happened. We had not gone a dozen boat-lengths when up out of the blue
depths lunged a lazy swordfish and attached himself to R. C.'s hook. He
sort of half lolled out in lazy splashes four or five times. He looked
huge. All of a sudden he started off, making the reel hum. That run
developed swiftly. Dan backed the boat full speed. In vain! It was too
late to turn. That swordfish run became the swiftest and hardest I ever
saw. A four-hundred-yard run, all at once, was something new even for
me. I yelled for R. C. to throw off the drag. He tried, but failed. I
doubted afterward if that would have done any good. That swordfish was
going away from there. He broke the line.
"Gee! What a run!" I burst out. "I'm sorry. I hate to break off hooks in
fish."
"Put your hand on my reel," said R. C.
It was almost too hot to bear touching. R. C. began winding in the long
slack line.
"Did you see that one?" he asked, grimly.
"Not plain. But what I did see looked big."
"Say, he was a whale!" R. C.'s flashing eyes showed he had warmed to the
battle.
In just ten minutes another swordfish was chasing the teasers. It was
my thrilling task to keep them away from him. Hard as I pulled, I failed
to keep at least one of them from him. He took it with a "wop," his bill
half out of the water, and as he turned with a splash R. C. had his bait
right there. Smash! The swordfish sheered off, with the bait shining
white in his bill. When hooked he broke water about fifty yards out and
then gave an exhibition of high and lofty tumbling, water-smashing, and
spray-flinging that delighted us. Then he took to long, greyhound leaps
and we had to chase him. But he did not last long, with the inexorable
R. C. bending back on that Murphy rod. After being cut free, this
swordfish lay on the surface a few moments, acting as if he was out of
breath. He weighed about one hundred and fifty, and was a particularly
beautiful specimen. The hook showed in the corner of his mouth. He did
not have a scratch on his graceful bronze and purple and silver body. I
waved my hat at him and then he slowly sank.
"What next?" I demanded. "This can't keep up. Something is going to
happen."
But my apprehension in no wise disturbed R. C. or Captain Dan.
They proceeded to bait up again, to put out the teasers, to begin to
troll; and then almost at once a greedy swordfish appeared, absolutely
fearless and determined. R. C. hooked him. The first leap showed the
Marlin to be the smallest of the day so far. But what he lacked in
weight he made up in activity. He was a great performer, and his forte
appeared to be turning upside down in the air. He leaped clear
twenty-two times. Then he settled down and tried to plug out to sea.
Alas! that human steam-winch at the rod drew him right up to the boat,
where he looked to weigh about one hundred and twenty-five pounds.
[Illustration: 328-POUND RECORD MARLIN BY R. C. GREY. SHAPELIEST AND
MOST BEAUTIFUL SPECIMEN EVER TAKEN]
[Illustration: SUNSET OVER CLEMENTE CHANNEL]
"Six!" I exclaimed, as we watched the freed fish swim away. "That's the
record.... And all let go alive--unhurt.... Do you suppose any one will
believe us?"
"It doesn't make any difference," remarked my brother. "We know. That's
the best of the game--letting the fish go alive."
"Come on!" boomed Dan, with a big flying-fish in his hands. "You're not
tired."
"Yes, I am tired," replied R. C.
"It's early yet," I put in. "We'll cinch the record for good. Grab the
rod. I'll enjoy the work for you."
R. C. resigned himself, not without some remarks anent the insatiable
nature of his host and boatman.
We were now off the east end of Clemente Island, that bleak and ragged
corner where the sea, whether calm or stormy, contended eternally with
the black rocks, and where the green and white movement of waves was
never still. When almost two hundred yards off the yellow kelp-beds I
saw a shadow darker than the blue water. It seemed to follow the boat,
rather deep down and far back. But it moved. I was on my feet,
thrilling.
"That's a swordfish!" I called.
"No," replied R. C.
"Some wavin' kelp, mebbe," added Dan, doubtfully.
"Slow up a little," I returned. "I see purple."
Captain Dan complied and we all watched. We all saw an enormous colorful
body loom up, take the shape of a fish, come back of R. C.'s bait, hit
it and take it.
"By George!" breathed R. C., tensely. His line slowly slipped out a
little, then stopped.
"He's let go," said my brother.
"There's another one," cried Dan.
With that I saw what appeared to be another swordfish, deeper down,
moving slowly. This one also looked huge to me. He was right under the
teasers. It dawned upon me that he must have an eye on them, so I began
to pull them in.
As they came in the purple shadow seemed to rise. It was a swordfish and
he resembled a gunboat with purple outriggers. Slowly he came onward and
upward, a wonderful sight.
"Wind your bait in!" I yelled to R. C.
Suddenly Dan became like a jumping-jack. "He's got your hook," he
shouted to my brother. "He's had it all the time."
The swordfish swam now right under the stern of the boat so that I could
look down upon him. He was deep down, but not too deep to look huge.
Then I saw R. C.'s leader in his mouth. He had swallowed the flying-fish
bait and had followed us for the teasers. The fact was stunning. R. C.,
who had been winding in, soon found out that his line went straight
down. He felt the fish. Then with all his might he jerked to hook that
swordfish.
Just then, for an instant my mind refused to work swiftly. It was locked
round some sense of awful expectancy. I remembered my camera in my
hands and pointed it where I expected something wonderful about to
happen.
The water on the right, close to the stern, bulged and burst with a
roar. Upward even with us, above us, shot a tremendously large, shiny
fish, shaking and wagging, with heavy slap of gills.
Water deluged the boat, but missed me. I actually smelled that fish, he
was so close. What must surely have been terror for me, had I actually
seen and realized the peril, gave place to flashing thought of the one
and great chance for a wonderful picture of a big swordfish close to the
boat. That gripped me. While I changed the focus on my camera I missed
seeing the next two jumps. But I heard the heavy sousing splashes and
the yells of Dan and R. C., with the shrill screams of the ladies.
When I did look up to try to photograph the next leap of the swordfish I
saw him, close at hand, monstrous and animated, in a surging,
up-sweeping splash. I heard the hiss of the boiling foam. He lunged
away, churning the water like a sudden whirl of a ferryboat wheel, and
then he turned squarely at us. Even then Captain Dan's yell did not warn
us. I felt rather than saw that he had put on full speed ahead. The
swordfish dove toward us, went under, came up in a two-sheeted white
splash, and rose high and higher, to fall with a cracking sound. Like a
flash of light he shot up again, and began wagging his huge
purple-barred body, lifting himself still higher, until all but his tail
stood ponderously above the surface; and then, incredibly powerful, he
wagged and lashed upright in a sea of hissing foam, mouth open wide,
blood streaming down his wet sides and flying in red spray from his
slapping gills--a wonderful and hair-raising spectacle. He stayed up
only what seemed a moment. During this action and when he began again to
leap and smash toward us, I snapped my camera three times upon him. But
I missed seeing some of his greatest leaps because I had to look at the
camera while operating it.
"Get back!" yelled Dan, hoarsely.
I was so excited I did not see the danger of the swordfish coming
aboard. But Captain Dan did. He swept the girls back into the cabin
doorway, and pushed Mrs. R. C. into a back corner of the cockpit.
Strange it seemed to me how pale Dan was!
The swordfish made long, swift leaps right at the boat. On the last he
hit us on the stern, but too low to come aboard. Six feet closer to us
would have landed that huge, maddened swordfish right in the cockpit!
But he thumped back, and the roar of his mighty tail on the water so
close suddenly appalled me. I seemed to grasp how near he had come
aboard at the same instant that I associated the power of his tail with
a havoc he would have executed in the boat. It flashed over me that he
would weigh far over three hundred.
When he thumped back the water rose in a sounding splash, deluging us
and leaving six inches in the cockpit. He sheered off astern, sliding
over the water in two streaks of white running spray, and then up he
rose again in a magnificent wild leap. He appeared maddened with pain
and fright and instinct to preserve his life.
Again the fish turned right at us. This instant was the most
terrifying. Not a word from R. C.! But out of the tail of my eye I saw
him crouch, ready to leap. He grimly held on to his rod, but there had
not been a tight line on it since he struck the fish.
Yelling warningly, Captain Dan threw the wheel hard over. But that
seemed of no use. We could not lose the swordfish.
He made two dives into the air, and the next one missed us by a yard,
and showed his great, glistening, striped body, thick as a barrel, and
curved with terrible speed and power, right alongside the cockpit. He
passed us, and as the boat answered to the wheel and turned, almost at
right angles, the swordfish sheered too, and he hit us a sounding thud
somewhere foreward. Then he went under or around the bow and began to
take line off the reel for the first time. I gave him up. The line
caught all along the side of the boat. But it did not break, and kept
whizzing off the reel. I heard the heavy splash of another jump. When we
had turned clear round, what was our amaze and terror to see the
swordfish, seemingly more tigerish than ever, thresh and tear and leap
at us again. He was flinging bloody spray and wigwagging his huge body,
so that there was a deep, rough splashing furrow in the sea behind him.
I had never known any other fish so fast, so powerful, so wild with
fury, so instinct with tremendous energy and life. Dan again threw all
his weight on the wheel. The helm answered, the boat swung, and the
swordfish missed hitting us square. But he glanced along the port side,
like a toboggan down-hill, and he seemed to ricochet over the water. His
tail made deep, solid thumps. Then about a hundred feet astern he
turned in his own length, making a maelstrom of green splash and white
spray, out of which he rose three-quarters of his huge body,
purple-blazed, tiger-striped, spear-pointed, and, with the sea boiling
white around him, he spun around, creating an indescribable picture of
untamed ferocity and wild life and incomparable beauty. Then down he
splashed with a sullen roar, leaving a red foam on the white.
That appeared the end of his pyrotechnics. It had been only a few
moments. He began to swim off slowly and heavily. We followed. After a
few tense moments it became evident that his terrible surface work had
weakened him, probably bursting his gills, from which his life-blood
escaped.
We all breathed freer then. Captain Dan left the wheel, mopping his
pale, wet face. He gazed at me to see if I had realized our peril. With
the excitement over, I began to realize. I felt a little shaky then. The
ladies were all talking at once, still glowing with excitement. Easy to
see they had not appreciated the danger! But Captain Dan and I knew that
if the swordfish had come aboard--which he certainly would have done had
he ever slipped his head over the gunwale--there would have been a
tragedy on the _Leta D._
"I never knew just how easy it could happen," said Dan. "No one ever
before hooked a big fish right under the boat."
"With that weight, that tail, right after being hooked, he would have
killed some of us and wrecked the boat!" I exclaimed, aghast.
"Well, I had him figured to come into the boat and I was ready to jump
overboard," added my brother.
"We won't cut him loose," said Dan. "That's some fish. But he acts like
he isn't goin' to last long."
Still, it took two hours longer of persistent, final effort on the part
of R. C. to bring this swordfish to gaff. We could not lift the fish up
on the stern and we had to tow him over to Mr. Jump's boat and there
haul him aboard by block and tackle. At Avalon he weighed three hundred
and twenty-eight pounds.
R. C. had caught the biggest Marlin in 1916--three hundred and four
pounds, and this three-hundred-and-twenty-eight-pound fish was the
largest for 1918. Besides, there was the remarkable achievement and
record of seven swordfish in one day, with six of them freed to live and
roam the sea again. But R. C. was not impressed. He looked at his hands
and said:
"You and Dan put a job up on me.... Never again!"
XII
RANDOM NOTES
AVALON, _July 1, 1918_.
Cool, foggy morning; calm sea up until one o'clock, then a west wind
that roughened the water white. No strikes. Did not see a fish. Trolled
with kite up to the Isthmus and back. When the sun came out its warmth
was very pleasant. The slopes seemed good to look at--so steep and
yellow-gray with green spots, and long slides running down to the shore.
The tips of the hills were lost in the fog. It was lonely on the sea,
and I began again to feel the splendor and comfort of the open spaces,
the free winds, the canopy of gray and blue, the tidings from afar.
_July 3d._
Foggy morning; pale line of silver on eastern horizon; swell, but no
wind. Warm. After a couple of hours fog disintegrated. Saw a big Marlin
swordfish. Worked him three times, then charged him. No use!
Gradually rising wind. Ran up off Long Point and back. At 3:30 was
tired. We saw a school of tuna on the surface. Flew the kite over them.
One big fellow came clear out on his side and got the hook. He made one
long run, then came in rather easily. Time, fifteen minutes. He was
badly hooked. Seventy-eight pounds.
We trolled then until late afternoon. I saw some splashes far out. Tuna!
We ran up. Found patches of anchovies. I had a strike. Tuna hooked
himself and got off. We tried again. I had another come clear out in a
smashing charge. He ran off heavy and fast. It took fifty minutes of
very hard work to get him in. He weaved back of the boat for half an
hour and gave me a severe battle. He was hooked in the corner of the
mouth and was a game, fine fish. Seventy-three and one-half pounds.
_July 6th._
Started out early. Calm, cool, foggy morning; rather dark. Sea smooth,
swelling, heaving. Mysterious, like a shadowed opal. Long mounds of
water waved noiselessly, wonderfully, ethereally from the distance, and
the air was hazy, veiled, and dim. A lonely, silent vastness.
We saw several schools of tuna, but got no strikes. Worked a Marlin
swordfish, but he would not notice the bait.
It was a long, hard day on the sea.
_July 10th._
We got off at 6:30 before the other boats. Smooth water. Little breeze.
Saw a school of tuna above Long Point. Put up the kite. The school went
down. But R. C. got a little strike. Did not hook fish.
Then we sighted a big school working east. We followed it, running into
a light wind. Kite blew O. K. and R. C. got one fish (seventy-one
pounds), then another (forty-eight pounds). They put up fair fights.
Then I tried light tackle. All the time the school traveled east, going
down and coming up. The first fish that charged my bait came clear out
after it. He got it and rushed away. I had the light drag on, and I did
not thumb the pad hard, but the tuna broke the line. We tried again. Had
another thrilling strike. The fish threw the hook. We had to pull in the
kite, put up another one--get it out, and all the time keep the school
in sight. The tuna traveled fast. The third try on light tackle resulted
in another fine strike, and another tuna that broke the line.
Then R. C. tried the heavy tackle again, and lost a fish.
When my turn came I was soon fast to a hard-fighting fish, but he did
not stay with me long. This discouraged me greatly.
Then R. C. took his rod once more. It was thrilling to run down on the
school and skip a flying-fish before the leaders as they rolled along,
fins out, silver sides showing, raising little swells and leaving a
dark, winkling, dimpling wake behind them. When the bait got just right
a larger tuna charged furiously, throwing up a great splash. He hit the
bait, and threw the hook before R. C. could strike hard.
We had nine bites out of this school. Followed it fifteen miles. Twice
we were worried by other boats, but for the rest of the time had the
school alone.
_July 11th._
Morning was cold, foggy, raw. East wind. Disagreeable. Trolled out about
six miles and all around. Finally ran in off east end, where I caught a
yellow-fin. The sun came up, but the east wind persisted. No fish. Came
in early.
_July 12th._
Went out early. Clear morning. Cool. Rippling sea. Fog rolled down like
a pale-gray wall. Misty, veiled, vague, strange, opaque, silent, wet,
cold, heavy! It enveloped us. Then we went out of the bank into a great
circle, clear and bright, with heaving, smooth sea, surrounded by fog.
After an hour or two the fog rose and drifted away.
We trolled nine hours. Three little fish struck at the bait, but did not
get the hook.
_August 6th._
To-day I went out alone with Dan. Wonderful sea. Very long, wide, deep,
heaving swells, beautiful and exhilarating to watch. No wind. Not very
foggy. Sunshine now and then. I watched the sea--marveled at its grace,
softness, dimpled dark beauty, its vast, imponderable racing, its
restless heaving, its eternal motion. I learned from it. I found
loneliness, peace.
Saw a great school of porpoises coming. Ran toward them. About five
hundred all crashing in and out of the great swells, making a spectacle
of rare sea action and color and beauty. They surrounded the bow of the
boat, and then pandemonium broke loose. They turned to play with us,
racing, diving, leaping, shooting--all for our delight. I stood right
up on the bow and could see deep. It was an unforgetable experience.
_August 7th._
Long run to-day, over eighty miles. East to Point Vincent, west to end
of Catalina, then all around. Fine sea and weather. Just right for kite.
Saw many ducks and a great number of big sharks. The ducks were
traveling west, the sharks east. We saw no tuna.
Coming back the wind sprang up and we had a following sea. It was fine
to watch the green-and-white rollers breaking behind us.
The tuna appear to be working farther and farther off the east end.
Marlin swordfish have showed up off the east end. Three caught yesterday
and one to-day. I have not yet seen a broadbill, and fear none are
coming this year.
_August 8th._
Went off east end. Had a Marlin strike. The fish missed the hook. A
shark took the bait. When it was pulled in to the gaff Captain Dan
caught the leader, drew the shark up, and it savagely bit the boat. Then
it gave a flop and snapped Captain Dan's hand.
I was frightened. The captain yelled for me to hit the shark with a
club. I did not lose a second. The shark let go. We killed it, and found
Dan's hand badly lacerated. My swiftness of action saved Dan's hand.
XII
BIG TUNA
It took me five seasons at Catalina to catch a big tuna, and the event
was so thrilling that I had to write to my fisherman friends about it.
The result of my effusions seem rather dubious. Robert H. Davis, editor
of _Munsey's_, replies in this wise: "If you went out with a
mosquito-net to catch a mess of minnows your story would read like Roman
gladiators seining the Tigris for whales." Now, I am at a loss to know
how to take that compliment. Davis goes on to say more, and he also
quotes me: "You say 'the hard, diving fight of a tuna liberates the
brute instinct in a man.' Well, Zane, it also liberates the qualities of
a liar!" Davis does not love the sweet, soft scent that breathes from
off the sea. Once on the Jersey coast I went tuna-fishing with him. He
was not happy on the boat. But once he came up out of the cabin with a
jaunty feather in his hat. I admired it. I said:
"Bob, I'll have to get something like that for my hat."
"Zane," he replied, piercingly, "what you need for your hat is a head!"
My friend Joe Bray, who publishes books in Chicago, also reacts
peculiarly to my fish stories. He writes me a satiric, doubting
letter--then shuts up his office and rushes for some river or lake.
Will Dilg, the famous fly-caster, upon receipt of my communication,
wrote me a nine-page prose-poem epic about the only fish in the
world--black-bass. Professor Kellogg always falls ill and takes a
vacation, during which he writes me that I have not mental capacity to
appreciate my luck.
These fellows will illustrate how my friends receive angling news from
me. I ought to have sense enough to keep my stories for publication. I
strongly suspect that their strange reaction to my friendly feeling is
because I have caught more and larger black-bass than they ever saw.
Some day I will go back to the swift streams and deep lakes, where the
bronze-backs live, and fish with my friends, and then they will realize
that I never lie about the sport and beauty and wonder of the great
outdoors.
Every season for the five years that I have been visiting Avalon there
has been a run of tuna. But the average weight was from sixty to
ninety-five pounds. Until this season only a very few big tuna had been
taken. The prestige of the Tuna Club, the bragging of the old members,
the gossip of the boatmen--all tend to make a fisherman feel small until
he has landed a big one. Come to think of it, considering the years of
the Tuna Club fame, not so very many anglers have captured a blue-button
tuna. I vowed I did not care in particular about it, but whenever we ran
across a school of tuna I acted like a boy.
A good many tuna fell to my rod during these seasons. During the
present season, to be exact, I caught twenty-two. This is no large
number for two months' fishing. Boschen caught about one hundred; Jump,
eighty-four; Hooper, sixty. Among these tuna I fought were three that
stand out strikingly. One seventy-three-pounder took fifty minutes of
hard fighting to subdue; a ninety-one-pounder took one hour fifty; and
the third, after two hours and fifty minutes, got away. It seems, and
was proved later, that the number fifty figured every time I hooked one
of the long, slim, hard-fighting male tuna.
Beginning late in June, for six weeks tuna were caught almost every day,
some days a large number being taken. But big ones were scarce. Then one
of the Tuna Club anglers began to bring in tuna that weighed well over
one hundred pounds. This fact inspired all the anglers. He would slip
out early in the morning and return late at night. Nobody knew where his
boatman was finding these fish. More than one boatman tried to follow
him, but in vain. Quite by accident it was discovered that he ran up on
the north side of the island, clear round the west end. When he was
discovered on the west side he at once steered toward Clemente Island,
evidently hoping to mislead his followers. This might have succeeded but
for the fact that both Bandini and Adams hooked big tuna before they had
gone a mile. Then the jig was up. That night Adams came in with a
one-hundred-and-twenty-and a one-hundred-and-thirty-six-pound tuna, and
Bandini brought the record for this season--one hundred and forty-nine
pounds.
Next day we were all out there on the west side, a few miles offshore.
The ocean appeared to be full of blackfish. They are huge, black marine
creatures, similar to a porpoise in movement, but many times larger, and
they have round, blunt noses that look like battering-rams. Some seemed
as big as gunboats, and when they heaved up on the swells we could see
the white stripes below the black. I was inclined to the belief that
this species was the orca, a whale-killing fish. Boatmen and deep-sea
men report these blackfish to be dangerous and had better be left alone.
They certainly looked ugly. We believed they were chasing tuna.