staring black eye, set forward in his pointed white nose, could be
plainly seen. This fish made a rare picture for an angler.
So I led him to the canoe and, ascertaining that I had him well hooked,
I lifted him in.
Never have I seen so beautiful a fish. A golden trout, a white sea-bass,
a dolphin, all are beautiful, but not so exquisite as this bonefish. He
seemed all bars of dazzling silver. His tail had a blue margin and
streaks of lilac. His lower (anal) fins were blazing with opal fire, and
the pectoral fins were crystal white. His eye was a dead, piercing
black, staring and deep. We estimated his weight. I held for six pounds,
but R. C. shook his head. He did not believe that. But we agreed on the
magnificent fight he had made.
Then we waded up-shore farther and began to fish. In just five minutes I
had the same kind of strike, slight, almost imperceptible, vibrating,
and I hooked a fish exactly as I had the first one. He was light of
weight, but swift as a flash. I played him from where I stood. This time
I essayed with all skill to keep a taut line. It was impossible. Now I
felt his weight and again only a slack line. This fish, too, ran right
to my feet, then in a boiling splash sheered away. But he could not go
far. I reeled him back and led him to the canoe. He was small, and the
smallness of him was such a surprise in contrast to what his fight had
led me to imagine he was.
R. C. had one strike and broke his line on the jerk. We had to give up
on account of sunset at hand.
* * * * *
There was another hard thunder-storm last night. The last few days have
begun the vernal equinox. It rained torrents all night and stopped at
dawn. The wind was northeast and cool. Cloudy overhead, with purple
horizon all around--a forbidding day. But we decided to go fishing,
anyhow. We had new, delicate three-six tackles to try. About seven the
wind died away. There was a dead calm, and the sun tried to show. Then
another breeze came out of the east.
We went up on the inside after bait, and had the luck to find some.
Crossing the island, we came out at the old construction camp where we
had left the canoe. By this time a stiff breeze was blowing and the tide
was rising fast. We had our troubles paddling and poling up to the grove
of cocoanuts. Opposite this we anchored and began to fish.
Conditions were not favorable. The water was choppy and roily, the canoe
bobbed a good deal, the anchors dragged, and we did not see any fish.
All the same, we persevered. At length I had a bite, but pulled too
late. We tried again for a while, only to be disappointed. Then we
moved.
We had to put the stern anchor down first and let it drag till it held
and the canoe drifted around away from the wind, then we dropped the bow
anchor. After a time I had a faint feeling at the end of my line--an
indescribable feeling. I jerked and hooked a bonefish. He did not feel
heavy. He ran off, and the wind bagged my line and the waves also helped
to pull out the hook.
Following that we changed places several times, in one of which R. C.
had a strike, but failed to hook the fish. Just opposite the old wreck
on the shore I had another fish take hold, and, upon hooking him, had
precisely the same thing happen as in the first instance. I think the
bag of my line, which I could not avoid, allowed the lead to sag down
and drag upon the bottom. Of course when it caught the bonefish pulled
free.
In some places we found the water clearer than in others. Flood-tide had
long come when we anchored opposite the old camp. R. C. cast out upon a
brown patch of weeds where we have caught some fine fish, and I cast
below. Perhaps in five minutes or less R. C. swept up his rod. I saw it
bend forward, down toward the water. He had hooked a heavy fish. The
line hissed away to the right, and almost at once picked up a good-sized
piece of seaweed.
"It's a big fish!" I exclaimed, excitedly. "Look at him go!... That
seaweed will make you lose him. Let me wade out and pull it off?"
"No! Let's take a chance.... Too late, anyhow! Gee! He's going!... He's
got two hundred yards out!"
Two-thirds of the line was off the reel, and the piece of seaweed seemed
to be a drag on the fish. He slowed up. The line was tight, the rod
bent. Suddenly the tip sprang back. We had seen that often before.
"Gone!" said R. C., dejectedly.
But I was not so sure of that, although I was hopeless. R. C. wound in,
finding the line came slowly, as if weighted. I watched closely. We
thought that was on account of the seaweed. But suddenly the reel began
to screech.
"I've got him yet!" yelled R. C., with joy.
I was overjoyed, too, but I contained myself, for I expected dire
results from that run.
Zee! Zee! Zee! went the reel, and the rod nodded in time.
"We must get rid of that seaweed or lose him.... Pull up your anchor
with one hand.... Careful now."
He did so, and quickly I got mine up. What ticklish business!
"Keep a tight line!" I cautioned, as I backed the canoe hard with all my
power. It was not easy to go backward and keep head on to the wind. The
waves broke over the end of the canoe, splashing me in the face so I
could taste and smell the salt. I made half a dozen shoves with the
paddle. Then, nearing the piece of seaweed, I dropped my anchor.
In a flash I got that dangerous piece of seaweed off R. C.'s line.
"Good work!... Say, but that helps.... We'd never have gotten him," said
R. C., beaming. I saw him look then as he used to in our sunfish,
bent-pin days.
"We've not got him yet," I replied, grimly. "Handle him as easily as you
can."
Then began a fight. The bonefish changed his swift, long runs, and took
to slow sweeps to and fro, and whenever he was drawn a few yards closer
he would give a solid jerk and get that much line back. There was much
danger from other pieces of floating weed. R. C. maneuvered his line to
miss them. All the time the bonefish was pulling doggedly. I had little
hope we might capture him. At the end of fifteen minutes he was still a
hundred yards from the canoe and neither of us had seen him. Our
excitement grew tenser every moment. The fish sheered to and fro, and
would not come into shallower water. He would not budge. He took one
long run straight up the shore, in line with us, and then circled out.
This alarmed me, but he did not increase his lead. He came slowly
around, yard by yard. R. C. reeled carefully, not hard enough to
antagonize him, and after what seemed a long time got him within a
hundred feet, and I had a glimpse of green and silver. Then off he ran
again. How unbelievably swift! He had been close--then almost the same
instant he was far off.
"I saw him! On a wave!" yelled R. C. "That's no bonefish! What can he
be, anyhow? I believe I've got a barracuda!"
I looked and looked, but I could not see him.
"No matter what you think you saw, that fish is a bonefish," I declared,
positively. "The runs he made! I saw silver and green! Careful now. I
_know_ he's a bonefish. And he must be big."
"Maybe it's only the wind and waves that make him feel so strong,"
replied R. C.
"No! You can't fool me! Play him for a big one. He's been on
twenty-three minutes now. Stand up--I'll steady the canoe--and watch for
that sudden rush when he sees the canoe. The finish is in sight."
It was an indication of a tiring fish that he made his first circle of
the canoe, but too far out for us to see him. This circling a boat is a
remarkable feature, and I think it comes from the habit of a bonefish of
pulling broadside. I cautioned R. C. to avoid the seaweed and to lead
him a little more, but to be infinitely careful not to apply too much
strain. He circled us again, a few yards closer. The third circle he did
not gain a foot. Then he was on his fourth lap around the canoe, drawing
closer. On his fifth lap clear round us he came near as fifty feet. I
could not resist standing up to see. I got a glimpse of him and he
looked long. But I did not say anything to R. C. We had both hooked too
many big bonefish that got away immediately. This was another affair.
He circled us the sixth time. Six times! Then he came rather close. On
this occasion he saw the canoe. He surged and sped out so swiftly that I
was simply paralyzed. R. C. yelled something that had a note of
admiration of sheer glory in the spirit of that fish.
"Here's where he leaves us!" I echoed.
But, as luck would have it, he stopped that run short of two hundred
yards; and turned broadside to circle slowly back, allowing R. C. to get
in line. He swam slower this time, and did not make the heavy tugs. He
came easily, weaving to and fro. R. C. got him to within twenty-five
feet of the boat, yet still could not see him. It was my job to think
quick and sit still with ready hands on the anchor rope. He began to
plunge, taking a little line each time. Then suddenly I saw R. C.'s line
coming toward us. I knew that would happen.
"Now! Look out! Reel in fast!" I cried, tensely.
As I leaned over to heave up the anchor, I saw the bonefish flashing
nearer. At that instant of thrilling excitement and suspense I could not
trust my eyesight. There he was, swimming heavily, and he looked three
feet long, thick and dark and heavy. I got the anchor up just as he
passed under the canoe. Maybe I did not revel in pride of my quickness
of thought and action!
"Oh! He's gone under the rope!" gasped R. C.
"No!" I yelled, sharply. "Let your line run out! Put your tip down!
We'll drift over your line."
R. C. was dominated to do so, and presently the canoe drifted over where
the line was stretched. That second ticklish moment passed. It had
scared me. But I could not refrain from one sally.
"I got the anchor up. What did you think I'd do?"
R. C. passed by my remark. This was serious business for him. He looked
quite earnest and pale.
"Say! did you see him?" he ejaculated, looking at me.
"Wish I hadn't," I replied.
We were drifting inshore, which was well, provided we did not drift too
hard to suit the bonefish. He swam along in plain sight, and he seemed
so big that I would not have gazed any longer if I could have helped it.
I kept the canoe headed in, and we were not long coming to shallow
water. Here the bonefish made a final dash for freedom, but it was short
and feeble, compared with his first runs. He got about twenty feet away,
then sheered, showing his broad, silver side. R. C. wound him in close,
and an instant later the bow of the canoe grated on shore.
"Now what?" asked R. C. as I stepped out into the water. "Won't it be
risky to lift him into the canoe?"
"Lift nothing! I have this all figured out. Lead him along."
R. C. stepped out upon the beach while I was in the water. The bonefish
lay on his side, a blaze of silver. I took hold of the line very gently
and led the fish a little closer in. The water was about six inches
deep. There were waves beating in--a miniature surf. And I calculated on
the receding of a wave. Then with one quick pull I slid our beautiful
quarry up on the coral sand. The instant he was out of the water the
leader snapped. I was ready for this, too. But at that it was an awful
instant! As the wave came back, almost deep enough to float the
bonefish, I scooped him up.
"He's ours!" I said, consulting my watch. "Thirty-three minutes! I give
you my word that fight was comparable to ones I've had with a Pacific
swordfish."
"Look at him!" R. C. burst out. "Look at him! When the leader broke I
thought he was lost. I'm sick yet. Didn't you almost bungle that?"
"Not a chance, R. C.," I replied. "Had that all figured. I never put any
strain on your line until the wave went back. Then I slid him out, the
leader broke, and I scooped him up."
R. C. stood gazing down at the glistening, opal-spotted fish. What a
contrast he presented to any other kind of a fish! How many beautiful
species have we seen lying on sand or moss or ferns, just come out of
the water! But I could remember no other so rare as this bonefish. The
exceeding difficulty of the capture of this, our first really large
bonefish, had a great deal to do with our admiration and pride. For the
hard work of any achievement is what makes it worth while. But this had
nothing to do with the exquisite, indescribable beauty of the bonefish.
He was long, thick, heavy, and round, with speed and power in every
line; a sharp white nose and huge black eyes. The body of him was live,
quivering silver, molten silver in the sunlight, crossed and barred with
blazing stripes. The opal hues came out upon the anal fin, and the broad
tail curled up, showing lavender tints on a background of brilliant
blue. He weighed eight pounds. Symbolic of the mysterious life and
beauty in the ocean! Wonderful and prolific as nature is on land, she is
infinitely more so in the sea. By the sun and the sea we live; and I
shall never tire of seeking and studying the manifold life of the deep.
VIII
SOME RARE FISH
It is very strange that the longer a man fishes the more there seems to
be to learn. In my case this is one of the secrets of the fascination of
the game. Always there will be greater fish in the ocean than I have
ever caught.
Five or six years ago I heard the name "waahoo" mentioned at Long Key.
The boatmen were using it in a way to make one see that they did not
believe there was such a fish as a waahoo. The old conch fishermen had
never heard the name. For that matter, neither had I.
Later I heard the particulars of a hard and spectacular fight Judge
Shields had had with a strange fish which the Smithsonian declared to be
a waahoo. The name waahoo appears to be more familiarly associated with
a shrub called burning-bush, also a Pacific coast berry, and again a
small tree of the South called winged elm. When this name is mentioned
to a fisherman he is apt to think only fun is intended. To be sure, I
thought so.
In February, 1915, I met Judge Shields at Long Key, and, remembering his
capture of this strange fish some years previous, I questioned him. He
was singularly enthusiastic about the waahoo, and what he said excited
my curiosity. Either the genial judge was obsessed or else this waahoo
was a great fish. I was inclined to believe both, and then I forgot all
about the matter.
This year at Long Key I was trolling for sailfish out in the Gulf
Stream, a mile or so southeast of Tennessee Buoy. It was a fine day for
fishing, there being a slight breeze and a ripple on the water. My
boatman, Captain Sam, and I kept a sharp watch on all sides for
sailfish. I was using light tackle, and of course trolling, with the
reel free running, except for my thumb.
Suddenly I had a bewildering swift and hard strike. What a wonder that I
kept the reel from over-running! I certainly can testify to the burn on
my thumb.
Sam yelled "Sailfish!" and stooped for the lever, awaiting my order to
throw out the clutch.
Then I yelled: "Stop the boat, Sam!... It's no sailfish!"
That strike took six hundred feet of line quicker than any other I had
ever experienced. I simply did not dare to throw on the drag. But the
instant the speed slackened I did throw it on, and jerked to hook the
fish. I felt no weight. The line went slack.
"No good!" I called, and began to wind in.
At that instant a fish savagely broke water abreast of the boat, about
fifty yards out. He looked long, black, sharp-nosed. Sam saw him, too.
Then I felt a heavy pull on my rod and the line began to slip out. I
jerked and jerked, and felt that I had a fish hooked. The line appeared
strained and slow, which I knew to be caused by a long and wide bag in
it.
"Sam," I yelled, "the fish that jumped is on my line!"
"No," replied Sam.
It did seem incredible. Sam figured that no fish could run astern for
two hundred yards and then quick as a flash break water abreast of us.
But I knew it was true. Then the line slackened just as it had before. I
began to wind up swiftly.
"He's gone," I said.
Scarcely had I said that when a smashing break in the water on the other
side of the boat alarmed and further excited me. I did not see the fish.
But I jumped up and bent over the stern to shove my rod deep into the
water back of the propeller. I did this despite the certainty that the
fish had broken loose. It was a wise move, for the rod was nearly pulled
out of my hands. I lifted it, bent double, and began to wind furiously.
So intent was I on the job of getting up the slack line that I scarcely
looked up from the reel.
"Look at him yump!" yelled Sam.
I looked, but not quickly enough.
"Over here! Look at him yump!" went on Sam.
That fish made me seem like an amateur. I could not do a thing with him.
The drag was light, and when I reeled in some line the fish got most of
it back again. Every second I expected him to get free for sure. It was
a miracle he did not shake the hook, as he certainly had a loose rein
most all the time. The fact was he had such speed that I was unable to
keep a strain upon him. I had no idea what kind of a fish it was. And
Sam likewise was nonplussed.
I was not sure the fish tired quickly, for I was so excited I had no
thought of time, but it did not seem very long before I had him within
fifty yards, sweeping in wide half-circles back of the boat.
Occasionally I saw a broad, bright-green flash. When I was sure he was
slowing up I put on the other drag and drew him closer. Then in the
clear water we saw a strange, wild, graceful fish, the like of which we
had never beheld. He was long, slender, yet singularly round and
muscular. His color appeared to be blue, green, silver crossed by bars.
His tail was big like that of a tuna, and his head sharper, more wolfish
than a barracuda. He had a long, low, straight dorsal fin. We watched
him swimming slowly to and fro beside the boat, and we speculated upon
his species. But all I could decide was that I had a rare specimen for
my collection.
Sam was just as averse to the use of the gaff as I was. I played the
fish out completely before Sam grasped the leader, pulled him close,
lifted him in, and laid him down--a glistening, quivering, wonderful
fish nearly six feet long.
He was black opal blue; iridescent silver underneath; pale blue dorsal;
dark-blue fins and copper-bronze tail, with bright bars down his body.
I took this thirty-six pound fish to be a sea-roe, a game fish lately
noticed on the Atlantic seaboard. But I was wrong. One old conch
fisherman who had been around the Keys for forty years had never seen
such a fish. Then Mr. Schutt came and congratulated me upon landing a
waahoo.
The catching of this specimen interested me to inquire when I could, and
find out for myself, more about this rare fish.
Natives round Key West sometimes take it in nets and with the grains,
and they call it "springer." It is well known in the West Indies, where
it bears the name "queenfish." After studying this waahoo there were
boatmen and fishermen at Long Key who believed they had seen schools of
them. Mr. Schutt had observed schools of them on the reef, low down near
the coral--fish that would run from forty to one hundred pounds. It made
me thrill just to think of hooking a waahoo weighing anywhere near a
hundred pounds. Mr. Shannon testified that he had once observed a school
of waahoo leaping in the Gulf Stream--all very large fish. And once, on
a clear, still day, I drifted over a bunch of big, sharp-nosed,
game-looking fish that I am sure belonged to this species.
The waahoo seldom, almost never, is hooked by a fisherman. This fact
makes me curious. All fish have to eat, and at least two waahoo have
been caught. Why not more? I do not believe that it is just a new fish.
I see Palm Beach notices printed to the effect that sailfish were never
heard of there before the Russo-Japanese War, and that the explosions of
floating mines drove them from their old haunts. I do not take stock in
such theory as that. As a matter of fact, Holder observed the sailfish
(_Histiophorus_) in the Gulf Stream off the Keys many years ago.
Likewise the waahoo must always have been there, absent perhaps in
varying seasons. It is fascinating to ponder over tackle and bait and
cunning calculated to take this rare denizen of the Gulf Stream.
* * * * *
During half a dozen sojourns at Long Key I had heard of two or three
dolphin being caught by lucky anglers who were trolling for anything
that would bite. But until 1916 I never saw a dolphin. Certainly I never
hoped to take one of these rare and beautiful deep-sea fish. Never would
have the luck. But in February I took two, and now I am forbidden the
peculiar pleasure of disclaiming my fisherman's luck.
Dolphin seems a singularly attractive name. It always made me think of
the deep blue sea, of old tars, and tall-sparred, white-sailed brigs. It
is the name of a fish beloved of all sailors. I do not know why, but I
suspect that it is because the dolphin haunts ships and is an omen of
good luck, and probably the most exquisitely colored fish in the ocean.
One day, two miles out in the Gulf Stream, I got a peculiar strike,
quite unlike any I had ever felt. A fisherman grows to be a specialist
in strikes. This one was quick, energetic, jerky, yet strong. And it was
a hungry strike. A fish that is hungry can almost always be hooked. I
let this one run a little and then hooked him. He felt light, but
savage. He took line in short, zigzag rushes. I fancied it was a bonita,
but Sam shook his head. With about a hundred yards of line out, the fish
leaped. He was golden. He had a huge, blunt, bow-shaped head and a
narrow tail. The distance was pretty far, and I had no certainty to go
by, yet I yelled:
"Dolphin!"
Sam was not so sure, but he looked mighty hopeful. The fish sounded and
ran in on me, then darted here and there, then began to leap and thresh
upon the surface. He was hard to lead--a very strong fish for his light
weight. I never handled a fish more carefully. He came up on a low
swell, heading toward us, and he cut the water for fifty feet, with only
his dorsal, a gleam of gold, showing in the sunlight.
Next he jumped five times, and I could hear the wrestling sound he made
when he shook himself. I had no idea what he might do next, and if he
had not been securely hooked would have gotten off. I tried hard to keep
the line taut and was not always successful. Like the waahoo, he
performed tricks new to me. One was an awkward diving leap that somehow
jerked the line in a way to alarm me. When he quit his tumbling and
rushing I led him close to the boat.
This has always been to me one of the rewards of fishing. It quite
outweighs that doubtful moment for me when the fish lies in the boat or
helpless on the moss. Then I am always sorry, and more often than not
let the fish go alive.
My first sight of a dolphin near at hand was one to remember. The fish
flashed gold--deep rich gold--with little flecks of blue and white. Then
the very next flash there were greens and yellows--changing, colorful,
brilliant bars. In that background of dark, clear, blue Gulf Stream
water this dolphin was radiant, golden, exquisitely beautiful. It was a
shame to lift him out of the water. But--
The appearance of the dolphin when just out of the water beggars
description. Very few anglers in the world have ever had this
experience. Not many anglers, perhaps, care for the beauty of a fish.
But I do. And for the sake of those who feel the same way I wish I could
paint him. But that seems impossible. For even while I gazed the fish
changed color. He should have been called the chameleon of the ocean. He
looked a quivering, shimmering, changeful creature, the color of
golden-rod. He was the personification of beautiful color alive. The
fact that he was dying made the changing hues. It gave me a pang--that I
should be the cause of the death of so beautiful a thing.
If I caught his appearance for one fleeting instant here it is: Vivid
green-gold, spotted in brilliant blue, and each blue spot was a circle
inclosing white. The long dorsal extending from nose to tail seemed
black and purple near the head, shading toward the tail to rich olive
green with splashes of blue. Just below the dorsal, on the background of
gold, was a line of black dots. The fins were pearly silver beneath, and
dark green above. All the upper body was gold shading to silver, and
this silver held exquisite turquoise-blue spots surrounded with white
rings, in strange contrast to those ringed dots above. There was even a
suggestion of pink glints. And the eyes were a deep purple with gold
iris.
The beauty of the dolphin resembled the mystery of the Gulf Stream--too
illusive for the eye of man.
* * * * *