Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1515
Captain Mitchell lost a bait to a fish of some kind, and also fought a Marlin for a while, only to pull the hook. My Marlin, number nine for me, weighed an even three hundred pounds, giving me two pounds above Captain Mitchell’s largest, a fact I made much of. “Well, Lucky Mitchell, I’m getting ahead of you,” I averred complacently. “Better watch out, or I’ll beat you as badly as you did me on the Rogue River in Oregon last fall...Never will forgive your catching seventy-nine steelhead to my twenty-five!”
That evening in camp was warm and pleasant and still. Ominous clouds in the west loomed up, however, and in the night a heavy storm broke. How the wind howled in the titrees and how the rain roared on my tent!
I remember with amusement an article sent me from some New Zealand newspaper. Two old gentlemen were discussing my visit and particularly the information that I was absorbing local color at Russell. One of them asked: “What you figure that air local color to mean, now?” His companion replied: “Aw, he’s gettin’ sunburnt. I know, because I’ve been at Russell.”
Also I received a funny letter from a man who appeared somewhat annoyed at the tremendous importance apparently given me by the newspapers over my proposed swordfishing, and the amount of space given my tackle. In part he wrote: “See here, all this fuss about your coming seven thousand miles with high-priced new-fangled machinery to catch swordfish is sort of ridiculous. Sonny, I caught New Zealand swordfish before you were born, and did it with hairpins, too.”
The old gentleman was as irate and sincere as he was ignorant. No doubt he meant the small silver fish, a few inches long, with a spear-like snout, my men called garfish and small boys misnamed swordfish; and he had no knowledge of the great broadsworded king of the seas.
An incident that I often recall as remarkable happened one day when we were running in from outside and had our flag flying. We stopped to maneuver round a fish. A big steamship, a freighter, was going to port, and, seeing our flag and queer movements, the captain altered his course and bore down upon us until he ascertained we were not flying distress signals. I appreciated the good captain’s loyalty to the code of the sea and regretted having unwittingly alarmed him.
After nine days of intermittent gales, storms, calms and downpours, we had a beautiful dawn that promised a beautiful day. Sunrise was rose and silver, shining on the hills where grazing sheep were silhouetted against the sky.
For a change we ran north through new channels, between islands different from those I had watched every day as we went to and fro, and each one seemed to add something to my growing delight in the wonderful Bay of Islands.
Outside to the north we found schools of yellowtail around a buoy. They were small and more suited to use as bait. We caught a dozen quickly. Some we essayed to keep alive in a large galvanized iron tank I had made for the purpose. We found that it worked splendidly, though it gave Arlidge and Pete Williams a lot of excercise with buckets. North from the buoy stood a large monumental rock called the Ninepin. It reminded me a little of El Capitan, the great sentinel rock in the Painted Desert of Arizona. An ocean swell rose green and gold over the base of the Ninepin and burst into roaring white chaos against the cliff. Contending strife of sea and rock! It was always present. There were schools of fish round the Ninepin, but no kahawai. From there we ran straight out to sea ten miles, which distance brought us some five or six miles off Cape Brett.
At first I thought we were going to have a smooth, glassy sea, and had my eyes keen for broadbill fins. But a little breeze sprang up, ruffling the water. Still it was most wonderful compared with the last nine days, and I was accordingly grateful.
It turned out to be a great fishing day, the details of which were so many, exciting and confusing that I cannot recall them all. I trolled a yellowtail. This bait was not satisfactory, but it was better than a kahawai.
The color of the sea was deep dark blue, almost violet. Fleecy white clouds now and then shaded the warm sun. The breeze freshened. As I trolled along, suddenly I espied an albatross wheeling and sailing around our boat. I watched with absorbed and thrilling delight. During many years of fishing on the sea I watched many birds, but never so grand a bird as this albatross. He had the sailing, shooting, rising and falling triangular flight of a shear-water, with every characteristic of that bird magnified. I was struck with the amazing fact that here I had the marvelous privilege of watching the albatross of the Antarctic. Truly I was far from home. Early in the day I raised a Marlin, to be disappointed that the hook did not catch. Not long afterward, the teasers lured another from the purple depths. How he blazed in the clear water back of the boat, weaving to and fro before he hit the bait! The boatmen yelled. They surely were keen to catch fish. We got twenty-four jumps out of this swordfish. Not long after that I raised another and recorded eighteen for him. During the lunch hour, as the boatmen began to brew their tea, we let the boat drift. “Boys,” I said, “I have a feeling you will miss your lunch.”
Sure enough, before long I had a tremendous strike. I hooked something that felt like the bottom of the sea. Yet it made fast runs, short and long. We thought I had a mako, and I worked accordingly. But my exceedingly hard exertion was rewarded only by a huge ugly reremai shark that gave us trouble at the boat. We signaled for the Captain’s boat, and when it arrived we said we needed a few more men. My boatmen wanted to load this shark on board. I was not keen about that, but I did not object. Finally they got the brute on the stern and roped fast, as they imagined. A while later, when I hooked another Marlin, the shark began to thump and thresh. I was knocked out of my seat, nearly losing my rod. One of the guides was knocked off. Arlidge rescued my rod, sustaining a bruised foot. The monster then flopped over in the cockpit, almost filling it. Peter roped him down again, whereupon I went back to work on the swordfish, which, marvelous to relate, had not escaped. I was afraid the shark would break loose again and toss me overboard. Arlidge did get a bump as he was working the clutch. He shouted lustily and left his post in a hurry. Eventually the reremai quieted down and I landed my swordfish.
Then we made the discovery that Captain Mitchell was fighting a heavy fish. We ran over to learn that he had fastened to another reremai. I had a lot of fun telling the Captain to pull the brute up quickly. He was certainly engaged a long while, and punished his tackle considerably.
On the way in to Cape Brett the Captain had a Marlin take hold, waltz around the boat on his tail and leap prodigiously to free himself at last. That ended a rather unusual day of bad luck for Captain Mitchell and good for me. We found we were more than an hour off the cape. I had raised six Marlin with teasers. Once while fighting one of them my bait slipped up the line, and two Marlin charged it. “All off, boys,” I called, slacking my line. “Those birds will cut me off.”
We could see the purple and silver blazes, the bright stripes of the swordfish, as they threshed around the bait. The left it, presently, and after all I saved my fish. This we regarded as the most exciting incident of an exciting day.
“Well,” said Peter, his bronze face radiating enthusiasm, “the teasers are great. They raise the Marlins all right.”
It seemed I had indeed established another fact — that the swordfish of the waters of the Antipodes could be raised to the surface by trolling. I was immensely pleased, for that must eventually change the whole fishing method around New Zealand. My fish weighed two hundred and eight, two hundred and twenty-four and two hundred and thirty-four pounds. The last one leaped twenty-one times.
We woke to a still better day, so far as weather and beautiful sea were concerned. It was, however, the thirteenth; and also I had reached my thirteenth Marlin! From a fisherman’s standpoint, how was I ever going to overcome such monumental handicaps? I did not.
I had three beautiful strikes, and though two of them were extremely difficult strikes to handle, owing to the sudden long swift runs right from the start, I acted with all possible good judgment and skill. But not in any case did the hook hold. After all there is a great deal of luck about that. If a swordfish takes the bait between his jaws, not ravenously, and starts off with the head of the bait, containing the hook, toward the angler, it stands to reason that when the angler strikes he will either pull the bait out of the swordfish’s mouth or pull the hook loose. Anyway, I did both things.
One of my Marlin was a big heavy fish, and he shot off in a curve toward Captain Mitchell’s boat, leaping wildly with the bait swinging six feet from his head. He had tangled in the leader. I saw it through his jaws. There was an enormous bag in the line, as the swordfish had run straight off, then suddenly doubled back. I simply could not hook him.
The last Marlin of the four I raised by teasers was a contrary fellow and very cunning and obviously not hungry. He shot to and fro behind the bait, a beautiful striped tiger of the sea. His pectorals stood out like jib booms on a ship. We ran away from him, teasing him to follow, which he did, even passing my bait; but he would not take it. Finally he sheered away, blazing like a silver-and-purple shield, and faded into the depths. After that I caught a reremai shark of about three hundred pounds weight, which we cut loose.
The day was not entirely lost, considering the pictures we obtained, and the raising of four more Marlin by the teasers.
At the cape, a half dozen or more boats caught nine Marlin. One boat had five fish on; and twice it had a double-header, which is two strikes simultaneously. In each case only one swordfish was landed. The drifting method evidently was prolific of strikes that day. Also there must have been plenty of swordfish, for I raised mine seven miles off the cape. What strong entrancement gripped me, trolling those deep unknown blue waters out there! Any moment I might raise an enormous black Marlin or a great sailfish or mako, or even a broadbill, not to think of some new species of fish.
The next day was the best day of all up to date, and naturally we expected much; especially to sight the sickle fins of a broadbill. But despite a smooth sea all day, not a sign! The sun shone hot. For the first time I fished without a coat or vest.
At three o’clock Pete sighted the long, sharp tip of a Marlin tail. We ran over. He appeared asleep. Frank would have run closer, but I said, “If he is awake he’ll see the teasers.” When we got within two hundred feet, he woke up and swirled the water. Then he disappeared. In another moment, there he was behind the teasers, a great striped bird-like shape, quick as a flash. He was the largest I had seen up to then. Crossing behind the teasers two or three times, he sheered up, put his spear out of the water, and snapped in my bait. Away he shot! I let him go long enough, then struck, but the hook did not hold.
We saw the Captain have something of the same bad fortune. On the way in, near Piercy Rock, I sighted a mako. We caught him. Then a little later Pete sighted another, a larger one. We caught him. So the day ended well, after all. I had the fun of raising flag at the very end, and also of teasing Captain Mitchell and his boatmen.
My makos were small, as makos go, weighing one hundred and fifteen and two hundred pounds. I guessed the weight of the smaller at eighty-six pounds, and then made sure I had overestimated. These fish have the heaviest flesh of any I ever caught. They are tremendously well equipped to fight and destroy and live. While my men were gaffing the second mako, the first one, tied astern, bit the gaff rope through, and I almost lost this second and larger fish.
We left at daylight the following morning for Cavalli Islands, some twenty miles north up the coast. It was a delightful run in the clear, rosy, fresh morning. The sea was like glass. Everywhere schools of fish were darkening the water and sea birds were wheeling and fishing. We made the distance in a little over two hours.
The Cavallis are rough, rugged islands dominated by a large one reaching the dimensions of a mountain. The outer islands are all black rock, eaten to fantastic shapes by the hungry sea. There are two natural bridges, one almost equaling the superb arch at Piercy Island. This chain of islands reaches out miles into the open sea. Wash and boom of the surge are heard on all sides.
The point farthest out should have been a wonderful place for bait and fish, but we did not see any. Far offshore, schools of kahawai showed black on the bright water. As we ran out, I sighted a Marlin weaving in, his tail just showing. We circled him; and what a rush he made at the teasers! They had to be pulled clear in to the boat, and then he bumped his bill into the stern. Finally I jerked my bait over him. How he whacked at it! Then, securing it between his jaws, he flashed off.
This swordfish leaped seventeen times and took forty minutes of hard fighting to subdue. He was game and strong.
We headed for the southeast and trolled the miles away, now and then stopping awhile to drop down a live bait. But the sea seemed empty. Not until afternoon did I espy another Marlin fin. We got a bait in front of him, and he sailed after it. We were running fairly fast, and the swordfish, instead of weaving to and fro behind the bait, preparing to cross it, followed it precisely, trying to get it in his mouth. The bait was half out of water, which made the difficulty for the hungry Marlin. He afforded the boatmen much amusement, and I was thrilled and excited. For fifty yards or more he surged after my kahawai before he got it. Then he went down slowly and easily, turned to the left and kept pace with the boat. It was a wonderful strike. I waved for Captain Mitchell to come up on that side and be ready to photograph the swordfish. When I struck, he felt like a log, but he did not rise. We ran along for quite a distance. Then suddenly he plunged out, a very long, heavy, deep-striped Marlin, most wonderfully bright with silver and purple and green colors. His size amazed me and made the boatmen yell and rush for the cameras.
That swordfish leaped again and again, increasing his energy until it was tremendous. Soon he was throwing up so much water that I could not see him for splash and spray. Then he threw the hook, but even then kept on leaping. What a magnificent display! In all, he leaped clear eleven times; but he was on the surface during the whole short period after that first jump. I felt sort of stunned. This was the largest striped Marlin I ever saw, surely approaching five hundred pounds. There was no disregarding my bad luck. The loss affected me deeply, as my most cherished ambition for New Zealand waters was to catch one of those great Marlin.
CHAPTER VII. A WORLD-RECORD FISH AND THE FIGHT WITH A BROADBILL
THE FOURTH PERFECT day made up most happily for all the days of gale and rain. On the way in from the sea, we became aware of a strange effect in the sky. There was a haze through which the setting sun shone dusky red. Through it the mountains were a deep purple, and the water seemed on fire. As the sun sank lower, these lights deepened and intensified until the world of sky, earth and ocean was unreal, surpassingly beautiful, like a realm of dreams. Finally, the sun turned magenta, and then the glow on the placid waters was exquisitely lovely.
All this strange effect did not come from mere sunset, but sunset through smoke of fires. Not until then did I make the discovery that part of the golden grassy hills of Urupukapuka had been burned over. They were black, ghastly, smoking.
Upon arriving at camp, I found with some relief that only half the island had been burned over. The wonderful slopes back of our grove of titrees were still shining and silvery.
We took our climb up the hills as usual, and Mrs. Mitchell observed that the larks were not singing. How strange I had not been quick to note that! But it appeared I was waiting until we attained the summit, there to see and hear everything.
Alas! Not one lark sang for us. It was a melancholy omission. What had happened to the larks? These hideous black hilltops opposite answered that sinister question. The music of the sky the birds, the joy of life that they vented so freely, had been quenched by the fire, the creeping line of red, the blowing pall of smoke. No doubt the larks knew those dread signs.
Next morning I was not awakened by the singing of larks. When I awoke I lay still awhile and listened. The laughing gulls made a great clamor, but there were no high sweet thrilling notes from the bird of the skies.
The hills had to be burned over by the sheep herders so that new grass would spring up the quicker. Sheep raising was a business. Who thought of the little larks in their nests? Only the frantic mother lark; and some such dreamer and nature lover as myself. If Urupukapuka had belonged to me, there would not have been any burning of the waving grass on the silver hills.
As far as fishing was concerned, that day bid well to add more perfect weather to our mounting record. No wind! A warm hazed sun and a placid ocean! Captain Mitchell’s boat was delayed longer than ours at catching bait. We were off Bird Rock while they were two miles behind, and lagging, I thought; but all at once I saw a big splash.
“Boys,” I called, “the Captain has hooked something. Step on it and let’s hustle back.”
I saw more big white splashes, but not any distinct shape of a fish. When we got near the fish did not show. Upon reaching the boat I yelled through the megaphone, “What’re you fast to Cap?”
The Captain appeared too busily engaged to reply, but one of the boatmen called, “Say, we’ve hooked the granddad of all the swordfish.”
Whereupon I took my camera and climbed to the deck, motioning Frank to run closer. Presently I could see Captain Mitchell’s line, and made a guess as to the whereabouts of the fish.
Suddenly the water bulged, opened with a sullen roar. A short, black bill protruded, then an enormous, glistening head, the massive shoulders of a grand black Marlin. Slowly he seemed to propel himself upward into the air, but he was so heavy he could not clear the water. I snapped my camera while I let out the most stentorian yell I ever uttered over a fish.
Suddenly the swordfish sank. The splashing water subsided; then it opened again, and precisely as before the giant came out. I was ready with my camera, and also with a bellow that equaled my first. Then the extraordinary thing happened the third time, after which the swordfish went down.
