several more endless days in vain. Then on the twenty-fifth day, way off
the east end of Clemente, we sighted a swordfish with a tail almost
pink. He had just come to those waters and had not yet gotten sunburnt.
We did not have to circle round him! At long distance he saw my bait,
and as he went under I saw he had headed for it. I remember that I shook
all over. And when I felt him take that bait, thrill on thrill
electrified me. Steadily the line ran off the reel. Then Captain Dan
leaned over and whispered, hoarsely:
"When you think he's had enough throw on your drag and strike. Then wind
quick and strike again.... Wind and strike! Keep it up till he shows!"
Despite my intense excitement, I was calm enough to follow directions.
But when I struck I felt no weight at all--no strain on the line.
Frantically I wound and jerked--again and again! I never felt him at
all. Suddenly my line rose--and then, bewilderingly near the boat, when
I was looking far off, the water split with a roar and out shot a huge,
gleaming, white-and-purple fish. He blurred in my sight. Down he went
with a crash. I wound the reel like a madman, but I never even half got
up the slack line. The swordfish had run straight toward the boat. He
leaped again, in a place I did not expect, and going down, instantly
came up in another direction. His speed, his savageness, stunned me. I
could not judge of his strength, for I never felt his weight. The next
leap I saw him sling the hook. It was a great performance. Then that
swordfish, finding himself free, leaped for the open sea, and every few
yards he came out in a clean jump. I watched him, too fascinated to
count the times he broke water, but he kept it up till he was out of
sight on the horizon.
At first Captain Dan took the loss harder than I took it. But gradually
I realized what had happened, and, though I made a brave effort to be
game and cheerful, I was sick. It did seem hard that, after all those
twenty-five days of patience and hope and toil, I could not have hooked
the swordfish. I see now that it was nothing, only an incident, but I
shall never forget the pang.
That day ended my 1914 experience. The strain had been too hard on me.
It had taken all this time for me to appreciate what swordfishing might
be. I assured Captain Dan I would come back in 1915, but at the time he
did not believe me. He said:
"If you hadn't stuck it out so long I wouldn't care. Most of the
fishermen try only a few days and never come back. Don't quit now!"
* * * * *
But I did go back in 1915. Long ago on my lonely desert trips I learned
the value of companions and I dreaded the strain of this swordfishing
game. I needed some one to help lessen it. Besides that, I needed
snapshot pictures of leaping swordfish, and it was obvious that Captain
Dan and I would have our hands full when a fish got hooked. We had
music, books, magazines--everything that could be thought of.
Murphy, the famous old Avalon fisherman and tackle-maker, had made me a
double split-bamboo rod, and I had brought the much-talked-of B-Ocean
reel. This is Boschen's invention--one he was years in perfecting. It
held fifteen hundred feet of No. 24 line. And I will say now that it is
a grand reel, the best on the market. But I did not know that then, and
had to go through the trip with it, till we were both tried out. Lastly,
and most important, I had worked to get into condition to fight
swordfish. For weeks I rowed a boat at home to get arms and back in
shape, and especially my hands. Let no fisherman imagine he can land a
fighting swordfish with soft hands!
So, prepared for a long, hard strain, like that of 1914, I left Avalon
hopeful, of course, but serious, determined, and alive to the
possibilities of failure.
I did not troll across the channel between the islands. There was a big
swell running, and four hours of it gave me a disagreeable feeling. Now
and then I got up to see how far off Clemente was. And upon the last of
these occasions I saw the fins of a swordfish right across our bow. I
yelled to Captain Dan. He turned the boat aside, almost on top of the
swordfish. Hurriedly I put a bait on my hook and got it overboard, and
let the line run. Then I looked about for the swordfish. He had gone
down.
It seemed then that, simultaneously with the recurrence of a peculiar
and familiar disappointment, a heavy and powerful fish viciously took my
bait and swept away. I yelled to Captain Dan:
"He's got it!" ...
Captain Dan stopped the engine and came to my side. "No!" he exclaimed.
Then I replied, "Look at that line!" ...
It seemed like a dream. Too good to be true! I let out a shout when I
hooked him and a yell of joy when he broke water--a big swordfish, over
two hundred pounds. What really transpired on Captain Dan's boat the
following few moments I cannot adequately describe. Suffice to say that
it was violent effort, excitement, and hilarity. I never counted the
leaps of the swordfish. I never clearly saw him after that first leap.
He seemed only a gleam in flying spray. Still, I did not make any
mistakes.
At the end of perhaps a quarter of an hour the swordfish quit his
surface work and settled down to under-water fighting, and I began to
find myself. Captain Dan played the phonograph, laughed, and joked while
I fought the fish. My companions watched my rod and line and the water,
wide-eyed and mute, as if they could not believe what seemed true.
In about an hour and a half the swordfish came up and, tired out, he
rolled on the top of the great swells. But he could not be drawn near
the boat. One little wave of his tail made my rod bend dangerously.
Still, I knew I had him beaten, and I calculated that in another hour,
perhaps, I could lead him alongside.
[Illustration: SWORDFISH ON THE SURFACE]
[Illustration: HOLDING HARD]
Then, like thunder out of a clear sky, something went wrong with the
great B-Ocean reel. It worked hard. When a big swell carried the
swordfish up, pulling out line, the reel rasped.
"It's freezing on you!" shouted Captain Dan, with dark glance.
A new reel sometimes clogs and stops from friction and heat. I had had
von Hofe and other reels freeze. But in this instance, it seemed that
for the reel to freeze would be simply heartbreaking. Well--it froze,
tight as a shut vise! I sat there, clutching the vibrating rod, and I
watched the swordfish as the swells lifted him. I expected the line to
break, but, instead, the hook tore out.
Next day we sighted four swordfish and tried in vain to coax one to
bite.
Next day we sighted ten swordfish, which is a record for one day. They
were indifferent.
The next three. The next one, with like result. The next day no fish
were sighted, and that fact encouraged Captain Dan.
The next day, late in the afternoon, I had a strike and hooked a
swordfish. He leaped twice and threw the hook.
The next day I got eleven jumps out of another before he gracefully
flung the hook at the boat.
The next day, a big swordfish, with a ragged purple fin, took my bait
right astern of the boat and sounded deep. I hooked him. Time and time
again I struck with all my might. The fish did not seem to mind that.
He swam along with the boat. He appeared very heavy. I was elated and
curious.
"What's he going to do?" I kept asking Captain Dan.
"Wait!" he exclaimed.
After six minutes the swordfish came up, probably annoyed by the hook
fast in him. When he showed his flippers, as Captain Dan called them, we
all burst out with wonder and awe. As yet I had no reason to fear a
swordfish.
"He's a whale!" yelled Captain Dan.
Probably this fish measured eight feet between his dorsal fin and the
great curved fluke of his tail, and that would make his total length
over twelve feet.
No doubt the swordfish associated the thing fast in his jaw with the
boat, for he suddenly awoke. He lifted himself, wagging his sword,
showing his great silvery side. Then he began to thresh. I never felt a
quarter of such power at the end of a line. He went swift as a flash.
Then he leaped sheer ahead, like a porpoise, only infinitely more
active. We all yelled. He was of great size, over three hundred, broad,
heavy, long, and the most violent and savage fish I ever had a look at.
Then he rose half--two-thirds out of the water, shaking his massive
head, jaws open, sword sweeping, and seemed to move across the water in
a growing, boiling maelstrom of foam. This was the famous "walking on
his tail" I had heard so much about. It was an incredible feat. He must
have covered fifty yards. Then he plunged down, and turned swiftly in a
curve toward the boat. He looked threatening to me. I could not manage
the slack line. One more leap and he threw the hook. I found the point
of the hook bent. It had never been embedded in his jaw. And also I
found that his violent exercise had lasted just one minute. I wondered
how long I would have lasted had the hook been deep-set.
Next day I had a swordfish take my bait, swim away on the surface,
showing the flying-fish plainly between his narrow beak, and after
fooling with it for a while he ejected it.
Next day I got a great splashing strike from another, without even a
sight of the fish.
Next day I hooked one that made nineteen beautiful leaps straightaway
before he got rid of the hook.
And about that time I was come to a sad pass. In fact, I could not
sleep, eat, or rest. I was crazy on swordfish.
Day after day, from early morning till late afternoon, aboard on the
sea, trolling, watching, waiting, eternally on the alert, I had kept at
the game. My emotional temperament made this game a particularly trying
one. And every possible unlucky, unforeseen, and sickening thing that
could happen to a fisherman had happened. I grew morbid, hopeless. I
could no longer see the beauty of that wild and lonely island, nor the
wonder of that smooth, blue Pacific, nor the myriad of strange
sea-creatures. It was a bad state of mind which I could not wholly
conquer. Only by going at it so hard, and sticking so long, without any
rests, could I gain the experience I wanted. A man to be a great
fisherman should have what makes Stewart White a great hunter--no
emotions. If a lion charged me I would imagine a million things. Once
when a Mexican _tigre_, a jaguar, charged me I--But that is not this
story. Boschen has the temperament for a great fisherman. He is
phlegmatic. All day--and day after day--he sits there, on trigger, so to
speak, waiting for the strike that will come. He is so constituted that
it does not matter to him how soon or how late the strike comes. To me
the wait, the suspense, grew to be maddening. Yet I stuck it out, and in
this I claim a victory, of which I am prouder than I am of the record
that gave me more swordfish to my credit than any other fisherman has
taken.
On the next day, August 11th, about three o'clock, I saw a long, moving
shadow back of my bait. I jumped up. There was the purple, drifting
shape of a swordfish. I felt a slight vibration when he hit the bait
with his sword. Then he took the bait. I hooked this swordfish. He
leaped eight times before he started out to sea. He took us three miles.
In an hour and five minutes I brought him to gaff--a small fish. Captain
Dan would take no chances of losing him. He risked much when he grasped
the waving sword with his right hand, and with the gaff in his left he
hauled the swordfish aboard and let him slide down into the cockpit. For
Captain Dan it was no less an overcoming of obstinate difficulty than
for me. He was as elated as I, but I forgot the past long, long siege,
while he remembered it.
That swordfish certainly looked a tiger of the sea. He had purple fins,
long, graceful, sharp; purple stripes on a background of dark, mottled
bronze green; mother-of-pearl tint fading into the green; and great
opal eyes with dark spots in the center. The colors came out most
vividly and exquisitely, the purple blazing, just as the swordfish
trembled his last and died. He was nine feet two inches long and weighed
one hundred and eighteen pounds.
[Illustration: A CLEAN GREYHOUND LEAP]
[Illustration: 316-POUND SWORDFISH]
* * * * *
I caught one the next day, one hundred and forty-four pounds. Fought
another the next day and he threw the hook after a half-hour. Caught two
the following day--one hundred and twenty, and one hundred and sixty-six
pounds. And then, Captain Dan foreshadowing my remarkable finish,
exclaimed:
"I'm lookin' for busted records now!"
* * * * *
One day about noon the sea was calm except up toward the west end, where
a wind was whipping the water white. Clemente Island towered with its
steep slopes of wild oats and its blue canons full of haze.
Captain Dan said he had seen a big swordfish jump off to the west, and
we put on full speed. He must have been a mile out and just where the
breeze ruffled the water. As good luck would have it, we came upon the
fish on the surface. I consider this a fine piece of judgment for
Captain Dan, to locate him at that distance. He was a monster and fresh
run from the outside sea. That is to say, his great fin and tail were
violet, almost pink in color. They had not had time to get sunburnt, as
those of fish earlier arrived at Clemente.
We made a wide circle round him, to draw the flying-fish bait near him.
But before we could get it near he went down. The same old story, I
thought, with despair--these floating fish will not bite. We circled
over the place where he had gone down, and I watched my bait rising and
falling in the low swells.
Suddenly Captain Dan yelled and I saw a great blaze of purple and silver
green flashing after my bait. It was the swordfish, and he took the bait
on the run. That was a moment for a fisherman! I found it almost
impossible to let him have enough line. All that I remember about the
hooking of him was a tremendous shock. His first dash was irresistibly
powerful, and I had a sensation of the absurdity of trying to stop a
fish like that. Then the line began to rise on the surface and to
lengthen in my sight, and I tried to control my rapture and fear enough
to be able to see him clearly when he leaped. The water split, and up he
shot--a huge, glittering, savage, beautiful creature, all purple and
opal in the sunlight. He did not get all the way out of the water, but
when he dropped back he made the water roar.
Then, tearing off line, he was out of the water in similar leaps--seven
times more. Captain Dan had his work cut out for him as well as I had
mine. It was utterly impossible to keep a tight line, and when I felt
the slacking of weight I grew numb and sick--thinking he was gone. But
he suddenly straightened the line with a jerk that lifted me, and he
started inshore. He had about four hundred feet of line out, and more
slipping out as if the drag was not there. Captain Dan headed the boat
after him at full speed. Then followed a most thrilling race. It was
over very quickly, but it seemed an age. When he stopped and went down
he had pulled thirteen hundred feet off my reel while we were chasing
him at full speed. While he sounded I got back half of this line. I wish
I could give some impression of the extraordinary strength and speed of
this royal purple fish of the sea. He came up again, in two more leaps,
one of which showed me his breadth of back, and then again was performed
for me the feature of which I had heard so much and which has made the
swordfish the most famous of all fish--he rose two-thirds out of the
water, I suppose by reason of the enormous power of his tail, though it
seemed like magic, and then he began to walk across the sea in a great
circle of white foam, wagging his massive head, sword flying, jaws wide,
dorsal fin savagely erect, like a lion's mane. He was magnificent. I
have never seen fury so expressed or such an unquenchable spirit. Then
he dropped back with a sudden splash, and went down and down and down.
All swordfish fight differently, and this one adopted tuna tactics. He
sounded and began to plug away and bang the leader with his tail. He
would take off three hundred feet of line, and then, as he slowed up, I,
by the labor of Hercules, pulled and pumped and wound most of it back on
the reel. This kept up for an hour--surely the hardest hour's work of my
life.
But a swordfish is changeable. That is the beauty of his gameness. He
left off sounding and came up to fight on the surface. In the next hour
he pulled us from the Fence to Long Point, a distance of four miles.
Once off the Point, where the tide rip is strong, he began to circle in
great, wide circles. Strangely, he did not put out to sea. And here,
during the next hour, I had the finest of experiences I think that ever
befell a fisherman. I was hooked to a monster fighting swordfish; I was
wet with sweat, and salt water that had dripped from my reel, and I was
aching in every muscle. The sun was setting in banks of gold and silver
fog over the west end, and the sea was opalescent--vast, shimmering,
heaving, beautiful. And at this sunset moment, or hour--for time seemed
nothing--a school of giant tuna began leaping around us, smashing the
water, making the flying-fish rise in clouds, like drifting bees. I saw
a whole flock of flying-fish rise into the air with that sunset glow and
color in the background, and the exquisite beauty of life and movement
was indescribable. Next a bald eagle came soaring down, and, swooping
along the surface, he lowered his talons to pick up a crippled
flying-fish. And when the hoary-headed bird rose, a golden eagle, larger
and more powerful, began to contest with him for the prey.
Then the sky darkened and the moon whitened--and my fight went on. I had
taken the precaution to work for two months at rowing to harden my hands
for just such a fight as this. Yet my hands suffered greatly. A man who
is not in the best of physical trim, with his hands hard, cannot hope to
land a big swordfish.
I was all afternoon at this final test, and all in, too, but at last I
brought him near enough for Captain Dan to grasp the leader.... Then
there was something doing around that boat for a spell! I was positive
a German torpedo had hit us. But the explosion was only the swordfish's
tail and Dan's voice yelling for another gaff. When Captain Dan got the
second gaff in him there was another submarine attack, but the boat did
not sink.
Next came the job of lassoing the monster's tail. Here I shone, for I
had lassoed mountain-lions with Buffalo Jones, and I was efficient and
quick. Captain Dan and I were unable to haul the fish on board, and we
had to get out the block and tackle and lift the tail on deck, secure
that, and then pull up the head from the other side. After that I needed
some kind of tackle to hold me up.
We were miles from camp, and I was wet and cold and exhausted, and the
pain in my blistered hands was excruciating. But not soon shall I forget
that ride down the shore with the sea so rippling and moon-blanched, and
the boom of the surf on the rocks, and the peaks of the island standing
bold and dark against the white stars.
This swordfish weighed three hundred and sixteen pounds on faulty scales
at Clemente. He very likely weighed much more. He was the largest
Captain Dan ever saw, up to that time. Al Shade guessed his weight at
three hundred and sixty. The market fishermen, who put in at the little
harbor the next day, judged him way over three hundred, and these men
are accurate. The fish hung head down for a day and night, lost all the
water and blood and feed in him, and another day later, when landed at
Avalon, he had lost considerable. There were fishermen who discredited
Captain Dan and me, who in our enthusiasm claimed a record.
But--that sort of thing is one of the aspects of the sport. I was sorry,
for Captain Dan's sake. The rivalries between boatmen are keen and
important, and they are fostered by unsportsman-like fishermen. And
fishermen live among past associations; they grow to believe their
performances unbeatable and they hate to see a new king crowned. This
may be human, since we are creatures who want always to excel, but it is
irritating to the young fishermen. As for myself, what did I care how
much the swordfish weighed? He was huge, magnificent, beautiful, and
game to the end of that four-hour battle. Who or what could change
that--or the memory of those schools of flying-fish in the sunset
glow--or the giant tuna, smashing the water all about me--or the eagles
fighting over my head--or the beauty of wild and lonely Clemente under
its silver cloud-banks?
* * * * *
I went on catching one or two swordfish every day, and Captain Dan
averred that the day would come when we would swamp the boat. These days
were fruitful of the knowledge of swordfish that I had longed to earn.
They are indeed "queer birds." I learned to recognize the sharp
vibration of my line when a swordfish rapped the bait with his sword. No
doubt he thought he thus killed his prey. Then the strike would come
invariably soon after. No two swordfish acted or fought alike. I hooked
one that refused to stand the strain of the line. He followed the boat,
and was easily gaffed. I hooked another, a heavy fish, that did not show
for two hours. We were sure we had a broadbill, and were correspondingly
worried. The broadbill swordfish is a different proposition. He is
larger, fiercer, and tireless. He will charge the boat, and nothing but
the churning propeller will keep him from ramming the boat. There were
eight broadbill swordfish hooked at Avalon during the summer, and not
one brought to gaff. This is an old story. Only two have been caught to
date. They are so powerful, so resistless, so desperate, and so cunning
that it seems impossible to catch them. They will cut bait after bait
off your hook as clean as if it had been done with a knife. For that
matter, their broad bill is a straight, long, powerful two-edged sword.
And the fish perfectly understands its use.
This matter of swordfish charging the boat is apt to be discredited by
fishermen. But it certainly is not doubted by the few who know. I have
seen two swordfish threaten my boat, and one charge it. Walker, an
Avalon boatman, tells of a prodigious battle his angler had with a
broadbill giant calculated to weigh five hundred pounds. This fight
lasted eight hours. Many times the swordfish charged the boat and lost
his nerve. If that propeller had stopped he would have gone through the
boat as if it had been paper. After this fish freed himself he was so
mad that he charged the boat repeatedly. Boschen fought a big broadbill
for eleven hours. And during this fight the swordfish sounded to the
bottom forty-eight times, and had to be pumped up; he led the boat
almost around Catalina Island--twenty-nine miles; and he had gotten out
into the channel, headed for Clemente, when he broke away. This fish did
everything. I consider this battle the greatest on record. Only a man of
enormous strength and endurance could have lasted so long--not to speak
of the skill and wits necessary on the part of both fisherman and
boatman. All fishermen fish for the big fish, though it is sport to
catch any game fish, irrespective of size. But let any fisherman who has
nerve see and feel a big swordfish on his line, and from that moment he
is obsessed. Why, a tarpon is child's play compared to holding a fast
swordfish.
It is my great ambition now to catch a broadbill. That would completely
round out my fishing experience. And I shall try. But I doubt that I
will be so fortunate. It takes a long time. Boschen was years catching
his fish. Moreover, though it is hard to get a broadbill to bite--and
harder to hook him--it is infinitely harder to do anything with him
after you do get fast to him.
* * * * *