! He took lineso fast it amazed me. All at once, just as Dan yelled to hook him, the reel ceased to turn, the line slacked. I began to jerk hard and wind in, all breathless withexcitement and frenzy of hope. Not for half a dozen pumps and windingsdid I feel him. Then heavy and strong came the weight. I jerked andreeled. But I did not get a powerful strike on that fish. Suddenly theline slacked and my heart contracted. He had shaken the hook. I reeledin. Bait gone! He had doubled on me and run as swiftly toward the boatas he had at first run from it. The hook had not caught well. Probably he had just held the bait betweenhis jaws. The disappointment was exceedingly bitter and poignant. Myrespect for _Xiphius_ increased in proportion to my sense of lostopportunity. This great fish thinks! That was my conviction. We sighted another that refused to take a bait and soon went down. We had learned the last few days that broadbills will strike when not onthe surface, just as Marlin swordfish do. On our next day out we had smooth sea all morning, with great, slow-running swells, long and high, with deep hollows between. Vast, heaving bosom of the deep! It was majestic. Along the horizon ran dark, low, lumpy waves, moving fast. A thick fog, like a pall, hung over thesea all morning. About eleven o'clock I sighted fins. We made a circle round him, anddrew the bait almost right across his bill. He went down. Again thatfamiliar waiting, poignant suspense!. .. He refused to strike. Next one was a big fellow with pale fins. We made a perfect circle, andhe went down as if to take the bait!. .. But he came up. We tried again. Same result. Then we put on an albacore and drew that, tail first, infront of him. Slowly he swam toward it, went down, and suddenly turnedand shot away, leaving a big wake. He was badly scared by that albacore. Next one we worked three times before he went down, and the last onegave us opportunity for only one circle before he sank. They are shy, keen, and wise. The morning following, as we headed out over a darkly rippling sea, somefour miles off Long Point, where we had the thrilling strikes from thebig swordfish, and which place we had fondly imagined was our happyhunting-ground--because it was near shore and off the usual fishingcourse out in the channel--we ran into Boschen fighting a fish. This is a spectacle not given to many fishermen, and I saw myopportunity. With my glass I watched Boschen fight the swordfish, and I concludedfrom the way he pulled that he was fast to the bottom of the ocean. Wewent on our way then, and that night when I got in I saw his wonderfulswordfish, the world's record we all knew he would get some day. Fourhundred and sixty-three pounds! And he had the luck to kill this greatfish in short time. My friend Doctor Riggin, a scientist, dissected thisfish, and found that Boschen's hook had torn into the heart. Thisstrange feature explained the easy capture, and, though it might detractsomewhat from Boschen's pride in the achievement, it certainly did notdetract from the record. That night, after coming in from the day's hunt for swordfish, Dan and Idecided to get good bait. At five thirty we started for seal rocks. Thesun was setting, and the red fog over the west end of the island wasweird and beautiful. Long, slow swells were running, and they boomedinshore on the rocks. Seals were barking--a hoarse, raucous croak. I sawa lonely heron silhouetted against the red glow of the western horizon. We fished--trolling slowly a few hundred yards offshore--and soon werefighting barracuda, which we needed so badly for swordfish bait. They strike easily, and put up a jerky kind of battle. They are a long, slim fish, yellow and white in the water, a glistening pale bronze andsilver when landed. I hooked a harder-fighting fish, which, when broughtin, proved to be a white sea-bass, a very beautiful species with faintpurplish color and mottled opal tints above the deep silver. Next morning we left the bay at six thirty. It was the calmest day wehad had in days. The sea was like a beveled mirror, oily, soft, andethereal, with low swells barely moving. An hour and a half out we werealone on the sea, out of sight of land, with the sun faintly showing, and all around us, inclosing and mystical, a thin haze of fog. Alone, alone, all alone on a wide, wide sea! This was wonderful, farbeyond any pursuit of swordfish. We sighted birds, gulls, and ducks floating like bits of colored cork, and pieces of kelp, and at length a broadbill. We circled him threetimes with barracuda, and again with a flying-fish. Apparently he had nointerest in edibles. He scorned our lures. But we stayed with him untilhe sank for good. Then we rode the sea for hours, searching for fins. At ten forty we sighted another. Twice we drew a fresh fine barracuda infront of him, which he refused. It was so disappointing, in fact, reallysickening. Dan was disgusted. He said, "We can't get them to bite!" And I said, "Let's try again!" So we circled him once more. The sea was beautifully smooth, with theslow swells gently heaving. The swordfish rode them lazily andindifferently. His dorsal stood up straight and stiff, and the bigsickle-shaped tail-fin wove to and fro behind. I gazed at themlongingly, in despair, as unattainable. I knew of nothing in thefishing game as tantalizing and despairing as this sight. [Illustration: A STRAIGHTAWAY GREYHOUND LEAP, MARVELOUS FOR ITS SPEED AND WILDNESS] [Illustration: LIKE A LEAPING SPECTER] We got rather near him this time, as he turned, facing us, and slowlyswam in the direction of my bait. I could see the barracuda shiningastern. Dan stopped the boat. I slowly let out line. The swordfishdrifted back, and then sank. I waited, intensely, but really without hope. And I watched my baituntil it sank out of sight. Then followed what seemed a long wait. Probably it was really only a few moments. I had a sort of hopelessfeeling. But I respected the fish all the more. Then suddenly I felt a quiver of my line, as if an electric current hadanimated it. I was shocked keen and thrilling. My line whipped up andran out. "He's got it!" I called, tensely. That was a strong, stirring instant aswith fascinated eyes I watched the line pass swiftly and steadily offthe reel. I let him run a long way. Then I sat down, jammed the rod in the socket, put on the drag, andbegan to strike. The second powerful sweep of the rod brought the linetight and I felt that heavy live weight. I struck at least a dozen timeswith all my might while the line was going off the reel. The swordfishwas moving ponderously. Presently he came up with a great splash, showing his huge fins, and then the dark, slender, sweeping sword. Hewaved that sword, striking fiercely at the leader. Then he went down. Itwas only at this moment I realized I had again hooked a broadbill. Time, ten forty-five. The fight was on. For a while he circled the boat and it was impossible to move him afoot. He was about two hundred and fifty yards from us. Every once in awhile he would come up. His sword would appear first, a mostextraordinary sight as it pierced the water. We could hear the swish. Once he leaped half out. We missed this picture. I kept a steady, hardstrain on him, pumping now and then, getting a little line in, which healways got back. The first hour passed swiftly with this surface fightalternating with his slow heavy work down. However, he did not sound. About eleven forty-five he leaped clear out, and we snapped two picturesof him. It was a fierce effort to free the hook, a leap not beautifuland graceful, like that of the Marlin, but magnificent and dogged. After this leap he changed his tactics. Repeatedly I was pulled forwardand lifted from my seat by sudden violent jerks. They grew more frequentand harder. He came up and we saw how he did that. He was facing theboat and batting the leader with his sword. This was the most remarkableaction I ever observed in a fighting fish. That sword was a weapon. Icould hear it hit the leader. But he did most of this work under thesurface. Every time he hit the leader it seemed likely to crack my neck. The rod bent, then the line slackened so I could feel no weight, the rodflew straight. I had an instant of palpitating dread, feeling he hadfreed himself--then harder came the irresistible, heavy drag again. Thisbatting of the leader and consequent slacking of the line worried Dan, as it did me. Neither of us expected to hold the fish. As a performanceit was wonderful. But to endure it was terrible. And he batted thatleader at least three hundred times! In fact, every moment or two he banged the leader several times for overan hour. It almost wore me out. If he had not changed those tacticsagain those jerks would have put a kink in my neck and back. Butfortunately he came up on the surface to thresh about some more. Againhe leaped clear, affording us another chance for a picture. Followingthat he took his first long run. It was about one hundred yards and asfast as a Marlin. Then he sounded. He stayed down for half an hour. Whenhe came up somewhat he seemed to be less resistant, and we dragged himat slow speed for several miles. At the end of three hours I asked Danfor the harness, which he strapped to my shoulders. This afforded merelief for my arms and aching hands, but the straps cut into my back, and that hurt. The harness enabled me to lift and pull by a movement ofshoulders. I worked steadily on him for an hour, five different timesgetting the two-hundred-foot mark on the line over my reel. When I tiredDan would throw in the clutch and drag him some more. Once he followedus without strain for a while; again we dragged him two or three miles. And most remarkable of all, there was a period of a few moments when hetowed us. A wonderful test for a twenty-four-strand line! We madecertain of this by throwing papers overboard and making allowance forthe drift. At that time there was no wind. I had three and one-halfhours of perfectly smooth water. It was great to be out there on a lonely sea with that splendid fish. Iwas tiring, but did not fail to see the shimmering beauty of the sea, the playing of albacore near at hand, the flight of frightenedflying-fish, the swooping down of gulls, the dim shapes of boats faroff, and away above the cloud-bank of fog the mountains of California. About two o'clock our indefatigable quarry began to belabor the leaderagain. He appeared even more vicious and stronger. That jerk, with itsragged, rough loosening of the line, making me feel the hook was tearingout, was the most trying action any fish ever worked on me. The physicaleffort necessary to hold him was enough, without that onslaught on myleader. Again there came a roar of water, a splash, and his hugedark-blue and copper-colored body surged on the surface. He wagged hishead and the long black sword made a half-circle. The line was taut fromboat to fish in spite of all I could do in lowering my rod. I had tohold it up far enough to get the spring. There was absolutely no way tokeep him from getting slack. The dangerous time in fighting heavy, powerful fish is when they head toward the angler. Then the hook willpull out more easily than at any other time. He gave me a second longsiege of these tactics until I was afraid I would give out. When he gotthrough and sounded I had to have the back-rest replaced in the seat torest my aching back. Three o'clock came and passed. We dragged him awhile, and found himslower, steadier, easier to pull. That constant long strain must havebeen telling upon him. It was also telling upon me. As I tried tosave some strength for the finish, I had not once tried my utmost atlifting him or pulling him near the boat. Along about four o'clock heswung round to the west in the sun glare and there he hung, broadside, about a hundred yards out, for an hour. We had to go along with him. [Illustration: WALKING ON HIS TAIL] [Illustration: A MAGNIFICENT FLASHING LEAP. THIS PERFECT PICTURE CONSIDERED BY AUTHOR TO BE WORTH HIS FIVE YEARS' LABOR AND PATIENCE] The sea began to ripple with a breeze, and at length white-capsappeared. In half an hour it was rough, not bad, but still making mywork exceedingly hard. I had to lift the rod up to keep the seat fromturning and to hold my footing on the slippery floor. The water drippingfrom the reel had wet me and all around me. At five o'clock I could not stand the harness any longer, so had Danremove it. That was a relief. I began to pump my fish as in the earlierhours of the fight. Eventually I got him out of that broadside positionaway from us and to the boat. He took some line, which I got back. I nowbegan to have confidence in being able to hold him. He had ceasedbatting the leader. For a while he stayed astern, but gradually workedcloser. This worried Dan. He was getting under the boat. Dan startedfaster ahead and still the swordfish kept just under us, perhaps fiftyfeet down. It was not long until Dan was running at full speed. But wecould not lose the old gladiator! Then I bade Dan slow down, which hewas reluctant to do. He feared the swordfish would ram us, and I hadsome qualms myself. At five thirty he dropped astern again and webreathed freer. At this time I decided to see if I could pull him close. I began to pump and reel, and inch by inch, almost, I gained line. Icould not tell just how far away he was, because the marks had worn offmy line. It was amazing and thrilling, therefore, to suddenly see theend of the double line appear. Dan yelled. So did I. Like a Trojan Iworked till I got that double line over my reel. Then we all saw thefish. He was on his side, swimming with us--a huge, bird-shaped creaturewith a frightful bill. Dan called me to get the leader out of water andthen hold. This took about all I had left of strength. The fish waveredfrom side to side, and Dan feared he would go under the boat. He orderedme to hold tight, and he put on more speed. This grew to be more than Icould stand. It was desperately hard to keep the line from slipping. AndI knew a little more of that would lose my fish. So I called Dan to takethe leader. With his huge gaff in right hand, Dan reached for the leaderwith his left, grasped it, surged the fish up and made a lunge. Therecame a roar and a beating against the boat. Dan yelled for another gaff. It was handed to him and he plunged that into the fish. Then I let down my rod and dove for the short rope to lasso the sweepingtail. Fortunately he kept quiet a moment in which I got the loop fast. It was then _Xiphius gladius_ really woke up. He began a tremendousbeating with his tail. Both gaff ropes began to loosen, and the rope onhis tail flew out of my hands. Dan got it in time. But it was slipping. He yelled for me to make a hitch somewhere. I was pulled flat in thecockpit, but scrambled up, out on the stern, and held on to that ropegrimly while I tried to fasten it. Just almost impossible! The water wasdeluging us. The swordfish banged the boat with sodden, heavy blows. But I got the rope fast. Then I went to Dan's assistance. The two of uspulled that tremendous tail up out of the water and made fast the rope. Then we knew we had him. But he surged and strained and lashed for along while. And side blows of his sword scarred the boat. At last hesagged down quiet, and we headed for Avalon. Once more in smooth water, we loaded him astern. I found the hook just in the corner of his mouth, which fact accounted for the long battle. Doctor Riggin, the University of Pennsylvania anatomist, and classmateof mine, dissected this fish for me. Two of the most remarkable featuresabout _Xiphius gladius_ were his heart and eye. The heart was situated deep in just back of the gills. It was a bigorgan, exceedingly heavy, and the most muscular tissue I ever saw. Infact, so powerfully muscular was it that when cut the tissue contractedand could not be placed together again. The valves were likewiseremarkably well developed and strong. This wonderful heart accounted forthe wonderful vitality of the swordfish. The eyes of a swordfishlikewise proved the wonder of nature. They were huge and prominent, adeep sea-blue set in pale crystal rims and black circles. A swordfishcould revolve his eyes and turn them in their sockets so that they wereabsolutely protected in battle with his mates and rivals. The eye had acovering of bone, cup-shaped, and it was this bone that affordedprotection. It was evident that when the eye was completely turned inthe swordfish could not see at all. Probably this was for close battle. The muscles were very heavy and strong, one attached at the rim of theeye and the other farther back. The optic nerve was as large as themedian nerve of a man's arm--that is to say, half the size of alead-pencil. There were three coverings over the fluid that held thepupil. And these were as thick and tough as isinglass. Most remarkableof all was the ciliary muscle which held the capacity of contracting thelens for distant vision. A swordfish could see as far as the rays oflight penetrated in whatever depth he swam. I have always suspected hehad extraordinary eyesight, and this dissection of the eye proved it. Nofear a swordfish will not see a bait! He can see the boat and the bait along distance. Doctor Riggin found no sperm in any of the male fish he dissected, whichwas proof that swordfish spawn before coming to Catalina waters. Theyare a warm-water fish, and probably head off the Japan current into somewarm, intersecting branch that leads to spawning-banks. This was happy knowledge for me, because it will be good to know thatwhen old _Xiphius gladius_ is driven from Catalina waters he will beroaming some other place of the Seven Seas, his great sickle finsshining dark against the blue. [Illustration: TIRED OUT--THE LAST SLOW HEAVE] [Illustration: HAULED ABOARD WITH BLOCK AND TACKLE] XI SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY San Clemente lies forty miles south of Santa Catalina, out in thePacific, open to wind and fog, scorched by sun, and beaten on everyshore by contending tides. Seen from afar, the island seems a bleak, long, narrow strip of drab rock rising from a low west end to thedignity of a mountain near the east end. Seen close at hand, it is stillbarren, bleak, and drab; but it shows long golden slopes of wild oats;looming, gray, lichen-colored crags, where the eagles perch; and ruggeddeep cañons, cactus-covered on the south side and on the other indentedby caves and caverns, and green with clumps of wild-lilac andwild-cherry and arbor-vitæ; and bare round domes where the wild goatsstand silhouetted against the blue sky. This island is volcanic in origin and structure, and its great caveshave been made by blow-holes in hot lava. Erosion has weathered slopeand wall and crag. For the most part these slopes and walls areexceedingly hard to climb. The goat trails are narrow and steep, therocks sharp and ragged, the cactus thick and treacherous. Many years agoMexicans placed goats on the island for the need of shipwrecked sailors, and these goats have traversed the wild oat slopes until they are likea network of trails. Every little space of grass has its crisscross ofgoat trails. I rested high up on a slope, in the lee of a rugged rock, allrust-stained and gray-lichened, with a deep cactus-covered cañon to myleft, the long, yellow, windy slope of wild oats to my right, andbeneath me the Pacific, majestic and grand, where the great whiterollers moved in graceful heaves along the blue. The shore-line, curvedby rounded gravelly beach and jutted by rocky point, showed creepingwhite lines of foam, and then green water spotted by beds of goldenkelp, reaching out into the deeps. Far across the lonely space rosecreamy clouds, thunderheads looming over the desert on the mainland. A big black raven soared by with dismal croak. The wind rustled theoats. There was no other sound but the sound of the sea--deep, low-toned, booming like thunder, long crash and continuous roar. How wonderful to watch eagles in their native haunts! I saw a bald eaglesail by, and then two golden eagles winging heavy flight after him. There seemed to be contention or rivalry, for when the white-headed birdalighted the others swooped down upon him. They circled and flew in andout of the cañon, and one let out a shrill, piercing scream. Theydisappeared and I watched a lonely gull riding the swells. He at leastwas at home on the restless waters. Life is beautiful, particularlyelemental life. Then far above I saw the white-tipped eagle and Ithrilled to see the difference now in his flight. He was monarch of theair, king of the wind, lonely and grand in the blue. He soared, hefloated, he sailed, and then, away across the skies he flew, swift as anarrow, to slow and circle again, and swoop up high and higher, wide-winged and free, ringed in the azure blue, and then like athunderbolt he fell, to vanish beyond the crags. Again I saw right before me a small brown hawk, poised motionless, resting on the wind, with quivering wings, and he hung there, lookingdown for his prey--some luckless lizard or rat. He seemed suspended onwires. There, down like a brown flash he was gone, and surely that swoopmeant a desert tragedy. I heard the bleat of a lamb or kid, and it pierced the melancholy roarof the sea. If there is a rapture on the lonely shore, there was indeed rapture herehigh above it, blown upon by the sweet, soft winds. I heard the bleatclose at hand. Turning, I saw a she-goat with little kid scarce a foothigh. She crossed a patch of cactus. The kid essayed to follow here, butfound the way too thorny. He bleated--a tiny, pin-pointed bleat--and hismother turned to answer encouragingly. He leaped over a cactus, attempted another, and, failing, fell on the sharp prickers. He bleatedin distress and scrambled out of that hard and painful place. The mothercame around, and presently, reunited, they went on, to disappear. The island seemed consecrated to sun and sea. It lay out of the latitudeof ships. Only a few Mexican sheep-herders lived there, up at the eastend where less-rugged land allowed pasture for their flocks. A littlerain falls during the winter months, and soon disappears from theporous cañon-beds. Water-holes were rare and springs rarer. The summitwas flat, except for some rounded domes of mountains, and there thedeadly cholla cactus grew--not in profusion, but enough to prove thedread of the Mexicans for this species of desert plant. It was a smallbush, with cones like a pine cone in shape, growing in clusters, andover stems and cones were fine steel-pointed needles with invisiblehooks at the ends. A barren, lonely prospect, that flat plateau above, an empire of thesun, where heat veils rose and mirages haunted the eye. But at sunsetfog rolled up from the outer channel, and if the sun blasted the life onthe island, the fog saved it. So there was war between sun and fog, theone that was the lord of day, and the other the dew-laden savior ofnight. South, on the windward side, opened a wide bay, Smugglers Cove by name, and it was infinitely more beautiful than its name. A great curveindented the league-long slope of island, at each end of which low, ragged lines of black rock jutted out into the sea. Around this immensebare amphitheater, which had no growth save scant cactus and patches ofgrass, could be seen long lines of shelves where the sea-levels had beenin successive ages of the past. Near the middle of the curve, on a bleached bank, stood a lonely littlehut, facing the sea. Old and weather-beaten, out of place there, it heldand fascinated the gaze. Below it a white shore-line curved away wherethe waves rolled in, sadly grand, to break and spread on the beach. At the east end, where the jagged black rocks met the sea, I loved towatch a great swell rise out of the level blue, heave and come, slow-lifting as if from some infinite power, to grow and climb alofttill the blue turned green and sunlight showed through, and the long, smooth crest, where the seals rode, took on a sharp edge to send wispsof spray in the wind, and, rising sheer, the whole swell, solemn andponderous and majestic, lifted its volume one beautiful instant, thencurled its shining crest and rolled in and down with a thundering, booming roar, all the curves and contours gone in a green-white seethingmass that climbed the reefs and dashed itself to ruin. * * * * * An extraordinary achievement and record fell to my brother R. C. It wastoo much good luck ever to come my way. Fame is a fickle goddess. R. C. Had no ambition to make a great catch of swordfish. He angles for thesebig game of the sea more to furnish company for me than for any otherreason. He likes best the golden, rocky streams where the bronze-backblack-bass hide, or the swift, amber-colored brooks full of rainbowtrout. I must add that in my opinion, and Captain Danielson's also, R. C. Is asuperior angler, and all unconscious of it. He has not my intimateknowledge of big fish, but he did not seem to need that. He is powerfulin the shoulders and arms, his hands are strong and hard from baseballand rowing, and he is practically tireless. He never rested whilefighting a fish. We never saw him lean the rod on the gunwale. All ofwhich accounts for his quick conquering of a Marlin swordfish. We haveyet to see him work upon a broadbill or a big tuna; and that issomething Captain Dan and I are anticipating with much pleasure andconsiderable doubt. August 31st dawned fine and cool and pleasant, rather hazy, with warmsun and smooth sea. The night before we had sat in front of our tents above the beach andwatched the flying-fish come out in twos and threes and schools, all theway down the rugged coast. I told the captain then that swordfish werechasing them. But he was skeptical. This morning I remembered, and I was watching. Just at the Glory Hole mybrother yelled, "Strike!" I did not see the fish before he hit the bait. It is really remarkable how these swordfish can get to a bait on thesurface without being seen. R. C. Hooked the Marlin. The first leap showed the fish to be small. He did not appear to be muchof a jumper or fighter. He leaped six times, and then tried to swim outto sea. Slow, steady work of R. C. 's brought him up to the boat infifteen minutes. But we did not gaff him. We estimated his weight at onehundred and thirty pounds. Captain Dan cut the leader close to the hook. I watched the fish swim lazily away, apparently unhurt, and sure torecover. We got going again, and had scarce trolled a hundred yards when I sawsomething my companions missed. I stood up. "Well, this starts out like your day, " I remarked to my brother. Then he saw a purple shape weaving back of his bait and that galvanizedhim into attention. It always thrilled me to see a swordfish back of thebait. This one took hold and ran off to the right. When hooked it tookline with a rush, began to thresh half out, and presently sounded. Welost the direction. It came up far ahead of the boat and began to leapand run on the surface. We followed while R. C. Recovered the line. Then he held the fish wellin hand; and in the short time of twelve minutes brought the leader toDan's hand. The Marlin made a great splash as he was cut loose. "Say, two swordfish in less than half an hour!" I expostulated. "Dan, this might be _the_ day. " Captain Dan looked hopeful. We were always looking for that day whichcame once or twice each season. "I'm tired, " said my brother. "Now you catch a couple. " He talked about swordfish as carelessly as he used to talk aboutsunfish. But he was not in the least tired. I made him take up the rodagain. I sensed events. The sea looked darkly rippling, inviting, as ifto lure us on. We had worked and drifted a little offshore. But that did not appear toput us out of the latitude of swordfish. Suddenly Captain Dan yelled, "Look out!" Then we all saw a blaze of purple back of R. C. 's bait. Danthrew out the clutch. But this Marlin was shy. He flashed back andforth. How swift! His motion was only a purple flash. He loomed up afterthe teasers. We had three of these flying-fish out as teasers, all closeto the boat. I always wondered why the swordfish appear more attractedto the teasers than to our hooked baits only a few yards back. I madethe mistake to pull the teasers away from this swordfish. Then he leftus. I was convinced, however, that this was to be R. C. 's day, and so, muchto his amaze and annoyance, I put away my rod. No sooner had I quitfishing than a big black tail showed a few yards out from R. C. 's bait. Then a shining streak shot across under the water, went behind R. C. 'sbait, passed it, came again. This time I saw him plainly. He was big andhungry, but shy. He rushed the bait. I saw him take it in his pointedjaws and swerve out of sight, leaving a boil on the surface. R. C. Didnot give him time to swallow the hook, but struck immediately. The fishran off two hundred yards and then burst up on the surface. He was ajumper, and as he stayed in sight we all began to yell our admiration. He cleared the water forty-two times, all in a very few minutes. At theend of twenty-eight minutes R. C. , with a red face and a bulging jaw, had the swordfish beaten and within reach of Captain Dan. "He's a big one--over two hundred and fifty, " asserted that worthy. "Mebbe you won't strike a bigger one. " "Cut him loose, " I said, and my brother echoed my wish. It was a great sight to see that splendid swordfish drift away from theboat--to watch him slowly discover that he was free. "Ten o'clock! We'll hang up two records to-day!" boomed Captain Dan, as with big, swift hands he put on another bait for R. C. [Illustration: R. C. ON THE JOB] [Illustration: 304 POUNDS] [Illustration: R. C. GREY AND RECORD MARLIN] "Do you fellows take me for a drag-horse?" inquired R. C. , mildly. "I'vecaught enough swordfish for this year. " "Why, man, it's the day!" exclaimed Captain Dan, in amaze and fear. "Humph!" replied my brother. "But the chance for a record!" I added, weakly. "Only ten o'clock. .. . Three swordfish already. .. . Great chance for Dan, you know. .. . Beat thedickens out of these other fishermen. " "Aw, that's a lot of 'con'!" replied my brother. Very eloquently then I elaborated on the fact that we were releasing thefish, inaugurating a sportsman-like example never before done there;that it really bid fair to be a wonderful day; that I was having a greatchance to snap pictures of leaping fish; that it would be a favor to mefor him to go the limit on this one occasion. But R. C. Showed no sign of wavering. He was right, of course, and Iacknowledged that afterward to myself. On the instant, however, I rackedmy brain for some persuasive argument. Suddenly I had an inspiration. "They think you're a dub fisherman, " I declared, forcefully. "_They?_" My brother glared darkly at me. "Sure, " I replied, hurriedly, with no intention of explaining thatdubious _they_. "Now's your chance to fool them. " "Ahuh! All right, fetch on a flock of swordfish, and then somebroadbills, " remarked R. C. , blandly. "Hurry, Dan! There's a fin rightover there. Lead me to him! See. " Sure enough, R. C. Pointed out a dark sickle fin on the surface. Imarveled at the sight. It certainly is funny the luck some fishermenhave! Captain Dan, beaming like a sunrise, swung the boat around towardthe swordfish. That Marlin rushed the teasers. I pulled all three away from him, whileR. C. Was reeling in his bait to get it close. Then the swordfish fellall over himself after it. He got it. He would have climbed aboard afterit. The way R. C. Hooked this swordfish showed that somebody had got hisdander up and was out to do things. This pleased me immensely. It scaredme a little, too, for R. C. Showed no disposition to give line or begentle to the swordfish. In fact, it was real fight now. And thisparticular fish appeared to have no show on earth--or rather in thewater--and after fourteen leaps he was hauled up to the boat in suchshort order that if we had gaffed him, as we used to gaff Marlin, wewould have had a desperate fight to hold him. But how easy to cut himfree! He darted down like a blue streak. I had no fair sight of him tojudge weight, but Captain Dan said he was good and heavy. "Come on! Don't be so slow!" yelled R. C. , with a roving eye over thedeep. Captain Dan was in his element. He saw victory perched upon the mast ofthe _Leta D. _ He moved with a celerity that amazed me, when I rememberedhow exasperatingly slow he could be, fooling with kites. This wasCaptain Dan's game. "The ocean's alive with swordfish!" he boomed. Only twice before had Iheard him say that, and he was right each time. I gazed abroad over thebeautiful sea, and, though I could not see any swordfish, somehow Ibelieved him. It was difficult now, in this exciting zest of a recordfeat, to think of the nobler attributes of fishing. Strong, earnest, thrilling business it was indeed for Captain Dan. We all expected to see a swordfish again. That was exactly whathappened. We had not gone a dozen boat-lengths when up out of the bluedepths lunged a lazy swordfish and attached himself to R. C. 's hook. Hesort of half lolled out in lazy splashes four or five times. He lookedhuge. All of a sudden he started off, making the reel hum. That rundeveloped swiftly. Dan backed the boat full speed. In vain! It was toolate to turn. That swordfish run became the swiftest and hardest I eversaw. A four-hundred-yard run, all at once, was something new even forme. I yelled for R. C. To throw off the drag. He tried, but failed. Idoubted afterward if that would have done any good. That swordfish wasgoing away from there. He broke the line. "Gee! What a run!" I burst out. "I'm sorry. I hate to break off hooks infish. " "Put your hand on my reel, " said R. C. It was almost too hot to bear touching. R. C. Began winding in the longslack line. "Did you see that one?" he asked, grimly. "Not plain. But what I did see looked big. " "Say, he was a whale!" R. C. 's flashing eyes showed he had warmed to thebattle. In just ten minutes another swordfish was chasing the teasers. It wasmy thrilling task to keep them away from him. Hard as I pulled, I failedto keep at least one of them from him. He took it with a "wop, " his billhalf out of the water, and as he turned with a splash R. C. Had his baitright there. Smash! The swordfish sheered off, with the bait shiningwhite in his bill. When hooked he broke water about fifty yards out andthen gave an exhibition of high and lofty tumbling, water-smashing, andspray-flinging that delighted us. Then he took to long, greyhound leapsand we had to chase him. But he did not last long, with the inexorableR. C. Bending back on that Murphy rod. After being cut free, thisswordfish lay on the surface a few moments, acting as if he was out ofbreath. He weighed about one hundred and fifty, and was a particularlybeautiful specimen. The hook showed in the corner of his mouth. He didnot have a scratch on his graceful bronze and purple and silver body. Iwaved my hat at him and then he slowly sank. "What next?" I demanded. "This can't keep up. Something is going tohappen. " But my apprehension in no wise disturbed R. C. Or Captain Dan. They proceeded to bait up again, to put out the teasers, to begin totroll; and then almost at once a greedy swordfish appeared, absolutelyfearless and determined. R. C. Hooked him. The first leap showed theMarlin to be the smallest of the day so far. But what he lacked inweight he made up in activity. He was a great performer, and his forteappeared to be turning upside down in the air. He leaped cleartwenty-two times. Then he settled down and tried to plug out to sea. Alas! that human steam-winch at the rod drew him right up to the boat, where he looked to weigh about one hundred and twenty-five pounds. [Illustration: 328-POUND RECORD MARLIN BY R. C. GREY. SHAPELIEST AND MOST BEAUTIFUL SPECIMEN EVER TAKEN] [Illustration: SUNSET OVER CLEMENTE CHANNEL] "Six!" I exclaimed, as we watched the freed fish swim away. "That's therecord. .. . And all let go alive--unhurt. .. . Do you suppose any one willbelieve us?" "It doesn't make any difference, " remarked my brother. "We know. That'sthe best of the game--letting the fish go alive. " "Come on!" boomed Dan, with a big flying-fish in his hands. "You're nottired. " "Yes, I am tired, " replied R. C. "It's early yet, " I put in. "We'll cinch the record for good. Grab therod. I'll enjoy the work for you. " R. C. Resigned himself, not without some remarks anent the insatiablenature of his host and boatman. We were now off the east end of Clemente Island, that bleak and raggedcorner where the sea, whether calm or stormy, contended eternally withthe black rocks, and where the green and white movement of waves wasnever still. When almost two hundred yards off the yellow kelp-beds Isaw a shadow darker than the blue water. It seemed to follow the boat, rather deep down and far back. But it moved. I was on my feet, thrilling. "That's a swordfish!" I called. "No, " replied R. C. "Some wavin' kelp, mebbe, " added Dan, doubtfully. "Slow up a little, " I returned. "I see purple. " Captain Dan complied and we all watched. We all saw an enormous colorfulbody loom up, take the shape of a fish, come back of R. C. 's bait, hitit and take it. "By George!" breathed R. C. , tensely. His line slowly slipped out alittle, then stopped. "He's let go, " said my brother. "There's another one, " cried Dan. With that I saw what appeared to be another swordfish, deeper down, moving slowly. This one also looked huge to me. He was right under theteasers. It dawned upon me that he must have an eye on them, so I beganto pull them in. As they came in the purple shadow seemed to rise. It was a swordfish andhe resembled a gunboat with purple outriggers. Slowly he came onward andupward, a wonderful sight. "Wind your bait in!" I yelled to R. C. Suddenly Dan became like a jumping-jack. "He's got your hook, " heshouted to my brother. "He's had it all the time. " The swordfish swam now right under the stern of the boat so that I couldlook down upon him. He was deep down, but not too deep to look huge. Then I saw R. C. 's leader in his mouth. He had swallowed the flying-fishbait and had followed us for the teasers. The fact was stunning. R. C. , who had been winding in, soon found out that his line went straightdown. He felt the fish. Then with all his might he jerked to hook thatswordfish. Just then, for an instant my mind refused to work swiftly. It was lockedround some sense of awful expectancy. I remembered my camera in myhands and pointed it where I expected something wonderful about tohappen. The water on the right, close to the stern, bulged and burst with aroar. Upward even with us, above us, shot a tremendously large, shinyfish, shaking and wagging, with heavy slap of gills. Water deluged the boat, but missed me. I actually smelled that fish, hewas so close. What must surely have been terror for me, had I actuallyseen and realized the peril, gave place to flashing thought of the oneand great chance for a wonderful picture of a big swordfish close to theboat. That gripped me. While I changed the focus on my camera I missedseeing the next two jumps. But I heard the heavy sousing splashes andthe yells of Dan and R. C. , with the shrill screams of the ladies. When I did look up to try to photograph the next leap of the swordfish Isaw him, close at hand, monstrous and animated, in a surging, up-sweeping splash. I heard the hiss of the boiling foam. He lungedaway, churning the water like a sudden whirl of a ferryboat wheel, andthen he turned squarely at us. Even then Captain Dan's yell did not warnus. I felt rather than saw that he had put on full speed ahead. Theswordfish dove toward us, went under, came up in a two-sheeted whitesplash, and rose high and higher, to fall with a cracking sound. Like aflash of light he shot up again, and began wagging his hugepurple-barred body, lifting himself still higher, until all but his tailstood ponderously above the surface; and then, incredibly powerful, hewagged and lashed upright in a sea of hissing foam, mouth open wide, blood streaming down his wet sides and flying in red spray from hisslapping gills--a wonderful and hair-raising spectacle. He stayed uponly what seemed a moment. During this action and when he began again toleap and smash toward us, I snapped my camera three times upon him. ButI missed seeing some of his greatest leaps because I had to look at thecamera while operating it. "Get back!" yelled Dan, hoarsely. I was so excited I did not see the danger of the swordfish comingaboard. But Captain Dan did. He swept the girls back into the cabindoorway, and pushed Mrs. R. C. Into a back corner of the cockpit. Strange it seemed to me how pale Dan was! The swordfish made long, swift leaps right at the boat. On the last hehit us on the stern, but too low to come aboard. Six feet closer to uswould have landed that huge, maddened swordfish right in the cockpit!But he thumped back, and the roar of his mighty tail on the water soclose suddenly appalled me. I seemed to grasp how near he had comeaboard at the same instant that I associated the power of his tail witha havoc he would have executed in the boat. It flashed over me that hewould weigh far over three hundred. When he thumped back the water rose in a sounding splash, deluging usand leaving six inches in the cockpit. He sheered off astern, slidingover the water in two streaks of white running spray, and then up herose again in a magnificent wild leap. He appeared maddened with painand fright and instinct to preserve his life. Again the fish turned right at us. This instant was the mostterrifying. Not a word from R. C. ! But out of the tail of my eye I sawhim crouch, ready to leap. He grimly held on to his rod, but there hadnot been a tight line on it since he struck the fish. Yelling warningly, Captain Dan threw the wheel hard over. But thatseemed of no use. We could not lose the swordfish. He made two dives into the air, and the next one missed us by a yard, and showed his great, glistening, striped body, thick as a barrel, andcurved with terrible speed and power, right alongside the cockpit. Hepassed us, and as the boat answered to the wheel and turned, almost atright angles, the swordfish sheered too, and he hit us a sounding thudsomewhere foreward. Then he went under or around the bow and began totake line off the reel for the first time. I gave him up. The linecaught all along the side of the boat. But it did not break, and keptwhizzing off the reel. I heard the heavy splash of another jump. When wehad turned clear round, what was our amaze and terror to see theswordfish, seemingly more tigerish than ever, thresh and tear and leapat us again. He was flinging bloody spray and wigwagging his huge body, so that there was a deep, rough splashing furrow in the sea behind him. I had never known any other fish so fast, so powerful, so wild withfury, so instinct with tremendous energy and life. Dan again threw allhis weight on the wheel. The helm answered, the boat swung, and theswordfish missed hitting us square. But he glanced along the port side, like a toboggan down-hill, and he seemed to ricochet over the water. Histail made deep, solid thumps. Then about a hundred feet astern heturned in his own length, making a maelstrom of green splash and whitespray, out of which he rose three-quarters of his huge body, purple-blazed, tiger-striped, spear-pointed, and, with the sea boilingwhite around him, he spun around, creating an indescribable picture ofuntamed ferocity and wild life and incomparable beauty. Then down hesplashed with a sullen roar, leaving a red foam on the white. That appeared the end of his pyrotechnics. It had been only a fewmoments. He began to swim off slowly and heavily. We followed. After afew tense moments it became evident that his terrible surface work hadweakened him, probably bursting his gills, from which his life-bloodescaped. We all breathed freer then. Captain Dan left the wheel, mopping hispale, wet face. He gazed at me to see if I had realized our peril. Withthe excitement over, I began to realize. I felt a little shaky then. Theladies were all talking at once, still glowing with excitement. Easy tosee they had not appreciated the danger! But Captain Dan and I knew thatif the swordfish had come aboard--which he certainly would have done hadhe ever slipped his head over the gunwale--there would have been atragedy on the _Leta D. _ "I never knew just how easy it could happen, " said Dan. "No one everbefore hooked a big fish right under the boat. " "With that weight, that tail, right after being hooked, he would havekilled some of us and wrecked the boat!" I exclaimed, aghast. "Well, I had him figured to come into the boat and I was ready to jumpoverboard, " added my brother. "We won't cut him loose, " said Dan. "That's some fish. But he acts likehe isn't goin' to last long. " Still, it took two hours longer of persistent, final effort on the partof R. C. To bring this swordfish to gaff. We could not lift the fish upon the stern and we had to tow him over to Mr. Jump's boat and therehaul him aboard by block and tackle. At Avalon he weighed three hundredand twenty-eight pounds. R. C. Had caught the biggest Marlin in 1916--three hundred and fourpounds, and this three-hundred-and-twenty-eight-pound fish was thelargest for 1918. Besides, there was the remarkable achievement andrecord of seven swordfish in one day, with six of them freed to live androam the sea again. But R. C. Was not impressed. He looked at his handsand said: "You and Dan put a job up on me. .. . Never again!" XII RANDOM NOTES AVALON, _July 1, 1918_. Cool, foggy morning; calm sea up until one o'clock, then a west windthat roughened the water white. No strikes. Did not see a fish. Trolledwith kite up to the Isthmus and back. When the sun came out its warmthwas very pleasant. The slopes seemed good to look at--so steep andyellow-gray with green spots, and long slides running down to the shore. The tips of the hills were lost in the fog. It was lonely on the sea, and I began again to feel the splendor and comfort of the open spaces, the free winds, the canopy of gray and blue, the tidings from afar. _July 3d. _ Foggy morning; pale line of silver on eastern horizon; swell, but nowind. Warm. After a couple of hours fog disintegrated. Saw a big Marlinswordfish. Worked him three times, then charged him. No use! Gradually rising wind. Ran up off Long Point and back. At 3:30 wastired. We saw a school of tuna on the surface. Flew the kite over them. One big fellow came clear out on his side and got the hook. He made onelong run, then came in rather easily. Time, fifteen minutes. He wasbadly hooked. Seventy-eight pounds. We trolled then until late afternoon. I saw some splashes far out. Tuna!We ran up. Found patches of anchovies. I had a strike. Tuna hookedhimself and got off. We tried again. I had another come clear out in asmashing charge. He ran off heavy and fast. It took fifty minutes ofvery hard work to get him in. He weaved back of the boat for half anhour and gave me a severe battle. He was hooked in the corner of themouth and was a game, fine fish. Seventy-three and one-half pounds. _July 6th. _ Started out early. Calm, cool, foggy morning; rather dark. Sea smooth, swelling, heaving. Mysterious, like a shadowed opal. Long mounds ofwater waved noiselessly, wonderfully, ethereally from the distance, andthe air was hazy, veiled, and dim. A lonely, silent vastness. We saw several schools of tuna, but got no strikes. Worked a Marlinswordfish, but he would not notice the bait. It was a long, hard day on the sea. _July 10th. _ We got off at 6:30 before the other boats. Smooth water. Little breeze. Saw a school of tuna above Long Point. Put up the kite. The school wentdown. But R. C. Got a little strike. Did not hook fish. Then we sighted a big school working east. We followed it, running intoa light wind. Kite blew O. K. And R. C. Got one fish (seventy-onepounds), then another (forty-eight pounds). They put up fair fights. Then I tried light tackle. All the time the school traveled east, goingdown and coming up. The first fish that charged my bait came clear outafter it. He got it and rushed away. I had the light drag on, and I didnot thumb the pad hard, but the tuna broke the line. We tried again. Hadanother thrilling strike. The fish threw the hook. We had to pull in thekite, put up another one--get it out, and all the time keep the schoolin sight. The tuna traveled fast. The third try on light tackle resultedin another fine strike, and another tuna that broke the line. Then R. C. Tried the heavy tackle again, and lost a fish. When my turn came I was soon fast to a hard-fighting fish, but he didnot stay with me long. This discouraged me greatly. Then R. C. Took his rod once more. It was thrilling to run down on theschool and skip a flying-fish before the leaders as they rolled along, fins out, silver sides showing, raising little swells and leaving adark, winkling, dimpling wake behind them. When the bait got just righta larger tuna charged furiously, throwing up a great splash. He hit thebait, and threw the hook before R. C. Could strike hard. We had nine bites out of this school. Followed it fifteen miles. Twicewe were worried by other boats, but for the rest of the time had theschool alone. _July 11th. _ Morning was cold, foggy, raw. East wind. Disagreeable. Trolled out aboutsix miles and all around. Finally ran in off east end, where I caught ayellow-fin. The sun came up, but the east wind persisted. No fish. Camein early. _July 12th. _ Went out early. Clear morning. Cool. Rippling sea. Fog rolled down likea pale-gray wall. Misty, veiled, vague, strange, opaque, silent, wet, cold, heavy! It enveloped us. Then we went out of the bank into a greatcircle, clear and bright, with heaving, smooth sea, surrounded by fog. After an hour or two the fog rose and drifted away. We trolled nine hours. Three little fish struck at the bait, but did notget the hook. _August 6th. _ To-day I went out alone with Dan. Wonderful sea. Very long, wide, deep, heaving swells, beautiful and exhilarating to watch. No wind. Not veryfoggy. Sunshine now and then. I watched the sea--marveled at its grace, softness, dimpled dark beauty, its vast, imponderable racing, itsrestless heaving, its eternal motion. I learned from it. I foundloneliness, peace. Saw a great school of porpoises coming. Ran toward them. About fivehundred all crashing in and out of the great swells, making a spectacleof rare sea action and color and beauty. They surrounded the bow of theboat, and then pandemonium broke loose. They turned to play with us, racing, diving, leaping, shooting--all for our delight. I stood rightup on the bow and could see deep. It was an unforgetable experience. _August 7th. _ Long run to-day, over eighty miles. East to Point Vincent, west to endof Catalina, then all around. Fine sea and weather. Just right for kite. Saw many ducks and a great number of big sharks. The ducks weretraveling west, the sharks east. We saw no tuna. Coming back the wind sprang up and we had a following sea. It was fineto watch the green-and-white rollers breaking behind us. The tuna appear to be working farther and farther off the east end. Marlin swordfish have showed up off the east end. Three caught yesterdayand one to-day. I have not yet seen a broadbill, and fear none arecoming this year. _August 8th. _ Went off east end. Had a Marlin strike. The fish missed the hook. Ashark took the bait. When it was pulled in to the gaff Captain Dancaught the leader, drew the shark up, and it savagely bit the boat. Thenit gave a flop and snapped Captain Dan's hand. I was frightened. The captain yelled for me to hit the shark with aclub. I did not lose a second. The shark let go. We killed it, and foundDan's hand badly lacerated. My swiftness of action saved Dan's hand. XII BIG TUNA It took me five seasons at Catalina to catch a big tuna, and the eventwas so thrilling that I had to write to my fisherman friends about it. The result of my effusions seem rather dubious. Robert H. Davis, editorof _Munsey's_, replies in this wise: "If you went out with amosquito-net to catch a mess of minnows your story would read like Romangladiators seining the Tigris for whales. " Now, I am at a loss to knowhow to take that compliment. Davis goes on to say more, and he alsoquotes me: "You say 'the hard, diving fight of a tuna liberates thebrute instinct in a man. ' Well, Zane, it also liberates the qualities ofa liar!" Davis does not love the sweet, soft scent that breathes fromoff the sea. Once on the Jersey coast I went tuna-fishing with him. Hewas not happy on the boat. But once he came up out of the cabin with ajaunty feather in his hat. I admired it. I said: "Bob, I'll have to get something like that for my hat. " "Zane, " he replied, piercingly, "what you need for your hat is a head!" My friend Joe Bray, who publishes books in Chicago, also reactspeculiarly to my fish stories. He writes me a satiric, doubtingletter--then shuts up his office and rushes for some river or lake. Will Dilg, the famous fly-caster, upon receipt of my communication, wrote me a nine-page prose-poem epic about the only fish in theworld--black-bass. Professor Kellogg always falls ill and takes avacation, during which he writes me that I have not mental capacity toappreciate my luck. These fellows will illustrate how my friends receive angling news fromme. I ought to have sense enough to keep my stories for publication. Istrongly suspect that their strange reaction to my friendly feeling isbecause I have caught more and larger black-bass than they ever saw. Some day I will go back to the swift streams and deep lakes, where thebronze-backs live, and fish with my friends, and then they will realizethat I never lie about the sport and beauty and wonder of the greatoutdoors. Every season for the five years that I have been visiting Avalon therehas been a run of tuna. But the average weight was from sixty toninety-five pounds. Until this season only a very few big tuna had beentaken. The prestige of the Tuna Club, the bragging of the old members, the gossip of the boatmen--all tend to make a fisherman feel small untilhe has landed a big one. Come to think of it, considering the years ofthe Tuna Club fame, not so very many anglers have captured a blue-buttontuna. I vowed I did not care in particular about it, but whenever we ranacross a school of tuna I acted like a boy. A good many tuna fell to my rod during these seasons. During thepresent season, to be exact, I caught twenty-two. This is no largenumber for two months' fishing. Boschen caught about one hundred; Jump, eighty-four; Hooper, sixty. Among these tuna I fought were three thatstand out strikingly. One seventy-three-pounder took fifty minutes ofhard fighting to subdue; a ninety-one-pounder took one hour fifty; andthe third, after two hours and fifty minutes, got away. It seems, andwas proved later, that the number fifty figured every time I hooked oneof the long, slim, hard-fighting male tuna. Beginning late in June, for six weeks tuna were caught almost every day, some days a large number being taken. But big ones were scarce. Then oneof the Tuna Club anglers began to bring in tuna that weighed well overone hundred pounds. This fact inspired all the anglers. He would slipout early in the morning and return late at night. Nobody knew where hisboatman was finding these fish. More than one boatman tried to followhim, but in vain. Quite by accident it was discovered that he ran up onthe north side of the island, clear round the west end. When he wasdiscovered on the west side he at once steered toward Clemente Island, evidently hoping to mislead his followers. This might have succeeded butfor the fact that both Bandini and Adams hooked big tuna before they hadgone a mile. Then the jig was up. That night Adams came in with aone-hundred-and-twenty-and a one-hundred-and-thirty-six-pound tuna, andBandini brought the record for this season--one hundred and forty-ninepounds. Next day we were all out there on the west side, a few miles offshore. The ocean appeared to be full of blackfish. They are huge, black marinecreatures, similar to a porpoise in movement, but many times larger, andthey have round, blunt noses that look like battering-rams. Some seemedas big as gunboats, and when they heaved up on the swells we could seethe white stripes below the black. I was inclined to the belief thatthis species was the orca, a whale-killing fish. Boatmen and deep-seamen report these blackfish to be dangerous and had better be left alone. They certainly looked ugly. We believed they were chasing tuna. The channel that day contained more whales than I ever saw before at onetime. We counted six pairs in sight. I saw as many as four of thefunnel-like whale spouts of water on the horizon at once. It was veryinteresting to watch these monsters of the deep. Once when we were allon top of the boat we ran almost right upon two whales. The firstspouted about fifty feet away. The sea seemed to open up, a terribleroar issued forth, then came a cloud of spray and rush of water. Then wesaw another whale just rising a few yards ahead. My hair stood up stiff. Captain Dan yelled, leaped down to reverse the engine. The whale saw usand swerved. Dan's action and the quickness of the whale prevented acollision. As it was, I looked down in the clear water and saw the huge, gleaming, gray body of the whale as he passed. That was another sight torecord in the book of memory. The great flukes of his tail moved withsurprising swiftness and the water bulged on the surface. Then we ranclose to the neighborhood of a school of whales, evidently feeding. Theywould come up and blow, and then sound. To see a whale sound and thenraise his great, broad, shining flukes in the air, high above the water, is in my opinion the most beautiful spectacle to be encountered upon theocean. Up to this day, during five seasons, I had seen three whalessound with tails in the air. And upon this occasion I had the exceedinggood fortune to see seven. I tried to photograph one. We followed a bigbull. When he came up to blow we saw a yellow moving space on the water, then a round, gray, glistening surface, then a rugged snout. Puff! Hisblow was a roar. He rolled on, downward a little; the water surged whiteand green. When he came up to sound he humped his huge back. It wasshiny, leathery, wonderfully supple. It bent higher and higher in anarch. Then this great curve seemed to slide swiftly out of sight and hiswonderful tail, flat as a floor and wide as a house, emerged to swingaloft. The water ran off it in sheets. Then it waved higher, and withslow, graceful, ponderous motion sank into the sea. That sight more thananything impressed me with the immensity of the ocean, with its mysteryof life, with the unattainable secrets of the deep. The tuna appeared to be scattered, and none were on the surface. I hadone strike that plowed up the sea, showing the difference between thestrike of a big tuna and that of a little one. He broke my line on thefirst rush. Then I hooked another and managed to stop him. I had agrueling battle with him, and at the end of two hours and fifty minuteshe broke my hook. This was a disappointment far beyond reason, but Icould not help it. Next day was windy. The one following we could not find the fish, andthe third day we all concluded they had gone for 1918. I think the fameof tuna, the uncertainty of their appearance, the difficulty ofcapturing a big one, are what excite the ambition of anglers. Longeffort to that end, and consequent thinking and planning and feeling, bring about a condition of mind that will be made clear as this storyprogresses. But Captain Danielson did not give up. The fifth day we ran off the westside with several other boats, and roamed the sea in search of fins. Noanchovies on the surface, no sheerwater ducks, no sharks, nothing toindicate tuna. About one o'clock Captain Dan sheered southwest and weran sixteen miles toward Clemente Island. It was a perfect day, warm, hazy, with light fog, smooth, heaving, opalescent sea. There was no wind. At two thirty not one of the otherboats was in sight. At two forty Captain Dan sighted a large, dark, rippling patch on the water. We ran over closer. "School of tuna!" exclaimed the captain, with excitement. "Big fish! Oh, for some wind now to fly the kite!" "There's another school, " said my brother, R. C. , and he pointed to asecond darkly gleaming spot on the smooth sea. "I've spotted one, too!" I shouted. "The ocean's alive with tuna--big tuna!" boomed Captain Dan. "Here weare alone, blue-button fish everywhere--and no wind. " "We'll watch the fish and wait for wind, " I said. This situation may not present anything remarkable to most fishermen. But we who knew the game realized at once that this was an experience ofa lifetime. We counted ten schools of tuna near at hand, and there wereso many farther on that they seemed to cover the sea. "Boys, " said Captain Dan, "here's the tuna we heard were at AnacapaIsland last week. The Japs netted hundreds of tons. They're workingsoutheast, right in the middle of the channel, and haven't been inshoreat all. It's ninety miles to Anacapa. Some traveling!. .. That schoolclose to us is the biggest school I ever saw and I believe they're thebiggest fish. " "Run closer to them, " I said to him. We ran over within fifty feet of the edge of the school, stopped theboat, and all climbed up on top of the deck. Then we beheld a spectacle calculated to thrill the most phlegmaticfisherman. It simply enraptured me, and I think I am still too close toit to describe it well. The dark-blue water, heaving in great, low, lazyswells, showed a roughened spot of perhaps two acres in extent. The sun, shining over our shoulders, caught silvery-green gleams of fish, flashing wide and changing to blue. Long, round, bronze backs deep underthe surface, caught the sunlight. Blue fins and tails, sharp and curved, like sabers, cleared the water. Here a huge tuna would turn on his side, gleaming broad and bright, and there another would roll on the surface, breaking water like a tarpon with a slow, heavy souse. "Look at the leaders, " said Captain Dan. "I'll bet they'rethree-hundred-pound fish. " I saw then that the school, lazy as they seemed, were slowly followingthe leaders, rolling and riding the swells. These leaders threw upsurges and ridges on the surface. They plowed the water. "What'd happen if we skipped a flying-fish across the water in front ofthose leaders?" I asked Captain Dan. He threw up his hands. "You'd see a German torpedo explode. " "Say! tuna are no relation to Huns!" put in my brother. It took only a few moments for the school to drift by us. Then we ranover to another school, with the same experience. In this way we visitedseveral of these near-by schools, all of which were composed of largetuna. Captain Dan, however, said he believed the first two schools, evidently leaders of this vast sea of tuna, contained the largest fish. For half an hour we fooled around, watching the schools and praying forwind to fly the kite. Captain Dan finally trolled our baits through oneschool, which sank without rewarding us with a strike. At this juncture I saw a tiny speck of a boat way out on the horizon. Captain Dan said it was Shorty's boat with Adams. I suggested that, aswe had to wait for wind to fly the kite, we run in and attract Shorty'sattention. I certainly wanted some one else to see those magnificentschools of tuna. Forthwith we ran in several miles until we attractedthe attention of the boatman Captain Dan had taken to be Shorty. But itturned out to be somebody else, and my good intentions also turned outto my misfortune. Then we ran back toward the schools of tuna. On the way my brotherhooked a Marlin swordfish that leaped thirty-five times and got away. After all those leaps he deserved to shake the hook. We found the tunamilling and lolling around, slowly drifting and heading toward thesoutheast. We also found a very light breeze had begun to come out ofthe west. Captain Dan wanted to try to get the kite up, but I objectedon the score that if we could fly it at all it would only be to drag abait behind the boat. That would necessitate running through the schoolsof tuna, and as I believed this would put them down, I wanted to waitfor enough wind to drag a bait at right angles with the boat. This isthe proper procedure, because it enables an angler to place his baitover a school of tuna at a hundred yards or more from the boat. Itcertainly is the most beautiful and thrilling way to get a strike. So we waited. The boatman whose attention we had attracted had now comeup and was approaching the schools of tuna some distance below us. Heput out a kite that just barely flew off the water and it followeddirectly in the wake of his boat. We watched this with disgust, butconsiderable interest, and we were amazed to see one of the anglers inthat boat get a strike and hook a fish. That put us all in a blaze of excitement. Still we thought the strikethey got might just have been lucky. In running down farther, so wecould come back against the light breeze, we ran pretty close to theschool out of which the strike had been gotten. Captain Dan stood up totake a good look. "They're hundred-pounders, all right, " he said. "But they're not as bigas the tuna in those two leading schools. I'm glad those ginks in thatboat are tied up with a tuna for a spell. " I took a look at the fisherman who was fighting the tuna. Certainly Idid not begrudge him one, but somehow, so strange are the feelings of afisherman that I was mightily pleased to see that he was a novice at thegame, was having his troubles, and would no doubt be a long, long timelanding his tuna. My blood ran cold at the thought of other anglersappearing on the scene, and anxiously I scanned the horizon. No boat insight! If I had only known then what sad experience taught me thatafternoon I would have been tickled to pieces to see all the greatfishermen of Avalon tackle this school of big tuna. Captain Dan got a kite up a little better than I had hoped for. It wasnot good, but it was worth trying. My bait, even on a turn of the boat, skipped along just at the edge of the wake of the boat. And the wake ofa boat will almost always put a school of tuna down. We headed for the second school. My thrilling expectancy was tinged andspoiled with doubt. I skipped my bait in imitation of a flying-fishleaping and splashing along. We reached the outer edge of the school. Slowly the little boils smoothed out. Slowly the big fins sank. So didmy heart. We passed the school. They all sank. And then when Captain Danswore and I gave up there came a great splash back of my bait. I yelledand my comrades echoed me. The tuna missed. I skipped the bait. Asousing splash--and another tuna had my bait. My line sagged. I jerkedhard. But too late! The tuna threw the hook before it got a hold. "They're hungry!" exclaimed Dan. "Hurry--reel the kite in. We'll getanother bait on quick. .. . Look! that school is coming up again! They'renot shy of boats. Boys, there's something doing. " Captain Dan's excitement augmented my own. I sensed an unusualexperience that had never before befallen me. The school of largest fish was farther to the west. The breeze lulled. We could not fly the kite except with the motion and direction of theboat. It was exasperating. When we got close the kite flopped down intothe water. Captain Dan used language. We ran back, picked up the kite. It was soaked, of course, and would not fly. While Dan got out a newkite, a large silk one which we had not tried yet, we ran down to theeastward of the second school. To our surprise and delight this untriedkite flew well without almost any wind. We got in position and headed for the school. I was using a big hookhalf embedded near the tail of the flying-fish and the leader ranthrough the bait. It worked beautifully. A little jerk of my rod sentthe bait skittering over the water, for all the world like a liveflying-fish. I knew now that I would get another strike. Just as wereached a point almost opposite the school of tuna they headed acrossour bow, so that it seemed inevitable we must either run them down orrun too close. My spirit sank to zero. Something presaged bad luck. Isensed disaster. I fought the feeling, but it persisted. Captain Danswore. My brother shouted warnings from over us where he sat on top. Butwe ran right into the leaders. The school sank. I was sick and furious. "Jump your bait! It's not too late, " called Dan. I did so. Smash! The water seemed to curl white and smoke. A tuna had mybait. I jerked. I felt him. He threw the hook. Half the bait remainedupon it. Smash! A great boil and splash! Another tuna had that. I triedto jerk. But both kite and tuna pulling made my effort feeble. This onealso threw out the hook. It came out with a small piece of mangled redflying-fish still hanging to it. Instinctively I jumped that remains ofmy bait over the surface. Smash! The third tuna cleaned the hook. Captain Dan waxed eloquent and profane. My brother said, "What do you know about that?" As for myself, I was stunned one second and dazzled the next. Threestrikes on one bait! It seemed disaster still clogged my mind, but whathad already happened was new and wonderful. Half a mile below us I sawthe angler still fighting the tuna he had hooked. I wanted him to getit, but I hoped he would be all afternoon on the job. "Hurry, Cap!" was all I said. Ordinarily Dan is the swiftest of boatmen. To-day he was slower thanmolasses and all he did went wrong. What he said about the luck was morethan melancholy. I had no way to gauge my own feelings because I hadnever had such an experience before. Nor had I ever heard or read of anyone having it. We got a bait on and the kite out just in time to reach the first andlarger school. I was so excited that I did not see we were heading rightinto it. My intent gaze was riveted upon my bait as it skimmed thesurface. The swells were long, low, smooth mounds. My bait went out ofsight behind one. It was then I saw water fly high and I felt a tug. Ijerked so hard I nearly fell over. My bait shot over the top of theswell. Then that swell opened and burst--a bronze back appeared. Hemissed the hook. Another tuna, also missing, leaped into the air--a fishof one hundred and fifty pounds, glittering green and silver and blue, jaws open, fins stiff, tail quivering, clear and clean-cut above thesurface. Again we all yelled. Actually before he fell there was anothersmash and another tuna had my bait. This one I hooked. His rush wasirresistible. I released the drag on the reel. It whirled and whizzed. The line threw a fine spray into my face. Then the tip of my rod flew upwith a jerk, the line slacked. We all knew what that meant. I reeled in. The line had broken above the few feet of double line which we alwaysused next the leader. More than ever disaster loomed over me. Thefeeling was unshakable now. Nevertheless, I realized that wonderful good fortune attended us in thefact that the school of big tuna had scarcely any noticeable fear of theboat; they would not stay down, and they were ravenous. On our next run down upon them I had a smashing strike. The tuna threwthe hook. Another got the bait and I hooked him. He sounded. The linebroke. We tried again. No sooner had we reached the school when thewater boiled and foamed at my bait. Before I could move that tunacleaned the hook. Our next attempt gained another sousing strike. But hewas so swift and I was so slow that I could not fasten to him. "He went away from here, " my brother said, with what he meant forcomedy. But it was not funny. Captain Dan then put on a double hook, embedding it so one hook stoodclear of the bait. We tested my line with the scales and it broke atfifty-three pounds, which meant it was a good strong line. The breezelulled and fanned at intervals. It seemed, however, we did not need anybreeze. We had edged our school of big tuna away from the other schools, and it was milling on the surface, lazily and indifferently. But whatlatent speed and power lay hidden in that mass of lolling tuna. R. C. From his perch above yelled: "Look out! You're going to drag yourbait in front of the leaders this time!" That had not happened yet. I glowed in spite of the fact that I wassteeped in gloom. We were indeed heading most favorably for the leaders. Captain Dan groaned. "Never seen the like of this!" he added. Theseleaders were several yards apart, as could be told by the blunt-nosedridges of water they shoved ahead of them. That was another moment addedto the memorable moments of my fishing years. It was strained suspense. Hope would not die, but disaster loomed like a shadow. Before I was ready, before we expected anything, before we got nearthese leaders, a brilliant, hissing, white splash burst out of the sea, and a tuna of magnificent proportions shot broadside along and above thesurface, sending the spray aloft, and he hit that bait with incredibleswiftness, raising a twenty-foot-square, furious splash as he hookedhimself. I sat spellbound. I heard my line whistling off the reel. But Isaw only that swift-descending kite. So swiftly did the tuna sound thatthe kite shot down as if it had been dropping lead. My line broke and myrod almost leaped out of my hands. We were all silent a moment. The school of tuna showed again, putteringand fiddling around, with great blue-and-green flashes caught by thesun. "That one weighed about two hundred and fifty, " was all Captain Dansaid. R. C. Remarked facetiously, evidently to cheer me, "Jakey, you picks deshots out of that plue jay an' we makes ready for anudder one!" "Say, do you imagine you can make me laugh!" I asked, in tragic scorn. "Well, if you could have seen yourself when that tuna struck you'd havelaughed, " replied he. While Dan steered the boat R. C. Got out on the bow and gaffed the kite. I watched the tuna tails standing like half-simitars out of the smooth, colored water. The sun was setting in a golden haze spotted by pinkclouds. The wind, if anything, was softer than ever; in fact, we couldnot feel it unless we headed the boat into it. The fellow below us wasdrifting off farther, still plugging at his tuna. Captain Dan put the wet kite on the deck to dry and got out anothersilk one. It soared aloft so easily that I imagined our luck waschanging. Vain fisherman's delusion! Nothing could do that. There werethousands of tons--actually thousands of tons of tuna in that three-milestretch of ruffled water, but I could not catch one. It was a settledconviction. I was reminded of what Enos, the Portuguese boatman, complained to an angler he had out, "You mos' unluck' fisherman I eversee!" We tried a shorter kite-line and a shorter length of my line, and we randown upon that mess of tuna once more. It was strange--and foolish--howwe stuck to that school of biggest fish. This time Dan headed right intothe thick of them. Out of the corners of my eyes I seemed to see tunasettling down all around. Suddenly my brother yelled. Zam! That was a huge loud splash back of my bait. The tuna missed. R. C. Yelled again. Captain Dan followed suit: "He's after it!. .. Oh, he's the biggest yet!" Then I saw a huge tuna wallowing in a surge round my bait. He heaved up, round and big as a barrel, flashing a wide bar of blue-green, and he gotthe hook. If he had been strangely slow he was now unbelievably swift. His size gave me panic. I never moved, and he hooked himself. Straightdown he shot and the line broke. My brother's sympathy now was as sincere as Captain Dan's misery. Iasked R. C. To take the rod and see if he could do better. "Not much!" he replied. "When you get one, then I'll try. Stay with 'em, now!" Not improbably I would have stayed out until the tuna quit if that hadtaken all night. Three more times we put up the kite--three moreflying-fish we wired on the double hooks--three more runs we madethrough that tantalizing school of tuna that grew huger and swifter andmore impossible--three more smashing wide breaks of water on thestrike--and quicker than a flash three more broken lines! I imagined I was resigned. My words to my silent comrades were evencheerful. "Come on. Try again. Where there's life there's hope. It's anexceedingly rare experience--anyway. After all, nothing depends upon mycatching one of these tuna. It doesn't matter. " All of which attested to the singular state of my mind. Another kite, another leader and double hook, another bait had to bearranged. This took time. My impatience, my nervousness were hard torestrain. Captain Dan was pale and grim. I do not know how I looked. Only R. C. No longer looked at me. As we put out the bait we made the discovery that the other anglers, nodoubt having ended their fight, were running down upon our particularschool of tuna. This was in line with our luck. Other schools of tunawere in sight, but these fellows had to head for ours. It galled me whenI thought how sportsman-like I had been to attract their attention. Weaimed to head them off and reach the school first. As we were theclosest all augured well for our success. But gloom invested whateverhopes I had. We beat the other boat. We had just gotten our boat opposite the schoolof tuna when Dan yelled: "Look out for that bunch of kelp! Jump yourbait over it!" Then I spied the mass of floating seaweed. I knew absolutely that myhook was going to snag it. But I tried to be careful, quick, accurate. Ijumped my bait. It fell short. The hook caught fast in the kelp. In thelast piece! The kite fluttered like a bird with broken wings anddropped. Captain Dan reversed the boat. Then he burst out. Now Dan was abig man and he had a stentorian voice, deep like booming thunder. No manever swore as Dan swore then. It was terrible. It was justified. But itwas funny, and despite all this agony of disappointment, despite theother boat heading into the tuna and putting them down, I laughed till Icried. The fishermen in that other boat hooked a fish and broke it off. We sawfrom the excitement on board that they had realized the enormous size ofthese tuna. We hurried to get ready again. It was only needful to drag abait anywhere near that school. And we alternated with the other boat. Isaw those fishermen get four more strikes and lose the four fishimmediately. I had even worse luck. In fact, disaster grew and grew. Butthere is no need for me to multiply these instances. The last threetunas I hooked broke the double line on the first run. This when I hadon only a slight drag! The other boat puddled around in our school and finally put it down forgood, and, as the other schools had disappeared, we started for home. This was the most remarkable and unfortunate day I ever had on the sea, where many strange fishing experiences have been mine. Captain Dan hadnever heard of the like in eighteen years as boatman. No suchlarge-sized tuna, not to mention numbers, had visited Catalina for manyyears. I had thirteen strikes, not counting more than one strike to abait. Seven fish broke the single line and three the double line, practically, I might say, before they had run far enough to cause anygreat strain. And the parting of the double line, where, if a break hadoccurred, it would have come on the single, convinced us that all theselines were cut. Cut by other tuna! In this huge school of hungry fish, whenever one ran for or with a bait, all the others dove pellmell afterhim. The line, of course, made a white streak in the water. Perhaps thetuna bit it off. Perhaps they crowded it off. However they did it, thefact was that they cut the line. Probably it would have been impossibleto catch one of those large tuna on the Tuna Club tackle. I hated tothink of breaking off hooks in fish, but, after it was too late, Iremembered with many a thrill the size and beauty and tremendousstriking energy of those tuna, the wide, white, foamy, furious boils onthe surface, the lunges when hooked, and the runs swift as bullets. That experience would never come to me again. It was like watching forthe rare transformations of nature that must be waited for and whichcome so seldom. * * * * * But, such is the persistence of mankind in general and the doggedness offishermen in particular, Captain Dan and I kept on roaming the seas insearch of tuna. Nothing more was seen or heard of the great driftingschools. They had gone down the channel toward Mexico, down with themysterious currents of the sea, fulfilling their mission in life. However, different anglers reported good-sized tuna off Seal Rocks andSilver Cañon. Several fish were hooked. Mr. Reed brought in aone-hundred-and-forty-one-pound tuna that took five hours to land. Itmade a dogged, desperate resistance and was almost unbeatable. Mr. Reedis a heavy, powerful man, and he said this tuna gave him the hardesttask he ever attempted. I wondered what I would have done with one ofthose two-or three-hundred-pounders. There is a difference betweenPacific and Atlantic tuna. The latter are seacows compared to these bluepluggers of the West. I have hooked several very large tuna along theSeabright coast, and, though these fish got away, they did not give methe battle I have had with small tuna of the Pacific. Mr. Wortheim, fishing with my old boatman, Horse-mackerel Sam, landed atwo-hundred-and-sixty-two-pound Atlantic tuna in less than two hours. Sam said the fish made a loggy, rolling, easy fight. Crowninshield, alsofishing with Sam, caught one weighing three hundred pounds in rathershort order. This sort of feat cannot be done out here in the Pacific. The deep water here may have something to do with it, but the tuna aredifferent, if not in species, then in disposition. My lucky day came after no tuna had been reported for a week. CaptainDan and I ran out off Silver Cañon just on a last forlorn hope. The seawas rippling white and blue, with a good breeze. No whales showed. Weleft Avalon about one o'clock, ran out five miles, and began to fish. Our methods had undergone some change. We used a big kite out on threehundred yards of line; we tied this line on my leader, and we tightenedthe drag on the reel so that it took a nine-pound pull to start the lineoff. This seemed a fatal procedure, but I was willing to try anything. My hope of getting a strike was exceedingly slim. Instead of aflying-fish for bait we used a good-sized smelt, and we used hooks bigand strong and sharp as needles. We had not been out half an hour when Dan left the wheel and jumped upon the gunwale to look at something. "What do you see?" I asked, eagerly. He was silent a moment. I dare say he did not want to make any mistakes. Then he jumped back to the wheel. "School of tuna!" he boomed. I stood up and looked in the direction indicated, but I could not seethem. Dan said only the movement on the water could be seen. Good longswells were running, rather high, and presently I did see tuna showingdarkly bronze in the blue water. They vanished. We had to turn the boatsomewhat, and it began to appear that we would have difficulty inputting the bait into the school. So it turned out. We were in the wrongquarter to use the wind. I saw the school of tuna go by, perhaps twohundred feet from the boat. They were traveling fast, somewhat under thesurface, and were separated from one another. They were big tuna, butnothing near the size of those that had wrecked my tackle and hopes. Captain Dan said they were hungry, hunting fish. To me they appearedgame, swift, and illusive. We lost sight of them. With the boat turned fairly into the west windthe kite soared, pulling hard, and my bait skipped down the slopes ofthe swells and up over the crests just like a live, leaping little fish. It was my opinion that the tuna were running inshore. Dan said they wereheaded west. We saw nothing of them. Again the old familiardisappointment knocked at my heart, with added bitterness of pastdefeat. Dan scanned the sea like a shipwrecked mariner watching for asail. "I see them!. .. There!" he called. "They're sure traveling fast. " That stimulated me with a shock. I looked and looked, but I could notsee the darkened water. Moments passed, during which I stood up, watching my bait as it slipped over the waves. I knew Dan would tell mewhen to begin to jump it. The suspense grew to be intense. "We'll catch up with them, " said Dan, excitedly. "Everything's rightnow. Kite high, pulling hard--bait working fine. You're sure of astrike. .. . When you see one get the bait hook him quick and hard. " The ambition of years, the long patience, the endless efforts, thenumberless disappointments, and that never-to-be-forgotten day among thegiant tuna--these flashed up at Captain Dan's words of certainty, and, together with the thrilling proximity of the tuna we were chasing, theyroused in me emotion utterly beyond proportion or reason. This hadhappened to me before, notably in swordfishing, but never had I feltsuch thrills, such tingling nerves, such oppression on my chest, such awild, eager rapture. It would have been impossible, notwithstanding myemotional temperament, if the leading up to this moment had not includedso much long-sustained feeling. "Jump your bait!" called Dan, with a ring in his voice. "In two jumpsyou'll be in the tail-enders. " I jerked my rod. The bait gracefully leaped over a swell--shot along thesurface, and ended with a splash. Again I jerked. As the bait rose intothe air a huge angry splash burst just under it, and a broad-backed tunalunged and turned clear over, his tail smacking the water. "Jump it!" yelled Dan. Before I could move, a circling smash of white surrounded my bait. Iheard it. With all my might I jerked. Strong and heavy came the weightof the tuna. I had hooked him. With one solid thumping splash hesounded. Here was test for line and test for me. I could not resist oneturn of the thumb-wheel, to ease the drag. He went down with the sameold incomparable speed. I saw the kite descending. Dan threw out theclutch--ran to my side. The reel screamed. Every tense second, as theline whizzed off, I expected it to break. There was no joy, no sport inthat painful watching. He ran off two hundred feet, then, marvelous tosee, he slowed up. The kite was still high, pulling hard. What with kiteand drag and friction of line in the water, that tuna had great strainupon him. He ran off a little more, slower this time, then stopped. Thekite began to flutter. I fell into the chair, jammed the rod-butt into the socket, and began topump and wind. "Doc, you're hooked on and you've stopped him!" boomed Dan. His facebeamed. "Look at your legs!" It became manifest then that my knees were wabbling, my feet putteringaround, my whole lower limbs shaking as if I had the palsy. I had lostcontrol of my lower muscles. It was funny; it was ridiculous. It showedjust what was my state of excitement. The kite fluttered down to the water. The kite-line had not broken off, and this must add severely to the strain on the fish. Not only had Istopped the tuna, but soon I had him coming up, slowly yet rathereasily. He was directly under the boat. When I had all save about onehundred feet of line wound in the tuna anchored himself and would notbudge for fifteen minutes. Then again rather easily he was raised fiftymore feet. He acted like any small, hard-fighting fish. "I've hooked a little one, " I began. "That big fellow missed the bait, and a small one grabbed it. " Dan would not say so, but he feared just that. What miserable blackluck! Almost I threw the rod and reel overboard. Some sense, however, prevented me from such an absurdity. And as I worked the tuna closer andcloser I grew absolutely sick with disappointment. The only thing to dowas to haul this little fish in and go hunt up the school. So I pumpedand pulled. That half-hour seemed endless and bad business altogether. Anger possessed me and I began to work harder. At this junctureShorty's boat appeared close to us. Shorty and Adams waved mecongratulations, and then made motions to Dan to get the direction ofthe school of tuna. That night both Shorty and Adams told me that I wasworking very hard on the fish, too hard to save any strength for a longbattle. [Illustration: A BLUE-FINNED PLUGGER OF THE DEEP--138-POUND TUNA] [Illustration: AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL] Captain Dan watched the slow, steady bends of my rod as the tunaplugged, and at last he said, "Doc, it's a big fish!" Strange to relate, this did not electrify me. I did not believe it. Butat the end of that half-hour the tuna came clear to the surface, aboutone hundred feet from us, and there he rode the swells. Doubt folded hissable wings! Bronze and blue and green and silver flashes illumined theswells. I plainly saw that not only was the tuna big, but he was one ofthe long, slim, hard-fighting species. Presently he sounded, and I began to work. I was fresh, eager, strong, and I meant to whip him quickly. Working on a big tuna is no joke. It isa man's job. A tuna fights on his side, with head down, and he neverstops. If the angler rests the tuna will not only rest, too, but he willtake more and more line. The method is a long, slow lift or pump ofrod--then lower the rod quickly and wind the reel. When the tuna israised so high he will refuse to come any higher, and then there is adeadlock. There lives no fisherman but what there lives a tuna that cantake the conceit and the fight out of him. For an hour I worked. I sweat and panted and burned in the hot sun; andI enjoyed it. The sea was beautiful. A strong, salty fragrance, wet andsweet, floated on the breeze. Catalina showed clear and bright, withits colored cliffs and yellow slides and dark ravines. Clemente Islandrose a dark, long, barren, lonely land to the southeast. The clouds inthe west were like trade-wind clouds, white, regular, with levelbase-line. At the end of the second hour I was tiring. There came a subtle changeof spirit and mood. I had never let up for a minute. Captain Dan praisedme, vowed I had never fought either broadbill or roundbill swordfish soconsistently hard, but he cautioned me to save myself. "That's a big tuna, " he said, as he watched my rod. Most of the time we drifted. Some of the time Dan ran the boat to keepeven with the tuna, so he could not get too far under the stern and cutthe line. At intervals the fish appeared to let up and at others heplugged harder. This I discovered was merely that he fought the hardestwhen I worked the hardest. Once we gained enough on him to cut thetangle of kite-line that had caught some fifty feet above my leader. This afforded cause for less anxiety. "I'm afraid of sharks, " said Dan. Sharks are the bane of tuna fishermen. More tuna are cut off by sharksthan are ever landed by anglers. This made me redouble my efforts, andin half an hour more I was dripping wet, burning hot, aching all over, and so spent I had to rest. Every time I dropped the rod on the gunwalethe tuna took line--zee--zee--zee--foot by foot and yard by yard. Myhands were cramped; my thumbs red and swollen, almost raw. I asked Danfor the harness, but he was loath to put it on because he was afraid Iwould break the fish off. So I worked on and on, with spurts of fury andperiods of lagging. At the end of three hours I was in bad condition. I had saved a littlestrength for the finish, but I was in danger of using that up before thecrucial moment arrived. Dan had to put the harness on me. I knewafterward that it saved the day. By the aid of the harness, putting myshoulders into the lift, I got the double line over the reel, only tolose it. Every time the tuna was pulled near the boat he sheered off, and it did not appear possible for me to prevent it. He got into a habitof coming to the surface about thirty feet out, and hanging there, inplain sight, as if he was cabled to the rocks of the ocean. Watching himonly augmented my trouble. It had ceased long ago to be fun or sport orgame. It was now a fight and it began to be torture. My hands were allblisters, my thumbs raw. The respect I had for that tuna was great. He plugged down mostly, but latterly he began to run off to each side, to come to the surface, showing his broad green-silver side, and then heweaved to and fro behind the boat, trying to get under it. Captain Danwould have to run ahead to keep away from him. To hold what gain I hadon the tuna was at these periods almost unendurable. Where before I hadsweat, burned, throbbed, and ached, I now began to see red, to growdizzy, to suffer cramps and nausea and exceeding pain. Three hours and a half showed the tuna slower, heavier, higher, easier. He had taken us fifteen miles from where we had hooked him. He wasweakening, but I thought I was worse off than he was. Dan changed theharness. It seemed to make more effort possible. The floor under my feet was wet and slippery from the salt waterdripping off my reel. I could not get any footing. The bend of that roddownward, the ceaseless tug, tug, tug, the fear of sharks, theparadoxical loss of desire now to land the tuna, the change in myfeeling of elation and thrill to wonder, disgust, and utter weariness ofspirit and body--all these warned me that I was at the end of my tether, and if anything could be done it must be quickly. Relaxing, I took a short rest. Then nerving myself to be indifferent tothe pain, and yielding altogether to the brutal instinct thistuna-fighting rouses in a fisherman, I lay back with might and main. Eight times I had gotten the double line over the reel. On the ninth Ishut down, clamped with my thumbs, and froze there. The wire leader sunglike a telephone wire in the cold. I could scarcely see. My armscracked. I felt an immense strain that must break me in an instant. Captain Dan reached the leader. Slowly he heaved. The strain upon me wasreleased. I let go the reel, threw off the drag, and stood up. There thetuna was, the bronze-and-blue-backed devil, gaping, wide-eyed, shiningand silvery as he rolled, a big tuna if there ever was one, and he wasconquered. When Dan lunged with the gaff the tuna made a tremendous splash thatdeluged us. Then Dan yelled for another gaff. I was quick to get it. Next it was for me to throw a lasso over that threshing tail. When Iaccomplished this the tuna was ours. We hauled him up on the stern, heaving, thumping, throwing water and blood; and even vanquished he wasmagnificent. Three hours and fifty minutes! The number fifty stayed withme. As I fell back in a chair, all in, I could not see for my life whyany fisherman would want to catch more than one large tuna. XIV AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL If you are a fisherman, and aspire to the study or conquest of the biggame of the sea, go to Catalina Island once before it is too late. The summer of 1917 will never be forgotten by those fishermen who werefortunate enough to be at Avalon. Early in June, even in May, there wereindications that the first record season in many years might beexpected. Barracuda and white sea-bass showed up in great schools; theocean appeared to be full of albacore; yellowtail began to strike allalong the island shores and even in the bay of Avalon; almost every dayin July sight of broadbill swordfish was reported, sometimes as many asten in a day; in August the blue-fin tuna surged in, school afterschool, in vast numbers; and in September returned the Marlin, orroundbill swordfish that royal-purple swashbuckler of the Pacific. This extraordinary run of fish appeared like old times to the boatmenand natives who could look back over many Catalina years. The cause, ofcourse, was a favorable season when the sardines and anchovies came tothe island in incalculable numbers. Acres and acres of these little baitfish drifted helplessly to and fro, back and forth with the tides, fromSeal Rocks to the west end. These schools were not broken up until theadvent of the voracious tuna; and when they arrived the ocean soonseemed littered with small, amber-colored patches, each of which was adensely packed mass of sardines or anchovies, drifting with the current. It has not yet been established that swordfish feed on these schools, but the swordfish were there in abundance, at any rate; and it wasreasonable to suppose that some of the fish they feed on were in pursuitof the anchovies. Albacore feeding on the surface raise a thin, low, white line of wateror multitudes of slight, broken splashes. Tuna raise a white wall, tumbling and spouting along the horizon; and it is a sight not soon tobe forgotten by a fisherman. Near at hand a big school of feeding tunais a thrilling spectacle. They move swiftly, breaking water as theysmash after the little fish, and the roar can be heard quite a distance. The wall of white water seems full of millions of tiny, glinting fish, leaping frantically from the savage tuna. And when the sunlight shinesgolden through this wall of white spray, and the great bronze and silverand blue tuna gleam for an instant, the effect is singularly excitingand beautiful. All through August and much of September these schools of tuna, thousands of them, ranted up and down the coast of Catalina, thinningout the amber patches of anchovies, and affording the most magnificentsport to anglers. These tuna may return next year and then again they may not return forten years. Some time again they will swing round the circle or driftwith the currents, in that mysterious and inscrutable nature of theocean. And if a fisherman can only pick out the year or have theobsession to go back season after season he will some day see thesewonderful schools again. But as for the other fish--swordfish, white sea-bass, yellowtail, andalbacore--their doom has been spelled, and soon they will be no more. That is why I say to fishermen if they want to learn something aboutthese incomparable fish they must go soon to Catalina before it is toolate. The Japs, the Austrians, the round-haul nets, the canneries and thefertilizer-plants--that is to say, foreigners and markets, greed andwar, have cast their dark shadow over beautiful Avalon. The intelligent, far-seeing boatmen all see it. My boatman, Captain Danielson, spokegloomily of the not distant time when his occupation would be gone. Andas for the anglers who fish at Catalina, some of them see it and many ofthem do not. The standard raised at Avalon has been to haul in as manyof the biggest fish in the least possible time. One famous fishermanbrought in thirteen tuna--nine hundred and eighty-six pounds oftuna--that he caught in one day! This is unbelievable, yet it is true. Another brought in eleven tuna in one day. These fishermen arerepresentative of the coterie who fish for records. All of them are big, powerful men, and when they hook a fish they will not give him a foot ofline if they can help it. They horse him in, and if they can horse himin before he wakes up to real combat they are the better pleased. All ofwhich is to say that the true motive (or pleasure, if it can be such)is the instinct to kill. I have observed this in many fishermen. Any onewho imagines that man has advanced much beyond the savage stage has onlycarefully to observe fishermen. [Illustration: THE OLD AVALON BARGE WHERE THE GULLS FISH AND SCREAM] [Illustration: THE END OF THE DAY OFF CATALINA ISLAND] I have demonstrated the practicability of letting Marlin swordfish goafter they were beaten, but almost all of the boatmen will not do it. The greater number of swordfish weigh under two hundred pounds, and whenexhausted and pulled up to the boat they can be freed by cutting thewire leader close to the hook. Probably all these fish would live. Afisherman will have his fun seeing and photographing the wonderfulleaps, and conquering the fish, and when all this is over it would besportsman-like to let him go. Marlin are not food fish, and they arethrown to the sharks. During 1918, however, many were sold as food fish. It seems a pity to treat this royal, fighting, wonderful, purple-coloredfish in this way. But the boatmen will not free them. My boatman claimedthat his reputation depended upon the swordfish he caught; and that inAvalon no one would believe fish were caught unless brought to the dock. It was his bread and butter. His reputation brought him new fishermen, and so he could not afford to lose it. Nevertheless, he was persuaded todo it in 1918. The fault, then, does not lie with the boatman. The Japs are the greatest market fishermen in the world. And some fivehundred boats put out of San Pedro every day, to scour the ocean for"the chicken of the sea, " as albacore are advertised to the millions ofpeople who are always hungry. It must be said that the Japs mostly fishsquare. They use a hook, and a barbless hook at that. Usually four Japsconstitute the crew of one of these fast eighty-horse-power motor-boats. They roam the sea with sharp eyes ever alert for that thin white line onthe horizon, the feeding albacore. Their method of fishing is unique andpicturesque. When they sight albacore they run up on the school and slowdown. In the stern of the boat stands a huge tank, usually painted red. I havebecome used to seeing dots of red all over the ocean. This tank is keptfull of fresh sea-water by a pump connected with the engine, and it isused to keep live bait--no other than the little anchovies. One Jap, using a little net, dips up live bait and throws them overboard to thealbacore. Another Jap beats on the water with long bamboo poles, makingsplashes. The other two Japs have short, stiff poles with a wireattached and the barbless hook at the end. They put on a live bait andtoss it over. Instantly they jerk hard, and two big white albacore, fromfifteen to thirty pounds, come wiggling up on to the stern of the boat. Down goes the pole and whack! goes a club. It is all done with swiftmechanical precision. It used to amaze me and fill me with sadness. Ifthe Japs could hold the school of albacore they would very soon load theboat. But usually a school of albacore cannot be held long. You cannot fish in the channel any more without encountering these Japboats. Once at one time in 1917 I saw one hundred and thirty-two boats. Most of them were fishing! They ran to and fro over the ocean, chasingevery white splash, and they make an angler's pleasure taste bitter. Fortunately the Japs had let the tuna alone, for the simple and goodreason that they had not found a way to catch the wise blue-fins. Butthey will find a way! Yet they drove the schools down, and that wasalmost as bad. As far as swordfish are concerned, it is easy to see whatwill happen, now that the albacore have become scarce. Broadbillswordfish are the finest food fish in the sea. They can be easilyharpooned by these skilful Japs. And so eventually they will be killedand driven away. This misfortune may not come at once, but it will come. In this connection it is interesting to note that I tried to photographone of the Austrian crews in action. But Captain Dan would not let meget near enough to take a picture. There is bad blood between Avalonboatmen and these foreign market fishermen. Shots had been exchangedmore than once. Captain Dan kept a rifle on board. This news sort ofstirred me. And I said: "Run close to that bunch, Cap. Maybe they'lltake a peg at me!" But he refused to comply, and I lost a chance toserve my country! The Japs, however, are square fishermen, mostly, and I rather admirethose albacore-chasers, who at least give the fish a chance. Some ofthem use nets, and against them and the Austrian round-haul netters I amexceedingly bitter. These round-haul nets, some of them, must be a milelong, and they sink two hundred feet in the water. What chance has aschool of fish against that? They surround a school and there is noescape. Clemente Island, the sister island to Catalina, was once a paradise forfish, especially the beautiful, gamy yellowtail. But there are no morefish there, except Marlin swordfish in August and September. The great, boiling schools of yellowtail are gone. Clemente Island has nothree-mile law protecting it, as has Catalina. But that Catalina law hasbecome a farce. It is violated often in broad daylight, and probably allnight long. One Austrian round-haul netter took seven tons of whitesea-bass in one haul. Seven tons! Did you ever look at a white sea-bass?He is the most beautiful of bass--slender, graceful, thoroughbred, exquisitely colored like a paling opal, and a fighter if there ever wasone. What becomes of these seven tons of white sea-bass and all the othertons and tons of yellowtail and albacore? That is a question. It needsto be answered. During the year 1917 one heard many things. Thefish-canneries were working day and night, and every can of fish--thewhole output had been bought by the government for the soldiers. Verygood. We are a nation at war. Our soldiers must be properly fed and somust our allies. If it takes all the fish in the sea and all the meat onthe land, we must and will win this war. But real patriotism is one thing and misstatement is another. If therewere not so much deceit and greed in connection with this war it wouldbe easier to stomach. As a matter of cold fact, that round-haul netter's seven tons ofbeautiful white sea-bass did not go into cans for our good soldiers orfor our fighting allies. Those seven tons of splendid white sea-basswent into the fertilizer-plant, where many and many a ton had gonebefore! It is not hard to comprehend. When they work for the fertilizer-plantsthey do not need ice--they do not need to hurry to the port to savespoiling--they can stay out till the boat is packed full. So often agreater part of the magnificent schools of white sea-bass, albacore, andyellowtail--splendid food fish--go into the fertilizer-plants to make afew foreign-born hogs rich. Hundreds of aliens, many of them hostile tothe United States, are making big money, which is sent abroad. I believe that the great kelp-beds round Catalina are thespawning-grounds of these fish in question. And not only aspawning-ground, but, what is more important, a feeding-ground. And nowthe kelp-beds are being exploited. The government needs potash. Formerlyour supply of potash came from Germany. But, now that we are not onamiable terms with those nice gentle Germans, we cannot get any potash. Hence the great, huge kelp-cutters that you hear cut only the tops ofthe kelp-beds. Six feet they say, and it all grows up again quickly. Butin my opinion the once vast, heaving, wonderful beds of kelp along theClemente and Catalina shores have been cut too deeply. They will die. Some of my predictions made in 1917 were verified in 1918. A few scattered schools of albacore appeared in the channel in July. Butthese were soon caught or chased away by the market boats. Albacore-fishing was poor in other localities up and down the coast. Many of the Jap fishermen sold their boats and sought other industry. It was a fact, and a great pleasure, that an angler could go out fortuna without encountering a single market boat on the sea. Maybe thealbacore did not come this year; maybe they were mostly all caught;maybe they were growing shyer of boats; at any event, they were scarce, and the reason seems easy to see. It was significant that the broadbill swordfish did not return to Avalonin 1918, as in former years. I saw only one in two months roaming theocean. A few were seen. Not one was caught during my stay on the island. Many boatmen and anglers believe that the broadbills follow thealbacore. It seems safe to predict that when the albacore cease to cometo Catalina there will not be any fishing for the great flat-sworded_Xiphias_. The worst that came to pass in 1918, from an angler's viewpoint, wasthat the market fishermen found a way to net the blue-fin tuna, bothlarge and small. All I could learn was that the nets were lengthened anddeepened. The Japs got into the great schools of large tuna whichappeared off Anacapa Island and netted tons and tons of hundred-poundtuna. These schools drifted on down the middle of the Clemente Channel, and I was the lucky fellow who happened to get among them for onememorable day. Take it all in all, my gloomy prophecies of other years weresubstantiated in 1918, especially in regard to the devastated kelp-beds;but there have been a few silver rifts in the black cloud, and it seemswell to end this book with mention of brighter things. All fish brought into Avalon in 1918 were sold for food. We inaugurated the releasing of small Marlin swordfish. There was a great increase in the interest taken in the use of lighttackle. We owe the latter stride toward conservation and sportsmanship to Mr. James Jump, and to Lone Angler, and to President Coxe of the Tuna Club. I had not been entirely in sympathy with their feats of taking Marlinswordfish and tuna on light tackle. My objections to the use of toolight tackle have been cited before in this book. Many fish break awayon the nine-thread. I know this because I tried it out. Fifteen of thosesmall tuna, one after another, broke my line on the first rush. But Ibelieve that was my lack of skill with handling of rod and boat. As for Marlin, I have always known that I could take some of theseroundbill swordfish on light tackle. But likewise there have been somethat could not have been taken so, and these are the swordfish I havefished for. Nevertheless, I certainly do not want to detract from Jump'sachievements, as I will show. They have been remarkable. And they haveattracted wide attention to the possibilities of light tackle. Thus Mr. Jump has done conservative angling an estimable good, as well as placedhimself in a class alone. The use of light tackle by experts for big game fish of the sea has cometo be an established practice in American angling. A few years ago, whensport with light tackle was exceptional, it required courage to flauntits use in the faces of fishermen of experience and establishedreputation. Long Key, now the most noted fishing resort on the Atlanticcoast, was not many years back a place for hand-lines and huge rods andtackle, and boat-loads of fish for one man. It has become a resort forgentlemen anglers, and its sportsmen's club claims such experts and fineexponents of angling as Heilner, Lester, Cassiard, Crowninshield, Conill, the Schutts, and others, who can safely be trusted to advancethe standard. Fishermen are like sheep--they follow the boldest leaders. And no one wants to be despised by the elect. Long Key, with itsisolation, yet easy accession, its beauty and charm, its loneliness andquiet, its big game fish, will become the Mecca of high-classlight tackle anglers, who will in time answer for the ethics andsportsmanship of the Atlantic seaboard. On the Pacific side the light tackle advocates have had a different rowto hoe. With nothing but keen, fair, honest, and splendid zealousnessMr. James Jump has pioneered this sport almost single-handed against theheavy tackle record-holder who until recently dominated the Tuna Cluband the boatmen and the fishing at Avalon. To my shame and regret Iconfess that it took me three years to recognize Jump's bigness as anangler and his tenacity as a fighter. But I shall make amends. It seemswhen I fished I was steeped in dreams of the sea and the beauty of thelonely islands. I am not in Jump's class as a fisherman, nor in LoneAngler's, either. They stand by themselves. But I can write about them, and so inspire others. Jump set out in 1914 to catch swordfish on light tackle, andincidentally tuna under one hundred pounds. He was ridiculed, scorned, scoffed at, made a butt of by this particular heavy tackle angler, andcordially hated for his ambitions. Most anglers and boatmen repudiatedhis claims and looked askance at him. Personally I believed Jump mightcatch some swordfish or tuna on light tackle, but only one out of many, and that one not the fighting kind. I was wrong. It was Lone Angler whofirst drew my attention to Jump's achievements and possibilities. President Coxe was alive to them also, and he has rebuilt andrejuvenated the Tuna Club on the splendid standard set by its founder, Dr. Charles Frederick Holder, and with infinite patience and tact andlabor, and love of fine angling and good fellowship, he has put downthat small but mighty clique who threatened the ruin of sport at fairAvalon. This has not been public news, but it ought to be and shall bepublic news. The malignant attack recently made upon Mr. Jump's catches of Marlinswordfish on light tackle was uncalled for and utterly false. It wasan obvious and jealous attempt to belittle, discredit, and dishonorone of the finest gentlemen sportsmen who ever worked for the goodof the game. I know and I will swear that Jump's capture of thethree-hundred-and-fourteen-pound Marlin on light tackle in twenty-eightminutes was absolutely as honest as it was skilful, as sportsman-like asit was wonderful. A number of well-known sportsmen _watched_ him takethis Marlin. Yet his enemies slandered him, accused him of using ropesand Heaven knows what else! It was vile and it failed. Jump has performed the apparently impossible. Marlin swordfish hooked onlight tackle can be handled by an exceedingly skilful angler. They makean indescribably spectacular, wonderful fight, on the surface all thetime, and can be taken as quickly as on heavy tackle. Obviously, then, this becomes true of tarpon and sailfish and small tuna. What a world toconquer lies before the fine-spirited angler! A few fish on lightoutfits magnifying all the excitement and thrills of many fish on heavyoutfits! There are no arguments against this, for men who have time andmoney. We pioneers of light tackle are out of the woods _now_. There was apride in a fight against odds--a pride of silence, and a fight ofexample and expressed standards and splendid achievements. But now wehave followers, disciples who have learned, who have profited, who haveclimbed to the heights, and we are no longer alone. Hence we can scatterthe news to the four winds and ask for the comradeship of kindredspirits, of men who love the sea and the stream and the gameness of afish. The Open Sesame to our clan is just that love, and an ambition toachieve higher things. Who fishes just to kill? At Long Key last winterI met two self-styled sportsmen. They were eager to convert me to whatthey claimed was the dry-fly class angling of the sea. And it was to jabharpoons and spears into porpoises and manatee and sawfish, and bedragged about in their boat. The height of their achievements thatwinter had been the harpooning of several sawfish, each of which gavebirth to a little one while being fought on the harpoon! Ye gods! Itwould never do to record my utterances. But I record this fact only in the hope of opening the eyes of anglers. I have no ax to grind for myself. I have gone through the game, over tothe fair side, and I want anglers to know. We are a nation of fishermen and riflemen. Who says the Americans cannotshoot or fight? What made that great bunch of Yankee boys turn back theHun hordes? It was the quick eye, the steady nerve, the unquenchablespirit of the American boy--his heritage from his hunter forefathers. Weare great fishermen's sons also, and we can save the fish that are beingdepleted in our waters. Let every angler who loves to fish think what it would mean to him tofind the fish were gone. The mackerel are gone, the bluefish are going, the menhaden are gone, every year the amberjack and kingfish growsmaller and fewer. We must find ways and means to save our game fish ofthe sea; and one of the finest and most sportsman-like ways is to uselight tackle. * * * * * Wiborn, the Lone Angler, is also in a class by himself. To my mindWiborn is the ideal angler of the sea. I have aspired to his method, butrealize it is impossible for me. He goes out alone. Hence the name LoneAngler. He operates his motor-launch, rigs his tackle and bait andteasers, flies his kite, finds the fish, fights the one he hooks, andgaffs and hauls it aboard or releases it, all by himself. Any one whohas had the slightest experience in Pacific angling can appreciate thishazardous, complicated, and laborsome job of the Lone Angler. Any onewho ever fought a big tuna or swordfish can imagine where he would havebeen without a boatman. After some of my fights with fish CaptainDanielson has been as tired as I was. His job had been as hard as mine. But Wiborn goes out day by day alone, and he has brought in big tuna andswordfish. Not many! He is too fine a sportsman to bring in many fish. And herein is the point I want to drive home in my tribute to LoneAngler. No one can say how many fish he catches. He never tells. Alwayshe has a fine, wonderful, beautiful day on the water. It matters not tohim, the bringing home of fish to exhibit. This roused my admiration, and also my suspicion. I got to believing that Lone Angler caught manymore fish than he ever brought home. So I spied upon him. Whenever chance afforded I watched him through mypowerful binoculars. He was always busy. His swift boat roamed the seas. Always he appeared a white dot on the blue horizon, like the flash of agull. I have watched his kite flutter down; I have seen his boat stopand stand still; I have seen sheeted splashes of water near him; andmore than once I have seen him leaning back with bent rod, working andpumping hard. But when he came into Avalon on these specific occasions, he brought no tuna, no swordfish--nothing but a cheerful, enigmaticsmile and a hopeful question as to the good luck of his friends. "But I saw you hauling away on a fish, " I ventured to say, once. [Illustration: SEAL ROCKS] "Oh, that was an old shark, " he replied, laughing. Well, it might have been, but I had my doubts. And at the close of 1918I believed, though I could not prove, that Lone Angler let the most ofhis fish go free. Hail to Lone Angler! If a man must roam the salt seain search of health and peace, and in a manly, red-bloodedexercise--here is the ideal. I have not seen its equal. I envy him--hismechanical skill, his fearlessness of distance and fog and wind, hisdexterity with kite and rod and wheel, but especially I envy him thelonesome rides upon a lonesome sea-- Alone, all alone on a wide, wide sea. The long, heaving swells, the windy lanes, the flight of the sheerwaterand the uplifted flukes of the whale, the white wall of tuna on thehorizon, the leap of the dolphin, the sweet, soft scent that breathesfrom off the sea, the beauty and mystery and color and movement of thedeep--these are Lone Angler's alone, and he is as rich as if he hadfound the sands of the Pacific to be pearls, the waters nectar, and therocks pure gold. Happily, neither war nor business nor fish-hogs can ruin the wonderfulclimate of Catalina Island. Nature does not cater to evil conditions. The sun and the fog, the great, calm Pacific, the warm Japanese current, the pleasant winds--these all have their tasks, and they perform themfaithfully, to the happiness of those who linger at Catalina. Avalon, the beautiful! Somehow even the fire that destroyed half ofAvalon did not greatly mar its beauty. At a distance the bay and thegrove of eucalyptus-trees, the green-and-gold slopes, look as theyalways looked. Avalon has a singular charm outside of its sport offishing. It is the most delightful and comfortable place I ever visited. The nights are cool. You sleep under blankets even when over in LosAngeles people are suffocating with the heat. At dawn the hills areobscured in fog and sometimes this fog is chilly. But early or late inthe morning it breaks up and rolls away. The sun shines. It is the kindof sunshine that dazzles the eye, elevates the spirit, and warms theback. And out there rolls the vast blue Pacific--calm, slowly heaving, beautiful, and mysterious. During the summer months Avalon is gay, colorful, happy, and mirthfulwith its crowds of tourists and summer visitors. The one broad streetruns along the beach and I venture to say no other street in America cancompare with it for lazy, idle, comfortable, pleasant, and picturesqueeffects. It is difficult to determine just where the beach begins andthe street ends, because of the strollers in bathing-suits. Many a time, after a long fishing-day on the water, as I was walking up the middle ofthe street, I have been stunned to a gasp by the startling apparition ofVenus or Hebe or Little Egypt or Annette Kellermann paradingnonchalantly to and fro. It seems reasonable and fair to give noticethat broadbill swordfish are not the only dangers to encounter atAvalon. I wish they had a policeman there. But the spirit of Avalon, like the climate, is something to love. It isfree, careless, mirthful, wholesome, restful, and serene. The resort isdemocratic and indifferent and aloof. Yet there is always mirth, music, and laughter. Many and many a night have I awakened, anywhere from tento one, to listen to the low lap of the waves on the beach, the softtones of an Hawaiian ukulele, the weird cry of a nocturnal sea-gull, thebark of a sea-lion, or the faint, haunting laugh of some happy girl, going by late, perhaps with her lover. Avalon is so clean and sweet. It is the only place I have been, exceptLong Key, where the omnipresent, hateful, and stinking automobile doesnot obtrude upon real content. Think of air not reeking with gasoleneand a street safe to cross at any time! Safe, I mean, of course, frombeing run down by some joy-rider. You are liable to encounter one of theLoreleis or Aphrodites at any hour from five till sunset. You must riskchance of that. So, in conclusion, let me repeat that if you are a fisherman of anydegree, and if you aspire to some wonderful experiences with the greatand vanishing game fish of the Pacific, and if you would love toassociate with these adventures some dazzling white hot days, andunforgetable cool nights where your eyelids get glued with sleep, andthe fragrant salt breath of the sea, its music and motion and color andmystery and beauty--then go to Avalon before it is too late. THE END