water nearer the boat than my fish. Suddenly a sailfish leaped,
straightaway, over my line. Then two leaped at once, both directly over
my line.
"Sam, they'll cut my line!" I cried. "What do you think of that?"
Suddenly I saw sharp, dark, curved tails cutting the water. All was
excitement on board that boat then.
"A school of sailfish! Look! Look!" I yelled.
I counted ten tails, but there were more than that, and if I had been
quicker I could have counted more. Presently they went down. And I,
returning to earth and the business of fishing, discovered that during
the excitement my sailfish had taken advantage of a perfectly loose line
to free himself. Nine leaps we recorded him!
Assuredly we all felt that there would be no difficulty in soon hooking
up with another sailfish. And precisely three minutes later I was
standing up, leaning forward, all aquiver, watching my line fly off the
reel. I hooked that fellow hard. He was heavy, and he did not come up or
take off any length of line. Settling down slowly, he descended three or
four hundred feet, or so it seemed, and began to plug, very much like an
albacore, only much heavier. He fooled around down there for ten
minutes, with me jerking at him all the time to irritate him, before he
showed any sign of rising. At last I worried him into a fighting mood,
and up he came, so fast that I did not even try to take up the slack,
and he shot straight up. This jump, like that of a kingfish, was
wonderful. But it was so quick that the cameras could not cover it, and
we missed a great picture. He went down, only to leap again. I reeled
in the slack line and began to jerk at him to torment him, and I got him
to jumping and threshing right near the boat. The sun was in the faces
of the cameras and that was bad. And as it turned out not one of these
exposures was good. What a chance missed! But we did not know that then,
and we kept on tormenting him and snapping pictures of his leaps. In
this way, which was not careless, but deliberate, I played with him
until he shook out the hook. Fifteen leaps was his record.
Then it was interesting to see how soon I could raise another fish. I
was on the _qui vive_ for a while, then settled back to the old
expectant watchfulness. And presently I was rewarded by that vibrating
rap at my bait. I stood up so the better to see. The swells were just
right and the sun was over my shoulder. I spied the long, dark shape
back of my bait, saw it slide up and strike, felt the sharp rap--and
again. Then came the gentle tug. I let out line, but he let go. Still I
could see him plainly when the swell was right. I began to jerk my bait,
to give it a jumping motion, as I had so often done with flying-fish
bait when after swordfish. He sheered off, then turned with a rush,
broadside on, with his sail up. I saw him clearly, his whole length, and
he appeared blue and green and silver. He took the bait and turned away
from me, and when I struck the hook into his jaw I felt that it would
stay. He was not a jumper--only breaking clear twice. I could not make
him leap. He fought hard enough, however, and with that tackle took
thirty minutes to land.
It was eight o'clock. I had two sailfish in the boat and had fought two
besides. And at that time I sighted the first fishing-boat coming out
toward the reef. Before that boat got out near us I had struck and lost
three more sailfish, with eleven leaps in all to my credit. This boatman
had followed Sam and me the day before and he appeared to be bent upon
repeating himself. I thought I would rather enjoy that, because he had
two inexperienced anglers aboard, and they, in the midst of a school of
striking sailfish, would be sure to afford some fun. Three other boats
came out across the reef, ventured a little way in the Gulf Stream, and
then went back to grouper and barracuda. But that one boatman, B., stuck
to us. And right away things began to happen to his anglers. No one so
lucky in strikes as a green hand! I saw them get nine strikes without
hooking a fish. And there appeared to be a turmoil on board that boat. I
saw B. tearing his hair and the fishermen frantically jerking, and then
waving rods and arms. Much as I enjoyed it, Sam enjoyed it more. But I
was not mean enough to begrudge them a fish and believed that sooner or
later they would catch one.
Presently, when B.'s boat was just right for his anglers to see
everything my way, I felt a tug on my line. I leaped up, let the reel
run. Then I threw on my drag and leaned over to strike. But he let go.
Quickly I threw off the drag. The sailfish came back. Another tug! I let
him run. Then threw on the drag and got ready. But, no, he let go. Again
I threw off the drag and again he came back. He was hungry, but he was
cunning, too, and too far back for me to see. I let him run fifty feet,
threw on the drag, and struck hard. No go! I missed him. But again I
threw off the drag, let out more line back to him, and he took the bait
the fourth time, and harder than ever. I let him run perhaps a hundred
feet. All the time, of course, my boat was running. I had out a long
line--two hundred yards. Then I threw on the drag and almost cracked the
rod. This time I actually felt the hook go in.
How heavy and fast he was! The line slipped off and I was afraid of the
drag. I threw it off--no easy matter with that weight on it--and then
the line whistled. The sailfish was running straight toward B.'s boat
and, I calculated, should be close to it.
"Sam," I yelled, "watch him! If he jumps he'll jump into that boat!"
Then he came out, the biggest sailfish I ever saw, and he leaped
magnificently, not twenty yards back of that boat. He must have been
beyond the lines of the trolling anglers. I expected him to cross them
or cut himself loose. We yelled to B. to steer off, and while we yelled
the big sailfish leaped and leaped, apparently keeping just as close to
the boat. He certainly was right upon it and he was a savage leaper. He
would shoot up, wag his head, his sail spread like the ears of a mad
elephant, and he would turn clear over to alight with a smack and splash
that we plainly heard. And he had out nine hundred feet of line. Because
of his size I wanted him badly, but, badly as that was, I fought him
without a drag, let him run and leap, and I hoped he would jump right
into that boat. Afterward these anglers told me they expected him to do
just that and were scared to death. Also they said a close sight of him
leaping was beautiful and thrilling in the extreme.
I did not keep track of all this sailfish's leaps, but Sam recorded
twenty-three, and that is enough for any fisherman. I venture to state
that it will not be beaten very soon. When he stopped leaping we drew
him away from the other boat, and settled down to a hard fight with a
heavy, stubborn, game fish. In perhaps half an hour I had him twenty
yards away, and there he stayed while I stood up on the stern to watch
him and keep clear of the propeller. He weaved from side to side,
exactly like a tired swordfish, and every now and then he would stick
out his bill and swish! he would cut at the leader. This fish was not
only much larger than any I had seen, but also more brilliantly colored.
There were suggestions of purple that reminded me of the swordfish--that
royal purple game of the Pacific. Another striking feature was that in
certain lights he was a vivid green, and again, when deeper, he assumed
a strange, triangular shape, much like that of a kite. That, of course,
was when he extended the wide, waving sail. I was not able to see that
this sail afforded him any particular aid. It took me an hour to tire
out this sailfish, and when we got him in the boat he measured seven
feet and six inches, which was four inches longer than any record I
could find then.
At eleven o'clock I had another in the boat, making four sailfish in
all. We got fourteen jumps out of this last one. That was the end of my
remarkable luck, though it was luck to me to hook other sailfish during
the afternoon, and running up the number of leaps. I am proud of that,
anyway, and to those who criticized my catch as unsportsman-like I could
only say that it was a chance of a lifetime and I was after photographs
of leaping sailfish. Besides, I had a great opportunity to beat my
record of four swordfish in one day at Clemente Island in the Pacific.
But I was not equal to it.
* * * * *
I do not know how to catch sailfish yet, though I have caught a good
many. The sport is young and it is as difficult as it is trying. This
catch of mine made fishermen flock to the Stream all the rest of the
season, and more fish were caught than formerly. But the proportion held
about the same, although I consider that fishing for a sailfish and
catching one is a great gain in point. Still, we do not know much about
sailfish or how to take them. If I got twenty strikes and caught only
four fish, very likely the smallest that bit, I most assuredly was not
doing skilful fishing as compared with other kinds of fishing. And there
is the rub. Sailfish are not any other kind of fish. They have a wary
and cunning habit, with an exceptional occasion of blind hunger, and
they have small, bony jaws into which it is hard to sink a hook. Not one
of my sailfish was hooked deep down. Yet I let nearly all of them run
out a long line. Moreover, as I said before, if a sailfish is hooked
there are ten chances to one that he will free himself.
[Illustration: MEMORABLE OF LONG KEY]
[Illustration: LEAPING SAILFISH]
This one thing, then, I believe I have proved to myself--that the
sailfish is the gamest, the most beautiful and spectacular, and the
hardest fish to catch on light tackle, just as his brother, the Pacific
swordfish, is the grandest fish to take on the heaviest of tackle.
Long Key, indeed, has its charm. Most all the anglers who visit there go
back again. Only the queer ones--and there are many--who want three
kinds of boats, and nine kinds of bait, and a deep-sea diver for a
boatman, and tackle that cannot be broken, and smooth, calm seas always,
and five hundred pounds of fish a day--only that kind complain of Long
Key and kick--and yet go back again!
Sailfish will draw more and finer anglers down to the white strip of
color that shines white all day under a white sun and the same all night
under white stars. But it is not alone the fish that draws real
sportsmen to a place and makes them love it and profit by their return.
It is the spirit of the place--the mystery, like that of the little
hermit-crab, which crawls over the coral sand in his stolen shell, and
keeps to his lonely course, and loves his life so well--sunshine, which
is best of all for men; and the wind in the waving palms; and the
lonely, wandering coast with the eternal moan out on the reefs, the
sweet, fresh tang, the clear, antiseptic breath of salt, and always by
the glowing, hot, colorful day or by the soft dark night with its
shadows and whisperings on the beach, that significant presence--the
sense of something vaster than the heaving sea.
_Light Tackle in the Gulf Stream_
In view of the present controversy between light tackle and heavy tackle
champions, I think it advisable for me to state more definitely my stand
on the matter of light tackle before going on with a story about it.
There is a sharp line to be drawn between light tackle that is right and
light tackle that is wrong. So few anglers ever seem to think of the
case of the poor fish! In Borneo there is a species of lightning-bug
that tourists carry around at night on spits, delighted with the
novelty. But is that not rather hard on the lightning-bugs? As a matter
of fact, if we are to develop as anglers who believe in conservation and
sportsmanship, we must consider the fish--his right to life, and,
especially if he must be killed, to do it without brutality.
Brutal it is to haul in a fish on tackle so heavy that he has no chance
for his life; likewise it is brutal to hook a fish on tackle so light
that, if he does not break it, he must be followed around and all over,
chased by a motor-boat hour after hour, until he practically dies of
exhaustion.
I have had many tarpon and many tuna taken off my hooks by sharks
because I was using tackle too light. It never appeared an impossible
feat to catch Marlin swordfish on a nine-thread line, nor sailfish on a
six-thread line. But those lines are too light.
My business is to tell stories. If I can be so fortunate as to make them
thrilling and pleasing, for the edification of thousands who have other
business and therefore less leisure, then that is a splendid thing for
me. It is a responsibility that I appreciate. But on the other hand I
must tell the truth, I must show my own development, I must be of
service to the many who have so much more time to read than fish. It is
not enough to give pleasure merely; a writer should instruct. And if
what I say above offends any fisherman, I am sorry, and I suggest that
he read it twice.
What weight tackle to use is not such a hard problem to decide. All it
takes is some experience. To quote Mr. Bates, "The principle is that the
angler should subdue the fish by his skill with rod and line, and put
his strength into the battle to _end_ it, and not employ a worrying
process to a frightened fish that does not know what it is fighting."
VI
GULF STREAM FISHING
Some years have passed since I advocated light tackle fishing at Long
Key. In the early days of this famous resort most fishermen used hand
lines or very heavy outfits. The difficulties of introducing a
sportsman-like ideal have been manifold. A good rule of angling
philosophy is not to interfere with any fisherman's peculiar ways of
being happy, unless you want to be hated. It is not easy to influence a
majority of men in the interests of conservation. Half of them do not
know the conditions and are only out for a few days' or weeks' fun; the
rest do not care. But the facts are that all food fish and game fish
must be conserved. The waste has been enormous. If fishermen will only
study the use of light tackle they will soon appreciate a finer sport,
more fun and gratification, and a saving of fish.
Such expert and fine anglers as Crowninshield, Heilner, Cassiard,
Lester, Conill, and others are all enthusiastic about light tackle and
they preach the gospel of conservation.
But the boatmen of Long Key, with the exception of Jordon, are all
against light tackle. I must say that James Jordon is to be
congratulated and recommended. The trouble at Long Key is that new
boatmen are hired each season, and, as they do not own their boats, all
their interest centers in as big a catch as possible for each angler
they take out, in the hope and expectation, of course, of a generous
tip. Heavy tackle means a big catch and light tackle the reverse. And so
tons of good food and game fish are brought in only to be thrown to the
sharks. I mention this here to give it a wide publicity. It is criminal
in these days and ought to be stopped.
The season of 1918 was a disappointment in regard to any great
enthusiasm over the use of light tackle. We have tried to introduce
principles of the Tuna Club of Avalon. President Coxe of the Pacific
organization is doing much to revive the earlier ideals of Doctor
Holder, founder of the famous club. This year at Long Key a number of
prizes were offered by individual members. The contention was that the
light tackle specified was too light. This is absolutely a mistake. I
have proved that the regulation Tuna Club nine-thread line and six-ounce
tip are strong enough, if great care and skill be employed, to take the
tricky, hard-jawed, wild-leaping sailfish.
And for bonefish, that rare fighter known to so few anglers, the
three-six tackle--a three-ounce tip and six-thread line--is just the
ideal rig to make the sport exceedingly difficult, fascinating, and
thrilling. Old bonefishermen almost invariably use heavy tackle--stiff
rods and twelve-or fifteen-thread lines. They have their arguments, and
indeed these are hard nuts to crack. They claim three-six for the swift
and powerful bonefish is simply absurd. No! I can prove otherwise. But
that must be another story.
Some one must pioneer these sorely needed reforms. It may be a thankless
task, but it is one that some of us are standing by. We need the help of
brother anglers.
* * * * *
One morning in February there was a light breeze from the north and the
day promised to be ideal. We ran out to the buoy and found the Gulf
Stream a very dark blue, with a low ripple and a few white-caps here and
there.
Above the spindle we began to see sailfish jumping everywhere. One
leaped thirteen times, and another nineteen. Many of them came out
sidewise, with a long, sliding plunge, which action at first I took to
be that made by a feeding fish. After a while, however, and upon closer
view, I changed my mind about this.
My method, upon seeing a fish jump, was to speed up the boat until we
were in the vicinity where the fish had come up. Then we would slow down
and begin trolling, with two baits out, one some forty or fifty feet
back and the other considerably farther.
We covered several places where we had seen the sheetlike splashes; and
at the third or fourth I felt the old electrifying tap at my bait. I
leaped up and let my bait run back. The sailfish tapped again, then took
hold so hard and ran off so swiftly that I jerked sooner than usual. I
pulled the bait away from him. All this time the boat was running.
Instead of winding in I let the bait run back. Suddenly the sailfish
took it fiercely. I let him run a long way before I struck at him, and
then I called to the boatman to throw out the clutch. When the boat is
moving there is a better chance of a tight line while striking, and that
is imperative if an angler expects to hook the majority of these
illusive sailfish. I hooked this fellow, and he showed at once, a small
fish, and began to leap toward the boat, making a big bag in the line. I
completely lost the feel of his weight. When he went down, and with all
that slack line, I thought he was gone. But presently the line tightened
and he began to jump in another direction. He came out twice with his
sail spread, a splendid, vivid picture; then he took to skittering,
occasionally throwing himself clear, and he made some surface runs,
splashing and threshing, and then made some clean greyhound-like leaps.
In all he cleared the water eleven times before he settled down. After
that it took me half an hour to land him. He was not hurt and we let him
go.
Soon after we got going again we raised a school of four or more
sailfish. And when a number rush for the baits it is always exciting.
The first fish hit my bait and the second took R. C.'s. I saw both fish
in action, and there is considerable difference between the hitting and
the taking of a bait. R. C. jerked his bait away from his fish and I
yelled for him to let it run back. He did so. A bronze and silver blaze
and a boil on the water told me how hungry R. C.'s sailfish was. "Let
him run with it!" I yelled. Then I attended to my own troubles. There
was a fish rapping at my bait. I let out line, yard after yard, but he
would not take hold, and, as R. C.'s line was sweeping over mine, I
thought best to reel in.
"Hook him now!" I yelled.
I surely did shiver at the way my brother came up with that light
tackle. But he hooked the sailfish, and nothing broke. Then came a big
white splash on the surface, but no sign of the fish. R. C.'s line
sagged down.
"Look out! Wind in! He's coming at us!" I called.
"He's off!" replied my brother.
That might well have been, but, as I expected, he was not. He broke
water on a slack line and showed us all his dripping, colorful body
nearer than a hundred feet. R. C. thereupon performed with incredible
speed at the reel and quickly had a tight line. Mr. Sailfish did not
like that. He slid out, wrathfully wagging his bill, and left a seamy,
foamy track behind him, finally to end that play with a splendid long
leap. He was headed away from us now, with two hundred yards of line
out, going hard and fast, and we had to follow him. We had a fine
straightaway run to recover the line. This was a thrilling chase, and
one, I think, we never would have had if R. C. had been using heavy
tackle. The sailfish led us out half a mile before he sounded.
Then in fifteen minutes more R. C. had him up where we could see his
purple and bronze colors and the strange, triangular form of him, which
peculiar shape came mostly from the waving sail. I thought I saw other
shapes and colors with him, and bent over the gunwale to see better.
"He's got company. Two sharks!--You want to do some quick work now or
good-by sailfish!"
[Illustration: Nassau Photo
SOLITUDE ON THE SEA]
[Illustration: Nassau Photo
SUNSET BY THE SEA]
A small gray shark and a huge yellow shark were coming up with our
quarry. R. C. said things, and pulled hard on the light tackle. I got
hold of the leader and drew the sailfish close to the boat. He began to
thresh, and the big shark came with a rush. Instinctively I let go of
the leader, which action was a blunder. The sailfish saw the shark and,
waking up, he fought a good deal harder than before the sharks appeared
upon the scene. He took off line, and got so far away that I gave up any
hope that the sharks might not get him. There was a heavy commotion out
in the water. The shark had made a rush. So had the sailfish, and he
came right back to the boat. R. C. reeled in swiftly.
"Hold him hard now!" I admonished, and I leaped up on the stern. The
sailfish sheered round on the surface, with tail and bill out, while the
shark swam about five feet under him. He was a shovel-nosed, big-finned
yellow shark, weighing about five hundred pounds. He saw me. I waved my
hat at him, but he did not mind that. He swam up toward the surface and
his prey. R. C. was now handling the light tackle pretty roughly. It is
really remarkable what can be done with nine-thread. In another moment
we would have lost the sailfish. The boatman brought my rifle and a shot
scared the shark away. Then we got the sailfish into the boat. He was a
beautiful specimen for mounting, weighing forty-five pounds, the first
my brother had taken.
After that we had several strikes, but not one of them was what I could
call a hungry, smashing strike. These sailfish are finicky biters. I had
one rap at my bait with his bill until he knocked the bait off.
I think the feature of the day was the sight of two flying-fish that
just missed boarding the boat. They came out to the left of us and
sailed ahead together. Then they must have been turned by the wind, for
they made a beautiful, graceful curve until they came around so that I
was sure they would fly into the boat. Their motion was indescribably
airy and feathery, buoyant and swift, with not the slightest quiver of
fins or wings as they passed within five feet of me. I could see through
the crystal wings. Their bodies were white and silvery, and they had
staring black eyes. They were not so large as the California
flying-fish, nor did they have any blue color. They resembled the
California species, however, in that same strange, hunted look which
always struck me. To see these flying-fish this way was provocative of
thought. They had been pursued by some hungry devil of a fish, and with
a birdlike swiftness with which nature had marvelously endowed them they
had escaped the enemy. Here I had at once the wonder and beauty and
terror of the sea. These fish were not leaping with joy. I have not
often seen fish in the salt water perform antics for anything except
flight or pursuit. Sometimes kingfish appear to be playing when they
leap so wonderfully at sunset hour, but as a rule salt-water fish do not
seem to be playful.
* * * * *