Produced by Brian Janes, D. Alexander and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
TALES _of_ FISHES
by
Zane Grey
_President of the Long Key Fishing Club
Honorary Vice-President of the Tuna Club, Avalon_
_Author of_
"The U. P. Trail" "The Desert of Wheat" Etc.
_Illustrated from Photographs
by the author_
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
New York and London
TALES OF FISHES
Copyright 1919, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published June, 1919
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
VERSES 0
I. BYME-BY-TARPON 1
II. THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD 8
III. THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA 26
IV. TWO FIGHTS WITH SWORDFISH 54
V. SAILFISH 72
VI. GULF STREAM FISHING 88
VII. BONEFISH 107
VIII. SOME RARE FISH 136
IX. SWORDFISH 153
X. THE GLADIATOR OF THE SEA 180
XI. SEVEN MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY 197
XII. RANDOM NOTES 216
XIII. BIG TUNA 221
XIV. AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL 250
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE GREAT COLORED ROLLERS OF THE PACIFIC _Frontispiece_
TARPON THROWING HOOK _Facing p_. 2
LEAPING TARPON " 3
SAVALO, OR SILVER KING " 4
THESE WILD FOWL HAVE THE WONDERFUL BEAUTY AND
SPEED OF FALCONS " 5
RABIHORCADO " 12
THE BOOBIES HAD NO FEAR OF MAN, BUT BOTH YOUNG
AND OLD WOULD PICK WITH THEIR SHARP BILLS " 13
YOUNG BOOBIES " 14
SUGGESTIVE OF A WILD, WIND-SWEPT ISLAND OF THE SEA " 15
NESTS EVERYWHERE IN THE SAND AND MOSS " 16
THESE HUGE BLACK RABIHORCADOS WERE THE LARGEST
SPECIES OF FRIGATE OR MAN-OF-WAR BIRD " 17
RABIHORCADO RISING FROM THEIR EGGS " 20
BOOBIES OF ISLA DE LA MUERTE IN THE CARIBBEAN SEA " 21
A SWORDFISH LEAPING OFF THE BOLD BLACK SHORE OF CLEMENTE " 28
ON THE RAMPAGE " 29
SWORDFISH ON THE SURFACE " 32
HOLDING HARD " 33
A CLEAN GREYHOUND LEAP " 36
316-POUND SWORDFISH " 37
THE WILD OATS SLOPE OF CLEMENTE " 44
WHERE THE DEEP-BLUE SWELL BOOMS AGAINST THE LAVA
WALL OF CLEMENTE ISLAND " 45
FOUR MARLIN SWORDFISH IN ONE DAY " 68
A BIG SAILFISH BREAKING WATER " 69
FOUR SAILFISH IN ONE DAY ON LIGHT TACKLE " 76
SAILFISH THRESHING ON THE SURFACE " 77
MEMORABLE OF LONG KEY " 84
LEAPING SAILFISH " 85
SOLITUDE ON THE SEA " 92
SUNSET BY THE SEA " 93
TWIN TIGERS OF THE SEA--THE SAVAGE BARRACUDA " 98
HAPPY PASTIME OF BONEFISHING " 99
THE GAMEST FISH THAT SWIMS " 110
A WAAHOO " 111
AT LONG KEY, THE LONELY CORAL SHORE WHERE THE SUN
SHINES WHITE ALL DAY AND THE STARS SHINE WHITE
ALL NIGHT " 144
THE FAMOUS STUNT OF A MARLIN SWORDFISH, "WALKING
ON HIS TAIL" " 145
SURGING IN A HALF-CIRCLE " 148
BROADBILL SWORDFISH ON THE SURFACE--THE MOST
THRILLING SIGHT TO A SEA ANGLER " 149
SHINING IN THE SUNLIGHT " 156
THROWING WHITE WATER LIKE THE EXPLOSION OF A TORPEDO " 157
A LONG, SLIM SAILFISH WIGGLING IN THE AIR " 160
FIGHTING A BROADBILL SWORDFISH " 161
THE ONLY PHOTOGRAPH EVER TAKEN OF LEAPING BROADBILL
SWORDFISH " 180
XIPHIAS GLADIUS, THE BROADSWORDED GLADIATOR OF THE SEA " 181
A STRAIGHTAWAY GREYHOUND LEAP, MARVELOUS FOR ITS
SPEED AND WILDNESS " 188
LIKE A LEAPING SPECTER " 189
WALKING ON HIS TAIL " 192
A MAGNIFICENT FLASHING LEAP. THIS PERFECT PICTURE
CONSIDERED BY AUTHOR TO BE WORTH HIS FIVE
YEARS' LABOR AND PATIENCE " 193
TIRED OUT--THE LAST SLOW HEAVE " 196
HAULED ABOARD WITH BLOCK AND TACKLE " 197
R. C. ON THE JOB " 204
304 POUNDS " 205
R. C. GREY AND RECORD MARLIN " 205
328-POUND RECORD MARLIN BY R. C. GREY. SHAPELIEST
AND MOST BEAUTIFUL SPECIMEN EVER TAKEN " 208
SUNSET OVER CLEMENTE CHANNEL " 209
A BLUE-FINNED PLUGGER OF THE DEEP--138-POUND TUNA " 244
AVALON, THE BEAUTIFUL " 245
THE OLD AVALON BARGE WHERE THE GULLS FISH AND
SCREAM " 252
THE END OF THE DAY OFF CATALINA ISLAND " 253
SEAL ROCKS " 264
[Illustration: THE GREAT COLORED ROLLERS OF THE PACIFIC]
ZANE GREY
By W. Livingston Larned
Been to Avalon with Grey ... been most everywhere;
Chummed with him and fished with him in every Sportsman's
lair.
Helped him with the white Sea-bass and Barracuda haul,
Shared the Tuna's sprayful sport and heard his Hunter-call,
Me an' Grey are fishin' friends.... Pals of rod and reel,
Whether it's the sort that fights ... or th' humble eel,
On and on, through Wonderland ... winds a-blowin' free,
Catching all th' fins that grow ... Sportsman Grey an' Me.
Been to Florida with Zane ... scouting down th' coast;
Whipped the deep for Tarpon, too, that natives love th' most.
Seen the smiling, Tropic isles that pass, in green review,
Gathered cocoanut and moss where Southern skies were blue.
Seen him laugh that boyish laugh, when things were goin'
right;
Helped him beach our little boat and kindle fires at night.
Comrades of the Open Way, the Treasure-Trove of Sea,
Port Ahoy and who cares where, with Mister Grey an' Me!
Been to Western lands with Grey ... hunted fox and deer.
Seen the Grizzly's ugly face with danger lurkin' near.
Slept on needles, near th' sky, and marked th' round moon
rise
Over purpling peaks of snow that hurt a fellow's eyes.
Gone, like Indians, under brush and to some mystic place--
Home of red men, long since gone, to join their dying race.
Yes ... we've chummed it, onward--outward ... mountain,
wood, and Key,
At the quiet readin'-table ... Sportsman Grey an' Me.
TALES OF FISHES
I
BYME-BY-TARPON
To capture the fish is not all of the fishing. Yet there are
circumstances which make this philosophy hard to accept. I have in mind
an incident of angling tribulation which rivals the most poignant
instant of my boyhood, when a great trout flopped for one sharp moment
on a mossy stone and then was gone like a golden flash into the depths
of the pool.
Some years ago I followed Attalano, my guide, down the narrow Mexican
street of Tampico to the bank of the broad Panuco. Under the rosy dawn
the river quivered like a restless opal. The air, sweet with the song of
blackbird and meadowlark, was full of cheer; the rising sun shone in
splendor on the water and the long line of graceful palms lining the
opposite bank, and the tropical forest beyond, with its luxuriant
foliage festooned by gray moss. Here was a day to warm the heart of any
fisherman; here was the beautiful river, celebrated in many a story;
here was the famous guide, skilled with oar and gaff, rich in
experience. What sport I would have; what treasure of keen sensation
would I store; what flavor of life would I taste this day! Hope burns
always in the heart of a fisherman.
Attalano was in harmony with the day and the scene. He had a cheering
figure, lithe and erect, with a springy stride, bespeaking the Montezuma
blood said to flow in his Indian veins. Clad in a colored cotton shirt,
blue jeans, and Spanish girdle, and treading the path with brown feet
never deformed by shoes, he would have stopped an artist. Soon he bent
his muscular shoulders to the oars, and the ripples circling from each
stroke hardly disturbed the calm Panuco. Down the stream glided long
Indian canoes, hewn from trees and laden with oranges and bananas. In
the stern stood a dark native wielding an enormous paddle with ease.
Wild-fowl dotted the glassy expanse; white cranes and pink flamingoes
graced the reedy bars; red-breasted kingfishers flew over with friendly
screech. The salt breeze kissed my cheek; the sun shone with the
comfortable warmth Northerners welcome in spring; from over the white
sand-dunes far below came the faint boom of the ever-restless Gulf.
We trolled up the river and down, across from one rush-lined lily-padded
shore to the other, for miles and miles with never a strike. But I was
content, for over me had been cast the dreamy, care-dispelling languor
of the South.
When the first long, low swell of the changing tide rolled in, a
stronger breeze raised little dimpling waves and chased along the water
in dark, quick-moving frowns. All at once the tarpon began to show,
to splash, to play, to roll. It was as though they had been awakened by
the stir and murmur of the miniature breakers. Broad bars of silver
flashed in the sunlight, green backs cleft the little billows, wide
tails slapped lazily on the water. Every yard of river seemed to hold a
rolling fish. This sport increased until the long stretch of water,
which had been as calm as St. Regis Lake at twilight, resembled the
quick current of a Canadian stream. It was a fascinating, wonderful
sight. But it was also peculiarly exasperating, because when the fish
roll in this sportive, lazy way they will not bite. For an hour I
trolled through this whirlpool of flying spray and twisting tarpon, with
many a salty drop on my face, hearing all around me the whipping crash
of breaking water.
[Illustration: TARPON THROWING HOOK]
[Illustration: LEAPING TARPON]
"Byme-by-tarpon," presently remarked Attalano, favoring me with the
first specimen of his English.
The rolling of the tarpon diminished, and finally ceased as noon
advanced.
No more did I cast longing eyes upon those huge bars of silver. They
were buried treasure. The breeze quickened as the flowing tide gathered
strength, and together they drove the waves higher. Attalano rowed
across the river into the outlet of one of the lagoons. This narrow
stream was unruffled by wind; its current was sluggish and its muddy
waters were clarifying under the influence of the now fast-rising tide.
By a sunken log near shore we rested for lunch. I found the shade of the
trees on the bank rather pleasant, and became interested in a blue
heron, a russet-colored duck, and a brown-and-black snipe, all sitting
on the sunken log. Near by stood a tall crane watching us solemnly, and
above in the tree-top a parrot vociferously proclaimed his knowledge of
our presence. I was wondering if he objected to our invasion, at the
same time taking a most welcome bite for lunch, when directly in front
of me the water flew up as if propelled by some submarine power. Framed
in a shower of spray I saw an immense tarpon, with mouth agape and fins
stiff, close in pursuit of frantically leaping little fish.
The fact that Attalano dropped his sandwich attested to the large size
and close proximity of the tarpon. He uttered a grunt of satisfaction
and pushed out the boat. A school of feeding tarpon closed the mouth of
the lagoon. Thousands of mullet had been cut off from their river haunts
and were now leaping, flying, darting in wild haste to elude the great
white monsters. In the foamy swirls I saw streaks of blood.
"Byme-by-tarpon!" called Attalano, warningly.
Shrewd guide! I had forgotten that I held a rod. When the realization
dawned on me that sooner or later I would feel the strike of one of
these silver tigers a keen, tingling thrill of excitement quivered over
me. The primitive man asserted himself; the instinctive lust to conquer
and to kill seized me, and I leaned forward, tense and strained with
suspended breath and swelling throat.
Suddenly the strike came, so tremendous in its energy that it almost
pulled me from my seat; so quick, fierce, bewildering that I could think
of nothing but to hold on. Then the water split with a hissing sound to
let out a great tarpon, long as a door, seemingly as wide, who shot
up and up into the air. He wagged his head and shook it like a
struggling wolf. When he fell back with a heavy splash, a rainbow,
exquisitely beautiful and delicate, stood out of the spray, glowed,
paled, and faded.
[Illustration: SAVALO, OR SILVER KING]
[Illustration: THESE WILD FOWL HAVE THE WONDERFUL BEAUTY AND SPEED OF
FALCONS]
Five times he sprang toward the blue sky, and as many he plunged down
with a thunderous crash. The reel screamed. The line sang. The rod,
which I had thought stiff as a tree, bent like a willow wand. The silver
king came up far astern and sheered to the right in a long, wide curve,
leaving behind a white wake. Then he sounded, while I watched the line
with troubled eyes. But not long did he sulk. He began a series of
magnificent tactics new in my experience. He stood on his tail, then on
his head; he sailed like a bird; he shook himself so violently as to
make a convulsive, shuffling sound; he dove, to come up covered with
mud, marring his bright sides; he closed his huge gills with a slap and,
most remarkable of all, he rose in the shape of a crescent, to
straighten out with such marvelous power that he seemed to actually
crack like a whip.
After this performance, which left me in a condition of mental
aberration, he sounded again, to begin a persistent, dragging pull which
was the most disheartening of all his maneuvers; for he took yard after
yard of line until he was far away from me, out in the Panuco. We
followed him, and for an hour crossed to and fro, up and down, humoring
him, responding to his every caprice, as if he verily were a king. At
last, with a strange inconsistency more human than fishlike, he returned
to the scene of his fatal error, and here in the mouth of the smaller
stream he leaped once more. But it was only a ghost of his former
efforts--a slow, weary rise, showing he was tired. I could see it in the
weakening wag of his head. He no longer made the line whistle.
I began to recover the long line. I pumped and reeled him closer.
Reluctantly he came, not yet broken in spirit, though his strength had
sped. He rolled at times with a shade of the old vigor, with a pathetic
manifestation of the temper that became a hero. I could see the long,
slender tip of his dorsal fin, then his broad tail and finally the gleam
of his silver side. Closer he came and slowly circled around the boat,
eying me with great, accusing eyes. I measured him with a fisherman's
glance. What a great fish! Seven feet, I calculated, at the very least.
At this triumphant moment I made a horrible discovery. About six feet
from the leader the strands of the line had frayed, leaving only one
thread intact. My blood ran cold and the clammy sweat broke out on my
brow. My empire was not won; my first tarpon was as if he had never
been. But true to my fishing instincts, I held on morosely; tenderly I
handled him; with brooding care I riveted my eye on the frail place in
my line, and gently, ever so gently, I began to lead the silver king
shoreward. Every smallest move of his tail meant disaster to me, so when
he moved it I let go of the reel. Then I would have to coax him to swim
back again.
The boat touched the bank. I stood up and carefully headed my fish
toward the shore, and slid his head and shoulders out on the lily-pads.
One moment he lay there, glowing like mother-of-pearl, a rare fish,
fresh from the sea. Then, as Attalano warily reached for the leader, he
gave a gasp, a flop that deluged us with muddy water, and a lunge that
spelled freedom.
I watched him swim slowly away with my bright leader dragging beside
him. Is it not the loss of things which makes life bitter? What we have
gained is ours; what is lost is gone, whether fish, or use, or love, or
name, or fame.
I tried to put on a cheerful aspect for my guide. But it was too soon.
Attalano, wise old fellow, understood my case. A smile, warm and living,
flashed across his dark face as he spoke:
"Byme-by-tarpon."
Which defined his optimism and revived the failing spark within my
breast. It was, too, in the nature of a prophecy.
II
THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD
Strange wild adventures fall to the lot of a fisherman as well as to
that of a hunter. On board the _Monterey_, from Havana to Progreso,
Yucatan, I happened to fall into conversation with an English
globe-trotter who had just come from the Mont Pelee eruption. Like all
those wandering Englishmen, this one was exceedingly interesting. We
exchanged experiences, and I felt that I had indeed much to see and
learn of the romantic Old World.
In Merida, that wonderful tropic city of white towers and white streets
and white-gowned women, I ran into this Englishman again. I wanted to
see the magnificent ruins of Uxmal and Ake and Labna. So did he. I knew
it would be a hard trip from Muna to the ruins, and so I explained. He
smiled in a way to make me half ashamed of my doubts. We went together,
and I found him to be a splendid fellow. We parted without knowing each
other's names. I had no idea what he thought of me, but I thought he
must have been somebody.
While traveling around the coast of Yucatan I had heard of the wild and
lonely Alacranes Reef where lighthouse-keepers went insane from
solitude, and where wonderful fishes inhabited the lagoons. That was
enough for me. Forthwith I meant to go to Alacranes.
Further inquiry brought me meager but fascinating news of an island on
that lonely coral reef, called _Isla de la Muerte_ (the Island of the
Dead). Here was the haunt of a strange bird, called by Indians
_rabihorcado_, and it was said to live off the booby, another strange
sea-bird. The natives of the coast solemnly averred that when the
_rabihorcado_ could not steal fish from the booby he killed himself by
hanging in the brush. I did not believe such talk. The Spanish appeared
to be _rabi_, meaning rabies, and _horcar_, to hang.
I set about to charter a boat, and found the great difficulty in
procuring one to be with the Yucatecan government. No traveler had ever
before done such a thing. It excited suspicion. The officials thought
the United States was looking for a coaling-station. Finally, through
the help of the Ward line agent and the consul I prevailed upon them to
give me such papers as appeared necessary. Then my Indian boatmen
interested a crew of six, and I chartered a two-masted canoe-shaped bark
called the _Xpit_.
The crew of the _Hispaniola_, with the never-to-be-forgotten John Silver
and the rest of the pirates of Treasure Island, could not have been a
more villainous and piratical gang than this of the bark _Xpit_. I was
advised not to take the trip alone. But it appeared impossible to find
any one to accompany me. I grew worried, yet determined not to miss the
opportunity.
Strange to relate, as I was conversing on the dock with a ship captain
and the agent of the Ward line, lamenting the necessity of sailing for
Alacranes alone, some one near by spoke up, "Take me!"
In surprise I wheeled to see my English acquaintance who had visited the
interior of Yucatan with me. I greeted him, thanked him, but of course
did not take him seriously, and I proceeded to expound the nature of my
venture. To my further surprise, he not only wanted to go, but he was
enthusiastic.
"But it's a hard, wild trip," I protested. "Why, that crew of
barefooted, red-shirted Canary-Islanders have got me scared! Besides,
you don't know me!"
"Well, you don't know me, either," he replied, with his winning smile.
Then I awoke to my own obtuseness and to the fact that here was a real
man, in spite of the significance of a crest upon his linen.
"If you'll take a chance on me I'll certainly take one on you," I
replied, and told him who I was, and that the Ward-line agent and
American consul would vouch for me.
He offered his hand with the simple reply, "My name is C----."
If before I had imagined he was somebody, I now knew it. And that was
how I met the kindest man, the finest philosopher, the most unselfish
comrade, the greatest example and influence that it has ever been my
good fortune to know upon my trips by land or sea. I learned this during
our wonderful trip to the Island of the Dead. He never thought of
himself. Hardship to him was nothing. He had no fear of the sea, nor of
men, nor of death. It seemed he never rested, never slept, never let
anybody do what he could do instead.
That night we sailed for Alacranes. It was a white night of the tropics,
with a million stars blinking in the blue dome overhead, and the
Caribbean Sea like a shadowed opal, calm and rippling and shimmering.
The _Xpit_ was not a bark of comfort. It had a bare deck and an empty
hold. I could not stay below in that gloomy, ill-smelling pit, so I
tried to sleep on deck. I lay on a hatch under the great boom, and what
with its creaking, and the hollow roar of the sail, and the wash of the
waves, and the dazzling starlight, I could not sleep. C. sat on a coil
of rope, smoked, and watched in silence. I wondered about him then.
Sunrise on the Caribbean was glorious to behold--a vast burst of silver
and gold over a level and wrinkling blue sea. By day we sailed, tacking
here and there, like lost mariners standing for some far-off unknown
shore. That night a haze of clouds obscured the stars, and it developed
that our red-shirted skipper steered by the stars. We indeed became lost
mariners. They sounded with a greased lead and determined our latitude
by the color and character of the coral or sand that came up on the
lead. Sometimes they knew where we were and at others they did not have
any more idea than had I.
On the second morning out we reached Alacranes lighthouse; and when I
saw the flat strip of sand, without a tree or bush to lend it grace and
color, the bleak lighthouse, and the long, lonely reaches of barren
reefs from which there came incessant moaning, I did not wonder that two
former lighthouse-keepers had gone insane. The present keeper received
me with the welcome always accorded a visitor to out-of-the-world
places. He corroborated all that my Indian sailors had claimed for
the _rabihorcado_, and added the interesting information that
lighthouse-keepers desired the extinction of the birds because the
guano, deposited by them on the roofs of the keepers' houses, poisoned
the rain water--all they had to drink.
I climbed the narrow, spiral stair to the lighthouse tower, and there,
apparently lifted into the cloud-navigated sky, I awakened to the real
wonder of coral reefs. Ridges of white and brown showed their teeth
against the crawling, tireless, insatiate sea. Islets of dead coral
gleamed like bleached bone, and beds of live coral, amber as wine, lay
wreathed in restless surf. From near to far extended the rollers, the
curving channels, and the shoals, all colorful, all quivering with the
light of jewels. Golden sand sloped into the gray-green of shallow
water, and this shaded again into darker green, which in turn merged
into purple, reaching away to the far barrier reef, a white wall against
the blue, heaving ocean.
The crew had rowed us ashore with my boatmen Manuel and Augustine. And
then the red-shirted captain stated he would like to go back to Progreso
and return for us at our convenience. Hesitating over this, I finally
gave permission, on the promise that he would bring back the _Xpit_ in
one week.
So they sailed away, and left us soon to find out that we were marooned
on a desert island. When I saw how C. took it I was glad of our enforced
stay. Solitude and loneliness pervaded Alacranes. Of all the places I
had visited, this island was the most hauntingly lonely.
[Illustration: RABIHORCADO]
[Illustration: THE BOOBIES HAD NO FEAR OF MAN, BUT BOTH YOUNG AND OLD
WOULD PICK WITH THEIR SHARP BILLS]
It must have struck C. the same way, and even more powerfully than it
had me. He was a much older man, and, though so unfailingly cheerful and
helpful, he seemed to me to desire loneliness. He did not fish or shoot.
His pleasure appeared to be walking the strand, around and around the
little island, gathering bits of coral and shells and seaweeds and
strange things cast up by the tides. For hours he would sit high on the
lighthouse stairway and gaze out over the variegated mosaic of colored
reefs. My bed was a hammock in the loft of the keeper's house and it
hung close to an open door. At night I woke often, and I would look out
upon the lonely beach and sea. When the light flashed its long wheeling
gleam out into the pale obscurity of the night it always showed C.'s
dark figure on the lonely beach. I got into the habit of watching for
him, and never, at any time I happened to awake, did I fail to see him
out there. How strange he looms to me now! But I thought it was natural
then. The loneliness of that coral reef haunted me. The sound of the
sea, eternally slow and sad and moaning, haunted me like a passion. Men
are the better for solitude.
Our bark, the _Xpit_, did not come back for us. Day by day we scanned
the heaving sea, far out beyond the barrier reef, until I began to feel
like Crusoe upon his lonely isle. We had no way to know then that our
crew had sailed twice from Progreso, getting lost the first time, and
getting drunk the second, eventually returning to the home port. Some
misfortunes turn out to be blessings.
What adventures I had at Alacranes! But, alas! I cannot relate a single
story about really catching a fish. There were many and ferocious fish
that would rush any bait I tried, only I could not hold them. My tackle
was not equal to what it is now. Perhaps, however, if it had been it
would have been smashed just the same.
In front of the lighthouse there had been built a little plank dock,
running out twenty yards or so. The water was about six feet deep, and a
channel of varying width meandered between the coral reefs out to the
deep blue sea. This must have been a lane for big fish to come inside
the barrier. Almost always there were great shadows drifting around in
the water. First I tried artificial baits. Some one, hoping to convert
me, had given me a whole box of those ugly, murderous plug-baits made
famous by Robert H. Davis. Whenever I made a cast with one of these a
big fish would hit it and either strip the hooks off or break my tackle.
Some of these fish leaped clear. They looked like barracuda to me, only
they were almost as silvery as a tarpon. One looked ten feet long and as
big around as a telegraph pole. When this one smashed the water white
and leaped, Manuel yelled, "_Pecuda!_" I tried hard to catch a specimen,
and had a good many hooked, but they always broke away. I did not know
then, as I know now, that barracuda grow to twelve feet in the
Caribbean. That fact is mentioned in records and natural histories.
Out in the deeper lagoons I hooked huge fish that swam off
ponderously, dragging the skiff until my line parted. Once I was
fortunate enough to see one, which fact dispelled any possibility of its
being a shark. Manuel called it "_Cherna!_" It looked like a giant
sea-bass and would have weighed at least eight hundred pounds. The color
was lighter than any sea-bass I ever studied. My Indian boatmen claimed
this fish was a man-eater and that he and his crew had once fought one
all day and then it broke away. The fish I saw was huge enough to
swallow a man, that was certain. I think this species must have been the
great June-fish of the Gulf. I hooked one once at the mouth of the
Panuco River in Mexico and it nearly swamped the boat.
[Illustration: YOUNG BOOBIES]
[Illustration: SUGGESTIVE OF A WILD, WIND-SWEPT ISLAND OF THE SEA]
Soon my tackle was all used up, and, for want of better, I had to use
tiny hooks and thread lines--because I was going to fish, by hook or
crook! This method, however, which I learned first of all, is not to be
despised. Whenever I get my hand on a thin, light, stiff reed pole and a
long, light line of thread with a little hook, then I revert to boyhood
days and sunfish and chubs and shiners and bullheads. Could any
fisherman desire more joy? Those days are the best.
The child is father of the man
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
In the shallow water near the dock there always floated a dense school
of little fish like sardines. They drifted, floated, hovered beside the
dock, and when one of the big fish would rush near they would make a
breaking roar on the surface. Of me they evinced no fear whatever. But
no bait, natural or artificial, that I could discover, tempted them to
bite. This roused my cantankerous spirit to catch some of those little
fish or else fall inestimably in my own regard. I noted that whenever I
cast over the school it disintegrated. A circle widened from the center,
and where had been a black mass of fish was only sand. But as my hook
settled to the bottom the dark circle narrowed and closed until the
school was densely packed as before. Whereupon I tied several of the
tiny hooks together with a bit of lead, and, casting that out, I waited
till all was black around my line, then I jerked. I snagged one of the
little fish and found him to be a beautiful, silvery, flat-sided shiner
of unknown species to me. Every cast I made thereafter caught one of
them. And they were as good to eat as a sardine and better than a
mullet.
My English comrade, C., sometimes went with me, and when he did go, the
interest and kindly curiosity and pleasure upon his face were a constant
source of delight to me. I knew that I was as new a species to him as
the little fish were to me. But C. had become so nearly a perfectly
educated man that nothing surprised him, nothing made him wonder. He
sympathized, he understood, he could put himself in the place of
another. What worried me, however, was the simple fact that he did not
care to fish or shoot for the so-called sport of either. I think my
education on a higher plane began at Alacranes, in the society of that
lonely Englishman. Somehow I have gravitated toward the men who have
been good for me.
[Illustration: NESTS EVERYWHERE IN THE SAND AND MOSS]
[Illustration: THESE HUGE BLACK RABIHORCADOS WERE THE LARGEST SPECIES
OF FRIGATE OR MAN-OF-WAR BIRD]
But C. enjoyed action as well as contemplation. Once out on the shoals
when Manuel harpooned a huge hawk-bill turtle--the valuable species from
which the amber shell is derived--we had a thrilling and dangerous ride.
For the turtle hauled us at a terrific rate through the water. Then C.
joined in with the yells of the Indians. He was glad, however, when the
turtle left us stranded high upon a coral bed.
On moonlight nights when the tide was low C. especially enjoyed wading
on the shoals and hunting for the _langustas_, or giant lobsters. This
was exciting sport. We used barrel-hoops with nets, and when we saw a
lobster shining in the shallow water we waded noiselessly close to swoop
down upon him with a great splash. I was always afraid of these huge
crayfish, but C. was not. His courage might have been predatory, for he
certainly liked to eat lobster. But he had a scare one night when a
devilfish or tremendous ray got between him and the shore and made the
water fly aloft in a geyser. It was certainly fun for me to see that
dignified Englishman make tracks across the shoal.
To conclude about C., when I went on to Mexico City with him I met
friends of his there, a lord and a duke traveling incognito. C. himself
was a peer of England and a major in the English army. But I never
learned this till we got to Tampico, where they went with me for the
tarpon-fishing. They were rare fine fellows. L., the little Englishman,
could do anything under the sun, and it was from him I got my type for
Castleton, the Englishman, in _The Light of Western Stars_. I have been
told that never was there an Englishman on earth like the one I
portrayed in my novel. But my critics never fished with Lord L.!
These English friends went with me to the station to bid me good-by and
good luck. We were to part there, they to take ship for London, and I to
take train for the headwaters of the Panuco River, down which unknown
streams I was to find my way through jungle to the Gulf. Here I was told
that C. had lost his only son in the Boer War, and since then had never
been able to rest or sleep or remain in one place. That stunned me, for
I remembered that he had seemed to live only to forget himself, to think
of others. It was a great lesson to me. And now, since I have not heard
from him during the four years of the world war, I seem to divine that
he has "gone west"; he has taken his last restless, helpful journey,
along with the best and noblest of England's blood.
* * * * *
Because this fish-story has so little of fish in it does not prove that
a man cannot fish for other game than fish. I remember when I was a boy
that I went with my brother--the R. C. and the Reddy of the accompanying
pages--to fish for bass at Dillon's Falls in Ohio. Alas for Bill Dilg
and Bob Davis, who never saw this blue-blooded home of bronze-back
black-bass! In the heat of the day my brother and I jabbed our poles
into the bank, and set off to amuse ourselves some other way for a
while. When we returned my pole was pulled down and wabbling so as to
make a commotion in the water. Quickly I grasped it and pulled, while
Reddy stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Surely a big bass had taken my
bait and hooked himself. Never had I felt so heavy and strong a bass!
The line swished back and forth; my pole bent more and more as I lifted.
The water boiled and burst in a strange splash. Then! a big duck flew,
as if by magic, right out from before us. So amazed was I that he nearly
pulled the pole out of my hands. Reddy yelled wildly. The duck broke the
line and sped away.... That moment will never be forgotten. It took us
so long to realize that the duck had swallowed my minnow, hooked
himself, and happened to be under the surface when we returned.
So the point of my main story, like that of the above, is about how I
set out to catch fish, and, failing, found for such loss abundant
recompense.
* * * * *
Manuel and Augustine, my Indian sailors, embarked with me in a boat for
the Island of the Dead. Millions of marine creatures swarmed in the
labyrinthine waterways. Then, as we neared the land, "_Rabihorcado!_"
exclaimed Manuel, pointing to a black cloud hovering over the island.
As we approached the sandy strip I made it out to be about half a mile
long, lying only a few feet above the level of the sea. Hundreds of
great, black birds flew out to meet us and sailed over the boat, a
sable-winged, hoarse-voiced crowd. When we beached I sprang ashore and
ran up the sand to the edge of green. The whole end of the island was
white with birds--large, beautiful, snowy birds with shiny black bars
across their wings.
"Boobies," said Manuel and motioned me to go forward.
They greeted our approach with the most discordant din it had ever been
my fortune to hear. A mingling of honk and cackle, it manifested not
excitement so much as curiosity. I walked among the boobies, and they
never moved except to pick at me with long, sharp bills. Many were
sitting on nests, and all around in the sand were nests with eggs, and
little boobies just hatched, and others in every stage of growth, up to
big babies of birds like huge balls of pure white wool. I wondered where
the thousands of mothers were. The young ones showed no concern when I
picked them up, save to dig into me with curious bills.
I saw an old booby, close by, raise his black-barred wings, and,
flapping them, start to run across the sand. In this way he launched
himself into the air and started out to sea. Presently I noticed several
more flying away, one at a time, while others came sailing back again.
How they could sail! They had the swift, graceful flight of a falcon.
For a while I puzzled over the significance of this outgoing and
incoming. Shortly a bird soared overhead, circled with powerful sweep,
and alighted within ten feet of me. The bird watched me with gray,
unintelligent eyes. They were stupid, uncanny eyes, yet somehow so fixed
and staring as to seem accusing. One of the little white balls of wool
waddled up and, rubbing its fuzzy head against the booby, proclaimed the
filial relation. After a few rubs and wabbles the young bird opened wide
its bill and let out shrill cries. The mother bobbed up and down in
evident consternation, walked away, came back, and with an eye on me
plainly sought to pacify her fledgling. Suddenly she put her bill far
down into the wide-open bill, effectually stifling the cries. Then the
two boobies stood locked in amazing convulsions. The throat of the
mother swelled, and a lump passed into and down the throat of the young
bird. The puzzle of the flying boobies was solved in the startling
realization that the mother had returned from the sea with a fish in her
stomach and had disgorged it into the gullet of her offspring.
[Illustration: RABIHORCADO RISING FROM THEIR EGGS]
[Illustration: BOOBIES OF ISLA DE LA MUERTE IN THE CARIBBEAN SEA]
I watched this feat performed dozens of times, and at length scared a
mother booby into withdrawing her bill and dropping a fish on the sand.
It was a flying-fish fully ten inches long. I interrupted several little
dinner-parties, and in each case found the disgorged fish to be of the
flying species. The boobies flew ten, twenty miles out to the open sea
for fish, while the innumerable shoals that lay around their island were
alive with sardine and herring!
I had raised a tremendous row; so, leaving the boobies to quiet down, I
made my way toward the flocks of _rabihorcados_. Here and there in the
thick growth of green weed were boobies squatting on isolated nests. No
sooner had I gotten close to the _rabihorcados_ than I made sure they
were the far-famed frigate pelicans, or man-of-war birds. They were as
tame as the boobies; as I walked among them many did not fly at all.
Others rose with soft, swishing sound of great wings and floated in a
circle, uttering deep-throated cries, not unlike the dismal croak of
ravens. Perfectly built for the air, they were like feathers blown by a
breeze. Light, thin, long, sharp, with enormous spread of wings,
beautiful with the beauty of dead, blue-black sheen, and yet hideous,
too, with their grisly necks and cruel, crooked beaks and vulture eyes,
they were surely magnificent specimens of winged creation.
Nests of dried weeds littered the ground, and eggs and young were
everywhere. The little ones were covered with white down, and the
developing feathers on their wings were turning black. They squalled
unremittingly, which squalling I decided was not so much on my account
as because of a swarm of black flies that attacked them when the mothers
flew away. I was hard put to it myself to keep these flies, large as
pennies and as flat, from eating me alive. They slipped up my sleeves
and trousers and their bite made a wasp-sting pleasure by comparison.
By rushing into a flock of _rabihorcados_ I succeeded several times in
catching one in my hands. And spreading it out, I made guesses as to
width from tip to tip of wings. None were under seven feet; one measured
all of eight. They made no strenuous resistance and regarded me with
cold eyes. Every flock that I put to flight left several dozen little
ones squalling in the nests; and at one place an old booby waddled to
the nests and began to maltreat the young _rabihorcados_. Instincts of
humanity bade me scare the old brute away until I happened to remember
the relation existing between the two species. Then I watched. With my
own eyes I saw that grizzled booby pick and bite and wring those poor
little birds with a grim and deadly deliberation. When the mothers, soon
returning, fluttered down, they did not attack the booby, but protected
their little ones by covering them with body and wings. Conviction came
upon me that it was instinctive for the booby to kill the parasitical
_rabihorcado_; and likewise instinctive for the _rabihorcado_ to
preserve the life of the booby.
A shout from Manuel directed me toward the extreme eastern end of the
island. On the way I discovered many little dead birds, and the farther
I went the more I found. Among the low bushes were also many old
_rabihorcados_, dead and dry. Some were twisted among the network of
branches, and several were hanging in limp, grotesque, horribly
suggestive attitudes of death. Manuel had all of the Indian's leaning
toward the mystical, and he believed the _rabihorcados_ had destroyed
themselves. Starved they may very well have been, but to me the gales of
that wind-swept, ocean desert accounted for the hanging _rabihorcados_.
Still, when face to face with the island, with its strife, and its
illustration of the survival of the fittest, all that Manuel had claimed
and more, I had to acknowledge the disquieting force of the thing and
its stunning blow to an imagined knowledge of life and its secrets.
Suddenly Manuel shouted and pointed westward. I saw long white streams
of sea-birds coming toward the island. My glass showed them to be
boobies. An instant later thousands of _rabihorcados_ took wing as if
impelled by a common motive. Manuel ran ahead in his excitement, turning
to shout to me, and then to point toward the wavering, swelling, white
streams. I hurried after him, to that end of the island where we had
landed, and I found the colony of boobies in a state of great
perturbation. All were squawking, flapping wings, and waddling
frantically about. Here was fear such as had not appeared on my advent.
Thousands of boobies were returning from deep-sea fishing, and as they
neared the island they were met and set upon by a swarming army of
_rabihorcados_. Darting white and black streaks crossed the blue of sky
like a changeful web. The air was full of plaintive cries and hoarse
croaks and the windy rush of wings. So marvelous was this scene of
incredibly swift action, of kaleidoscopic change, of streaking lines and
curves, that the tragedy at first was lost upon me. Then the shrieking
of a booby told me that the robber birds were after their prey. Manuel
lay flat on the ground to avoid being struck by low-flying birds, but I
remained standing in order to see the better. Faster and faster circled
the pursued and pursuers and louder grew the cries and croaks. My gaze
was bewildered by the endless, eddying stream of birds.
Then I turned my back on sea and beach where this bee-swarm confused my
vision, and looked to see single boobies whirling here and there with
two or three black demons in pursuit. I picked out one group and turned
my glass upon it. Many battles had I seen by field and stream and
mountain, but this unequal battle by sea eclipsed all. The booby's
mother instinct was to get to her young with the precious fish that
meant life. And she would have been more than a match for any one thief.
But she could not cope successfully with two fierce _rabihorcados_; for
one soared above her, resting, watching, while the other darted and
whirled to the attack. They changed, now one black demon swooping down,
and then the other, in calculating, pitiless pursuit. How glorious she
was in poise and swerve and sweep! For what seemed a long time neither
_rabihorcado_ touched her. What distance she could have placed between
them but for that faithful mother instinct! She kept circling, ever
returning, drawn back toward the sand by the magnet of love; and the
powerful wings seemed slowly to lose strength. Closer the _rabihorcados_
swooped and rose and swooped again, till one of them, shooting down like
a black flash, struck her in the back. The white feathers flew away on
the wind. She swept up, appeared to pause wearily and quiver, then
disgorged her fish. It glinted in the sunlight. The _rabihorcado_
dropped in easy, downward curve and caught it as it fell.
So the struggle for existence continued till I seemed to see all the
world before me with its myriads of wild creatures preying upon one
another; the spirit of nature, unquenchable as the fires of the sun,
continuing ceaseless and imperturbable in its inscrutable design.
As we rowed away I looked back. Sky of a dull purple, like smoke with
fire behind it, framed the birds of power and prey in colors suitable to
their spirit. My ears were filled with the haunting sound of the sea,
the sad wash of the surf, the harmonious and mournful music of the
Island of the Dead.
III
THE ROYAL PURPLE GAME OF THE SEA
To the great majority of anglers it may seem unreasonable to place
swordfishing in a class by itself--by far the most magnificent sport in
the world with rod and reel. Yet I do not hesitate to make this
statement and believe I can prove it.
The sport is young at this writing--very little has been written by men
who have caught swordfish. It was this that attracted me. Quite a number
of fishermen have caught a swordfish. But every one of them will have
something different to tell you and the information thus gleaned is apt
to leave you at sea, both metaphorically and actually. Quite a number of
fishermen, out after yellowtail, have sighted a swordfish, and with the
assistance of heavy tackle and their boatmen have caught that swordfish.
Some few men have caught a small swordfish so quickly and easily that
they cannot appreciate what happened. On the other hand, one very large
swordfish, a record, was caught in an hour, after a loggy rolling about,
like a shark, without leaping. But these are not fighting swordfish. Of
course, under any circumstances, it is an event to catch a swordfish.
But the accidents, the flukes, the lucky stabs of the game, do not in
any sense prove what swordfishing is or what it is not.
In August, 1914, I arrived at Avalon with tuna experience behind me,
with tarpon experience, and all the other kinds of fishing experience,
even to the hooking of a swordfish in Mexico. I am inclined to confess
that all this experience made me--well, somewhat too assured. Any one
will excuse my enthusiasm. The day of my arrival I met Parker, the
genial taxidermist of Avalon, and I started to tell him how I wanted my
swordfish mounted. He interrupted me: "Say, young fellow, you want to
catch a swordfish first!" One of the tuna boatmen gave me a harder jolt.
He said: "Well, if you fish steadily for a couple of weeks, maybe you'll
get a strike. And one swordfish caught out of ten strikes is good work!"
But Danielson was optimistic and encouraging, as any good boatman ought
to be. If I had not been fortunate enough to secure Captain Dan as my
boatman, it is certain that one of the most wonderful fishing
experiences on record would have fallen to some other fisherman, instead
of to me.
We went over to Clemente Island, which is thirty-six miles from Catalina
Island. Clemente is a mountain rising out of the sea, uninhabited,
lonely, wild, and beautiful. But I will tell about the island later.
The weather was perfect, the conditions were apparently ideal. I shall
never forget the sight of the first swordfish, with his great
sickle-shaped tail and his purple fin. Nor am I likely to forget my
disappointment when he totally ignored the flying-fish bait we trolled
before him.
That experience was but a forerunner to others just like it. Every day
we sighted one or more swordfish. But we could not get one to take hold.
Captain Dan said there was more chance of getting a strike from a
swordfish that was not visible rolling on the surface. Now a flying-fish
bait makes a rather heavy bait to troll; and as it is imperative to have
the reel free running and held lightly with the thumb, after a few hours
such trolling becomes hard work. Hard as it was, it did not wear on me
like the strain of being always ready for a strike. I doubt if any
fisherman could stand this strain.
In twenty-one days I had seen nineteen swordfish, several of which had
leaped playfully, or to shake off the remoras--parasite, blood-sucking
little fish--and the sight of every one had only served to increase my
fascination. By this time I had realized something of the difficult
nature of the game, and I had begun to have an inkling of what sport it
might be. During those twenty-one days we had trolled fifteen hundred
miles, altogether, up and down that twenty-five-mile coast of rugged
Clemente. And we had trolled round these fish in every conceivable way.
I cannot begin to describe my sensations when we circled round a
swordfish, and they grew more intense and acute as the strain and
suspense dragged. Captain Dan, of course, was mostly dominated by my
feeling. All the same, I think the strain affected him on his own
account.
Then one day Boschen came over to Clemente with Farnsworth--and let me
explain, by the way, that Boschen is probably the greatest heavy tackle
fisherman living. Boschen would not fish for anything except tuna or
swordfish, and up to this visit to Clemente he had caught many tuna, but
only one swordfish, a _Xiphias_. This is the broadbill, or true,
swordfish; and he is even rarer, and certainly larger and fiercer, than
the Marlin, or roundbill, swordfish. This time at Clemente, Boschen
caught his first Marlin and it weighed over three hundred pounds, leaped
clear into the air sixty-three times, and gave a spectacular and
magnificent surface fight that simply beggared description.
[Illustration: A SWORDFISH LEAPING OFF THE BOLD BLACK SHORE OF
CLEMENTE]
[Illustration: ON THE RAMPAGE]