gradually anywhere from two feet near the beach to twenty feet five
miles out on the reef. When there has been no wind for several days,
which is a rare thing for Long Key, the water becomes crystal clear and
the fish and marine creatures are an endless source of interest to the
fisherman. Of course a large boat, in going out on the reef, must use
the channel between the keys, but a small boat or canoe can go anywhere.
It is remarkable how the great game fish come in from the Stream across
the reef into shoal water. Barracuda come right up to the shore, and
likewise the big sharks. The bottom is a clean, white, finely ribbed
coral sand, with patches of brown seaweed here and there and golden
spots, and in the shallower water different kinds of sponges. Out on the
reef the water is a light green. The Gulf Stream runs along the outer
edge of the reef, and here between Tennessee Buoy and Alligator Light,
eighteen miles, is a feeding-ground for sailfish, kingfish, amberjack,
barracuda, and other fishes. The ballyhoo is the main feed of these
fishes, and it is indeed a queer little fish. He was made by nature,
like the sardine and mullet and flying-fish, to serve as food for the
larger fishes. The ballyhoo is about a foot long, slim and flat, shiny
and white on the sides and dark green on the back, with a sharp-pointed,
bright-yellow tail, the lower lobe of which is developed to twice the
length of the upper. He has a very strange feature in the fact that his
lower jaw resembles the bill of a snipe, being several inches long,
sharp and pointed and hard; but he has no upper lip or beak at all. This
half-bill must be used in relation to his food, but I do not have any
idea how this is done.
One day I found the Gulf Stream a mile off Tennessee Buoy, whereas on
other days it would be close in. On this particular day the water was a
dark, clear, indigo blue and appreciably warmer than the surrounding
sea. This Stream has a current of several miles an hour, flowing up the
coast. Everywhere we saw the Portuguese men-of-war shining on the waves.
There was a slight, cool breeze blowing, rippling the water just enough
to make fishing favorable. I saw a big loggerhead turtle, weighing about
three hundred pounds, coming around on the surface among these
Portuguese men-of-war, and as we ran up I saw that he was feeding on
these queer balloon-like little creatures. Sometimes he would come up
under one and it would stick on his back, and he would turn laboriously
around from under it, and submerge his back so he had it floating again.
Then he would open his cavernous mouth and take it in. Considering the
stinging poison these Portuguese men-of-war secrete about them, the
turtle must have had a very tabasco-sauce meal. Right away I began to
see evidence of fish on the surface, which is always a good sign. We
went past a school of bonita breaking the water up into little swirls.
Then I saw a smashing break of a sailfish coming out sideways, sending
the water in white sheets. We slowed down the boat and got our baits
overboard at once. I was using a ballyhoo bait hooked by a small hook
through the lips, with a second and larger hook buried in the body. R.
C. was using a strip of mullet, which for obvious reasons seems to be
the preferred bait from Palm Beach to Long Key. And the obvious reason
is that nobody seems to take the trouble to get what might be proper
bait for sailfish. Mullet is an easy bait to get and commands just as
high a price as anything else, which, as a matter of fact, is highway
robbery. With a bait like a ballyhoo or a shiner I could get ten bites
to one with mullet.
We trolled along at slow speed. The air was cool, the sun pleasant, the
sea beautiful, and this was the time to sit back and enjoy a sense of
freedom and great space of the ocean, and watch for leaping fish or
whatever might attract the eye.
Here and there we passed a strange jellyfish, the like of which I had
never before seen. It was about as large as a good-sized cantaloup, and
pale, clear yellow all over one end and down through the middle, and
then commenced a dark red fringe which had a waving motion. Inside this
fringe was a scalloped circular appendage that had a sucking motion,
which must have propelled it through the water, and it made quite fair
progress. Around every one of these strange jellyfish was a little
school of tiny minnows, as clear-colored as crystals. These all swam on
in the same direction as the drift of the Gulf Stream.
When we are fishing for sailfish everything that strikes we take to be a
sailfish until we find out it is something else. They are inconsistent
and queer fish. Sometimes they will rush a bait, at other times they
will tug at it and then chew at it, and then they will tap it with their
bills. I think I have demonstrated that they are about the hardest fish
to hook that swims, and also on light tackle they are one of the gamest
and most thrilling. However, not one in a hundred fishermen who come to
Long Key will go after them with light tackle. And likewise not one out
of twenty-five sailfish brought in there is caught by a fisherman who
deliberately went out after sailfish. Mostly they are caught by accident
while drags are set for kingfish or barracuda. At Palm Beach I believe
they fish for them quite persistently, with a great deal of success. But
it is more a method of still fishing which has no charms for me.
Presently my boatman yelled, "Sailfish!" We looked off to port and saw a
big sailfish break water nine times. He was perhaps five hundred yards
distant. My boatman put on speed, and, as my boat is fast, it did not
take us long to get somewhere near where this big fish broke. We did our
best to get to the exact spot where he came up, then slowed down and
trolled over the place. In this instance I felt a light tap on my bait
and I jumped up quickly, both to look and let him take line. But I did
not see him or feel him any more. We went on. I saw a flash of bright
silver back of my brother's bait. At the instant he hooked a kingfish.
And then I felt one cut my bait off. Kingfish are savage strikers and
they almost invariably hook themselves when the drag is set. But as I
fish for sailfish with a free-running reel, of course I am exasperated
when a kingfish takes hold. My brother pulled in this kingfish, which
was small, and we rebaited our hooks and went on again. I saw more
turtles, and one we almost ran over, he was so lazy in getting down.
These big, cumbersome sea animals, once they get headed down and
started, can disappear with remarkable rapidity. I rather enjoy
watching them, but my boatman, who is a native of these parts and
therefore a turtle-hunter by instinct, always wore a rather disappointed
look when we saw one. This was because I would not allow him to harpoon
it.
[Illustration: TWIN TIGERS OF THE SEA--THE SAVAGE BARRACUDA]
[Illustration: HAPPY PASTIME OF BONEFISHING]
The absence of gulls along this stretch of reef is a feature that struck
me. So that once in a while when I did see a lonely white gull I watched
him with pleasure. And once I saw a cero mackerel jump way in along the
reef, and even at a mile's distance I could see the wonderful curve he
made.
The wind freshened, and all at once it seemed leaping sailfish were all
around us. Then as we turned the boat this way and that we had thrills
of anticipation. Suddenly R. C. had a strike. The fish took the bait
hungrily and sheered off like an arrow and took line rapidly. When R. C.
hooked him he came up with a big splash and shook himself to free the
hook. He jumped here and there and then went down deep. And then he took
a good deal of line off the reel. I was surprised to see a sailfish
stick his bill out of the water very much closer to the boat than where
R. C.'s fish should have been. I had no idea then that this was a fish
other than the one R. C. had hooked. But when he cut the line either
with his bill or his tail, and R. C. wound it in, we very soon
discovered that it was not the fish that he had hooked. This is one of
the handicaps of light tackle.
We went on fishing. Sailfish would jump around us for a while and then
they would stop. We would not see one for several minutes. It is always
very exciting to be among them this way. Presently I had one take hold
to run off slowly and steadily, and I let him go for fifty feet, and
when I struck I tore the hook away from him. Quickly I let slack line
run back to him ten or fifteen feet at a time, until I felt him take it
once more. He took it rather suspiciously, I felt, and I honestly
believe that I could tell that he was mouthing or chewing the bait,
which made me careful to let the line run off easily to him. Suddenly he
rushed off, making the reel smoke. I let him run one hundred and fifty
feet and then stood up, throwing on the drag, and when the line
straightened tight I tried to jerk at him as hard as the tackle would
stand. As a matter of fact, however, he was going so fast and hard that
he hooked himself. It is indeed seldom that I miss one when he runs like
this. This fellow came up two hundred yards from the boat and slid along
the water with half of his body raised, much like one of those
coasting-boards I have seen bathers use, towed behind a motor-launch. He
went down and came up in a magnificent sheer leap, with his broad sail
shining in the sun. Very angry he was, and he reminded me of a Marlin
swordfish. Next he went down, and came up again bent in a curve, with
the big sail stretched again. He skittered over the water, going down
and coming up, until he had leaped seven times. This was a big, heavy
fish, and on the light six-ounce tip and nine-thread line I had my work
cut out for me. We had to run the boat toward him so I could get back my
line. Here was the advantage of having a fast boat with a big rudder.
Otherwise I would have lost my fish. After some steady deep plugging he
came up again and set my heart aflutter by a long surface play in which
he took off one hundred yards of line and then turned, leaping straight
for the boat. Fortunately the line was slack and I could throw off the
drag and let him run. Slack line never bothers me when I really get one
of these fish well hooked. If he is not well hooked he is going to get
away, anyhow. After that he went down into deep water and I had one long
hour of hard work in bringing him to the boat. Six hours later he
weighed fifty-eight and a half pounds, and as he had lost a good deal of
blood and dried out considerably, he would have gone over sixty pounds,
which, so far, is the largest sailfish I know of caught on light tackle.
The sailfish were still leaping around us and we started off again. The
captain called our attention to a tail and a sail a few yards apart not
far from the boat. We circled around them to drive them down. I saw a
big wave back of R. C.'s bait and I yelled, "Look out!" I felt something
hit my bait and then hit it again. I knew it was a sailfish rapping at
it. I let the line slip off the reel. Just then R. C. had a vicious
strike and when he hooked the fish the line snapped. He claimed that he
had jerked too hard. This is the difficulty with light tackle--to strike
hard, yet not break anything. I was standing up and leaning forward,
letting my line slip off the reel, trying to coax that sailfish to come
back. Something took hold and almost jerked the rod out of my hands.
That was a magnificent strike, and of course I thought it was one of the
sailfish. But when I hooked him I had my doubts. The weight was heavy
and ponderous and tugging. He went down and down and down. The boatman
said amberjack. I was afraid so, but I still had my hopes. For a while I
could not budge him, and at last, when I had given up hope that it was a
sailfish, I worked a good deal harder than I would have otherwise. It
took me twenty-five minutes to subdue a forty-pound amberjack. Here was
proof of what could be done with light tackle.
About ten-thirty of this most delightful and favorable day we ran into a
school of barracuda. R. C. hooked a small one, which was instantly set
upon by its voracious comrades and torn to pieces. Then I had a
tremendous strike, hard, swift, long--everything to make a tingle of
nerve and blood. The instant I struck, up out of a flying splash rose a
long, sharp, silver-flashing tiger of the sea, and if he leaped an inch
he leaped forty feet. On that light tackle he was a revelation. Five
times more he leaped, straight up, very high, gills agape, jaws wide,
body curved--a sight for any angler. He made long runs and short runs
and all kinds of runs, and for half an hour he defied any strain I dared
put on him. Eventually I captured him, and I considered him superior to
a tarpon of equal or even more weight.
Barracuda are a despised fish, apparently because of their voracious and
murderous nature. But I incline to the belief that it is because the
invariable use of heavy tackle has blinded the fishermen to the
wonderful leaping and fighting qualities of this long-nosed,
long-toothed sea-tiger. The few of us who have hooked barracuda on light
tackle know him as a marvelous performer. Van Campen Heilner wrote
about a barracuda he caught on a bass rod, and he is not likely to
forget it, nor will the reader of his story forget it.
R. C. had another strike, hooked his fish, and brought it in readily. It
was a bonita of about five pounds, the first one my brother had ever
caught. We were admiring his beautiful, subdued colors as he swam near
the boat, when up out of the blue depths shot a long gray form as swift
as lightning. It was a big barracuda. In his rush he cut that bonita in
two. The captain grasped the line and yelled for us to get the gaffs. R.
C. dropped the rod and got the small gaff, and as I went for the big one
I heard them both yell. Then I bent over to see half a dozen big gray
streaks rush for what was left of that poor little bonita. The big
barracuda with incredible speed and unbelievable ferocity rushed right
to the side of the boat at the bonita. He got hold of it and R. C. in
striking at him to gaff him hit him over the head several times. Then
the gaff hook caught him and R. C. began to lift. The barracuda looked
to me to be fully seven feet long and half as big around as a telegraph
pole. He made a tremendous splash in the water. R. C. was deluged. He
and the boatman yelled in their excitement. But R. C. was unable to hold
the big fish on this small gaff, and I got there too late. The barracuda
broke loose. Then, equally incredibly, he turned with still greater
ferocity and rushed the bonita again, but before he could get to it
another and smaller barracuda had hold of it. At this instant I leaned
over with a club. With one powerful sweep I hit one of the barracuda on
the head. When I reached over again the largest one was contending with
a smaller one for the remains of the bonita. I made a vicious pass at
the big one, missing him. Quick as I was, before I could get back, the
big fellow had taken the head of the bonita and rushed off with it,
tearing the line out of the captain's hands. Then we looked at one
another. It had all happened in a minute. We were all wringing wet and
panting from excitement and exertion. This is a gruesome tale of the sea
and I put it here only to illustrate the incomparable savageness of
these tigers of the Gulf Stream.
The captain put the fish away and cleaned up the boat and we resumed
fishing. I ate lunch holding the rod in one hand, loath to waste any
time on this wonderful day. Sailfish were still jumping here and there
and far away. The next thing to happen was that R. C. hooked a small
kingfish, and at the same instant a big one came clear out in an
unsuccessful effort to get my bait. This happened to be near the reef,
and as we were going out I hooked a big grouper that tried out my
small tackle for all it was worth. But I managed to keep him from
getting on the bottom, and at length brought him in. The little
six-ounce tip now looked like a buggy-whip that was old and worn
out. After that nothing happened for quite a little spell. We had
opportunity to get rested. Presently R. C. had a sailfish tap his bait
and tap it again and tug at it and then take hold and start away. R.
C. hooked him and did it carefully, trying not to put too much strain
on the line. Here is where great skill is required. But the line
broke. After that he took one of my other tackles. Something went
wrong with the engine and the captain had to shut down and we drifted.
I had a long line out and it gradually sank. Something took hold and I
hooked it and found myself fast to a deep-sea, hard-fighting fish of
some kind. I got him up eventually, and was surprised to see a great,
broad, red-colored fish, which turned out to be a mutton-fish, much
prized for food. I had now gotten six varieties of fish in the Gulf
Stream and we were wondering what next. I was hoping it would be a
dolphin or a waahoo. It happened, however, to be a beautiful cero
mackerel, one of the shapeliest and most attractive fish in these
waters. He is built something like the brook-trout, except for a much
sharper head and wider fins and tail. But he is speckled very much
after the manner of the trout. We trolled on, and all of a sudden
raised a school of sailfish. They came up with a splashing rush very
thrilling to see. One hit R. C.'s bait hard, and then another, by way
of contrast, began to tug and chew at mine. I let the line out slowly.
And as I did so I saw another one follow R. C.'s mutilated bait which
he was bringing toward the boat. He was a big purple-and-bronze fellow
and he would have taken a whole bait if it could have been gotten to
him. But he sheered away, frightened by the boat. I failed to hook my
fish. It was getting along pretty well into the afternoon by this time
and the later it got the better the small fish and kingfish seemed to
bite. I caught one barracuda and six kingfish, while R. C. was
performing a somewhat similar feat. Then he got a smashing strike
from a sailfish that went off on a hard, fast rush, so that he hooked
it perfectly. He jumped nine times, several of which leaps I
photographed. He was a good-sized fish and active and strong. R. C.
had him up to the boat in thirty minutes, which was fine work for the
light tackle. I made sure that the fish was as good as caught and I
did not look to see where he was hooked. My boatman is not skilled in
the handling of the fish when they are brought in. Few boatmen are. He
took hold of the leader, and as he began to lift I saw that the hook
was fast in the bill of the sailfish fully six inches from his mouth.
At that instant the sailfish began to thresh. I yelled to the boatman
to let go, but either I was not quick enough or he did not obey, for
the hook snapped free and the sailfish slowly swam away, his great
purple-and-blue spotted sail waving in the water, and his bronze sides
shining. And we were both glad that he had gotten away, because we had
had the fun out of him and had taken pictures of him jumping, and he
was now alive and might make another fisherman sport some day.
VII
BONEFISH
In my experience as a fisherman the greatest pleasure has been the
certainty of something new to learn, to feel, to anticipate, to thrill
over. An old proverb tells us that if you wish to bring back the wealth
of the Indias you must go out with its equivalent. Surely the longer a
man fishes the wealthier he becomes in experience, in reminiscence, in
love of nature, if he goes out with the harvest of a quiet eye, free
from the plague of himself.
As a boy, fishing was a passion with me, but no more for the conquest of
golden sunfish and speckled chubs and horny catfish than for the
haunting sound of the waterfall and the color and loneliness of the
cliffs. As a man, and a writer who is forever learning, fishing is still
a passion, stronger with all the years, but tempered by an understanding
of the nature of primitive man, hidden in all of us, and by a keen
reluctance to deal pain to any creature. The sea and the river and the
mountain have almost taught me not to kill except for the urgent needs
of life; and the time will come when I shall have grown up to that. When
I read a naturalist or a biologist I am always ashamed of what I have
called a sport. Yet one of the truths of evolution is that not to
practise strife, not to use violence, not to fish or hunt--that is to
say, not to fight--is to retrograde as a natural man. Spiritual and
intellectual growth is attained at the expense of the physical.
Always, then, when I am fishing I feel that the fish are incidental, and
that the reward of effort and endurance, the incalculable and intangible
knowledge emanate from the swelling and infinite sea or from the shaded
and murmuring stream. Thus I assuage my conscience and justify the fun,
the joy, the excitement, and the violence.
Five years ago I had never heard of a bonefish. The first man who ever
spoke to me about this species said to me, very quietly with serious
intentness: "Have you had any experience with bonefish?" I said no, and
asked him what kind that was. His reply was enigmatical. "Well, don't go
after bonefish unless you can give up all other fishing." I remember I
laughed. But I never forgot that remark, and now it comes back to me
clear in its significance. That fisherman read me as well as I
misunderstood him.
Later that season I listened to talk of inexperienced bonefishermen
telling what they had done and heard. To me it was absurd. So much
fishing talk seems ridiculous, anyway. And the expert fishermen,
wherever they were, received the expressive titles: "Bonefish Bugs and
Bonefish Nuts!" Again I heard arguments about tackle rigged for these
mysterious fish and these arguments fixed my vague impression. By and by
some bonefishermen came to Long Key, and the first sight of a bonefish
made me curious. I think it weighed five pounds--a fair-sized specimen.
Even to my prejudiced eye that fish showed class. So I began to question
the bonefishermen.
At once I found this type of angler to be remarkably reticent as to
experience and method. Moreover, the tackle used was amazing to me.
Stiff rods and heavy lines for little fish! I gathered another
impression, and it was that bonefish were related to dynamite and chain
lightning. Everybody who would listen to my questions had different
things to say. No two men agreed on tackle or bait or ground or
anything. I enlisted the interest of my brother R. C., and we decided,
just to satisfy curiosity, to go out and catch some bonefish. The
complacent, smug conceit of fishermen! I can see now how funny ours was.
Fortunately it is now past tense. If I am ever conceited again I hope no
one will read my stories.
My brother and I could not bring ourselves to try for bonefish with
heavy tackle. It was preposterous. Three--four--five-pound fish! We had
seen no larger. Bass tackle was certainly heavy enough for us. So in the
innocence of our hearts and the assurance of our vanity we sallied forth
to catch bonefish.
That was four years ago. Did we have good luck? No! Luck has nothing to
do with bonefishing. What happened? For one solid month each winter of
those four years we had devoted ourselves to bonefishing with light
tackle. We stuck to our colors. The space of this whole volume would not
be half enough to tell our experience--the amaze, the difficulty, the
perseverance, the defeat, the wonder, and at last the achievement. The
season of 1918 we hooked about fifty bonefish on three-six tackles--that
is, three-ounce tips and six-thread lines--and we landed fourteen of
them. I caught nine and R. C. caught five. R. C.'s eight-pound fish
justified our contention and crowned our efforts.
To date, in all my experience, I consider this bonefish achievement the
most thrilling, fascinating, difficult, and instructive. That is a broad
statement and I hope I can prove it. I am prepared to state that I feel
almost certain, if I spent another month bonefishing, I would become
obsessed and perhaps lose my enthusiasm for other kinds of fish.
Why?
There is a multiplicity of reasons. My reasons range from the
exceedingly graceful beauty of a bonefish to the fact that he is the
best food fish I ever ate. That is a wide range. He is the wisest,
shyest, wariest, strangest fish I ever studied; and I am not excepting
the great _Xiphias gladius_--the broadbill swordfish. As for the speed
of a bonefish, I claim no salmon, no barracuda, no other fish celebrated
for swiftness of motion, is in his class. A bonefish is so incredibly
fast that it was a long time before I could believe the evidence of my
own eyes. You see him; he is there perfectly still in the clear, shallow
water, a creature of fish shape, pale green and silver, but
crystal-like, a phantom shape, staring at you with strange black eyes;
then he is gone. Vanished! Absolutely without your seeing a movement,
even a faint streak! By peering keenly you may discern a little swirl in
the water. As for the strength of a bonefish, I actually hesitate to
give my impressions. No one will ever believe how powerful a bonefish
is until he has tried to stop the rush and heard the line snap. As for
his cunning, it is utterly baffling. As for his biting, it is almost
imperceptible. As for his tactics, they are beyond conjecture.
[Illustration: THE GAMEST FISH THAT SWIMS]
[Illustration: A WAAHOO]
I want to append here a few passages from my note-books, in the hope
that a bare, bald statement of fact will help my argument.
* * * * *