Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1520
“Oh, he’s a monster!” added Frank.
“Mr Grey, that’s the biggest mako fin I ever saw,” said Peter, who was the only calm one of the lot.
“Captain, there’s your chance. Go after him,” I suggested.
“No. You need me here, Doc. We can’t catch all the fish. A fish on the line is better than two in the water, you know.”
“I don’t need you,” I protested. “I’ve got this black Marlin killed, and I can lift him. Take my other big tackle and go hand a bait to that mako...Say, but isn’t that some fin? Never saw one to compare with it.”
Captain Mitchell still refused; and I actually had to drive him away from my chair. I yelled for the other boat to run close, and I saw that Peter put my other big tackle in Captain’s hands.
“Good luck!” I shouted, as the boat sped away.
I could not forget my own fish, for the tremendous weight bore down upon my shoulders, but I just held on while I watched the Captain circle that mako. The big dark-green fin disappeared and then showed again. I had a feeling of something tremendous about to happen.
The intervening distance was close to a quarter of a mile. I saw the boat circle the fin, get ahead of it, slow down. Captain Mitchell leaned far forward with his rod.
Suddenly the fin vanished.
“Somethin’ doin’,” yelled Frank, “and there’ll be more in a minute.”
It appeared to me that the Captain was jerked forward and lifted. I saw a low, wide, swift splash back of the boat. Next, the rod wagged most violently.
“Boys, he’s hung that mako!” I shouted, with wild delight. Captain Mitchell’s ambition to capture a great mako was second only to mine regarding the black Marlin.
“There he is!” shrieked Frank.
A huge long round gold-white fish pierced the sky. Up, up! He had not raised the slightest splash. Up he shot, then over in the air — a magnificent somersault, and down, slick as a trick diver.
The enormous size of the mako, even at that distance, could not be mistaken.
“Oh, Peter, he’s big or am I seeing things?” I implored.
“Big? He sure is big. That mako will go over twelve hundred pounds.”
As Peter ended, a cream-white torrent of water burst nearer to us, and out of it whirled the mako going up sidewise, then rolling, so his whole under side, white as snow, with the immense pectoral fins black against the horizon, shone clearly to my distended eyes. His terrific vigor, his astounding ability, were absolutely new in my experience with fish. Down he smashed into a green swell. We all heard the crash.
With bated breath we waited his next leap; but it did not come. When we turned our fearful gaze back to the boat, we saw the Captain reeling in a limp line. The mako had shaken free or broken off. I sustained a shock then that I could liken only to several of my greatest tragic fishing moments.
The comments of my comrades were significant of their feeling. “Well, Mr. Grey,” continued the practical Peter, “you’ve got a fish here that’ll take some landing.”
That nailed me again to my martyrdom; and somewhat rested, or freshened by the intense excitement. I worked prodigiously, and to some purpose. Presently, when the pressure became overpowering, and I felt that something in me would burst, I asked Frank to throw in the clutch and start the boat very gently, to see if we could not break the swordfish from his anchorage. We were successful, but I did not want to risk it again. The next time that ponderous weight became fixed, immovable, I asked Peter to reach down with one hand and very carefully pull on my line, so as to start the fish again. This, too, was successful, without too great a risk. Once started, the fish came inch by inch until I gave out momentarily and he felt like an anchor.
The Captain’s return to my boat was an event. He looked pretty agitated. Among other things he said: “Great Heavens! What a fish! I was terrified. It seemed that mako filled the whole sky. He was the most savage and powerful brute I ever saw, let alone had on a line!”
“Too bad! It makes me sick, Captain,” I replied. “I never wanted anything so badly as to see you land that mako.”
Then I went back to my galley-slave task again; and in half an hour had the great black Marlin up. Never shall I forget the bulk of him, the wonderful color, the grand lines. We had to tow him in.
Sunset was at hand when we passed Bird Rock, where the black Marlin had struck. The sea was smooth, rolling in slow swells, opalescent and gold. Gulls were sailing, floating, all around the rock, like snowflakes. Their plaintive sweet notes filled the air. Schools of kahawai were moving in dark patches across the shining waters. Cape Brett stood up bold and black against the rosy sky. Flocks of gannets were swooping in from the sea. In the west the purple clouds were gold rimmed above, silver edged below; and through the rifts burned the red-gold sun. I watched it sink behind the low cloud bank; and at the instant of setting, a glamour, an exquisite light, shaded and died. It was the end of day, of another of my ever-growing number of wonderful fishing days!
My black Marlin might have been a brother of either of Captain Mitchell’s. He had great symmetry, though carrying his weight well back to his tail. His length was eleven feet eight inches, his girth five feet six inches, and the spread of his tail three inches short of four feet. Seven hundred and four pounds!
CHAPTER X. THE POOR KNIGHTS AND SUNKEN REEF
SEVERAL TIMES WE had made preparations for a two-day trip out to the Poor Knights, picturesque islands twelve miles off the coast, but owing to high winds and rough seas we were not able to go until the middle of March.
Among the many Maori legends and stories we had heard was one that concerned the Poor Knights Islands, and which had made them renowned above other groups of islands on this ragged shore of New Zealand.
In the early days, so history records, a tribe of two hundred and fifty Maoris, men, women and children, took refuge on the isolated and almost unscalable Poor Knights. They had incurred the enmity of a large and powerful tribe. It happened eventually that a camp fire at night betrayed the whereabouts of the fugitives. They were surrounded and captured, every last one of them, and taken back to the mainland, to an encampment on a beautiful sandy beach. Here a great festival or feast was held, during which the captives were cooked and eaten. Only one escaped the massacre, and that one was a little child, a girl who had fallen or hidden under a pack during the frightful performance. She was saved and lived to be a hundred and three years old.
Such a tale, gruesome as it was, could not but add to our interest in visiting the Poor Knights; and, as luck would have it, the morning we started the sea was calm and smooth. From Cape Brett to the Poor Knights the distance was close to twenty-five miles. I sat or stood on the bow of my boat during the whole of the three-hour run.
Slowly the dark islands rose out of the sea. Upon near view they were seen to be quite large, high, and with bright-green domes above gray and yellow cliffs. The passageway between the two islands was dotted here and there with ragged jutting rocks. I was disappointed at the scarcity of birds and apparent absence of fish. At least we saw very little sign of bait or fish on the surface.
We trolled around the larger island, and while I fished I had opportunity to see the wonderful walls and heights at close range. These walls reminded me much of the canyon walls of Arizona, both in vivid hues and in the caverns, arches, shelves and bare blank spaces of rock. The sea had performed for these walls what the wind had worked upon the desert cliffs. How the surge rolled in, solemn and grand, to bellow into the black caves or rise green and white and thundering against the grim walls! There was only one place where the heights were surmountable; and that was a narrow cove and steep crack, up which the doomed Maoris and their relentless pursuers had climbed. On top there were heavily-timbered slopes and eminences, and no doubt many thicketed gorges where fresh water was available.
My impression of this larger island was of a wild and lonely fortress out in the ocean; and I imagined I espied the Maori scout who had seen the approach of the dreaded enemy. A few song birds that we saw and heard lent something softer to this forbidding yet beautiful rock. Patches of bronze grass contrasted vividly with copses of shining green. The presence of the sea seemed the most unforgettable thing. I could not rid myself of the haunting moan and boom of the sea.
I caught a mako and several large yellowtail. Captain Mitchell did not have any luck. Meanwhile the sky had become overcast and threatening. As there was no safe anchorage, we considered it wise to run for the mainland, and had not gotten far before a heavy squall burst upon us. Fortunately wind and sea were in our favor. The boatmen put up a sail, and that with the engine sent us along at record speed. It was fine to race over the green and white billows, with rain and spray beating in my face; to watch the sea birds skim the water, and the clouds over the mainland break to let silver rays and gleams shine through the mist.
We ran into the very bay that had become memorable through the massacre of the Maoris from the Poor Knights; and I walked along that wide, curved beach, where they say skulls and bones are washed up out of the sand to this day.
Before that week ended Captain Mitchell and I had one of our remarkable experiences. A heavy run of Marlin swordfish came in to the cape, and we happened to be there before any other of the boats arrived. The day was pleasant, with rippling sea, smooth in the lee of the great rock. Several large patches of kahawai and trevalli were working to and fro, showing signs now and then of pursuers underneath.
The details of that day would be too bewildering to force upon any readers, even if they were ardent fishermen. Captain Mitchell had his best bag, catching five swordfish, two of which gave him hard hour-long fights. He hooked one other Marlin which he lost, more by the fact of my being near than any awkwardness of his own.
Our two boats were rather close off the north point of the rock. Captain Mitchell, Peter and I all had strikes simultaneously, and all hooked our fish. They began to leap. I actually saw three large Marlin in the air between our boats at the same time. The Captain’s fish ran round my line. Presently my Marlin leaped and tangled in his line. I released my drag, but Captain Mitchell did not release his, and as a consequence broke his line. He shook his fist at me, and I yelled back, “You should keep your fish away from mine!”
By noonday several other boats and yachts were on hand, full of enthusiastic anglers. Swordfish were striking everywhere. The schools of bait were on the run. I saw one man, fishing from a skiff, hook and lose two swordfish. Six other Marlin were hooked and lost from the two yachts. One other boat caught a fish during the several hours that I watched.
My own luck was remarkably mixed, good and bad, mostly bad. I actually hooked twelve swordfish, some of them over three hundred pounds. Four of these threw the hook at the first leaping run. Another I lost after nearly an hour’s battle, and another let go of the hook before I struck. Two others came unhooked at the boat, after they had been whipped. I landed four. I was keen, of course, to beat Captain Mitchell, but it was just one of those days when the inexplicable happened. R.C. would have said, “Well, old top, you weren’t shooting straight to-day,” or else, recalling our baseball days, he would have said, “You’re hitting off to-day. You’re chopping at the fast curves and pulling away from the plate!”
After the heat of battle and rivalry was over I was heartily glad I had lost most of my fish. Captain Mitchell could be happy with his record. I would beat him next time. The other remarkable incidents in connection with this day were too many to remember or record. But I could never forget the way the Marlin flashed around my boat. We had two follow our lures when fishing for bait. I raised half a dozen Marlin with the teasers. We had two rise and take dead kahawai we had thrown away. I saw at least a dozen purple sickle tails stick out of the water. And lastly, Peter, fishing from the bow, had an enormous black Marlin follow his bait as he wound it in. Peter never uttered a sound at the moment. Later he told me that the fish was so huge it scared him. It swam round his dead bait and refused it and then went down.
Upon returning to camp I greeted Captain Mitchell in this wise: “Cap, you sure shot your bolt to-day. If you had fallen overboard you would have hooked a Steinway piano. And now, with our last few days at hand, you’ll be funny. You won’t be able even to catch cold!”
Of course I was only joking, but as it chanced that is exactly what came to pass.
We had three days left, and among the many places to go, absolutely unfished waters, except by ourselves, I chose two that we had named The Groaners and Sunken Reef. The Groaners were some ragged low rocks, off one of the points, and Sunken Reef was a wide ledge about ten fathoms deep. These places were four miles apart and not more than ten from a little cove on the mainland where we had a safe and quiet anchorage.
As it turned out we had scarcely any fishing at The Groaners, all of it being around and on Sunken Reef. I had discovered this reef by accident. Perhaps not wholly by accident, as several times the presence of gulls and schools of trevalli had made me wonder about this locality and spend some time there. While drifting I caught my hook on the reef, at less than ten fathoms. This was illuminating, and afforded my boatmen and me much satisfaction. Wherefore we hung around, while the Captain scoured the seas looking for that mako he wanted so badly.
I caught a forty-pound snapper on the reef and several yellowtail. About the middle of the afternoon big fish came in to work on the school of trevalli. Then things began to happen. Before sunset I had several striped Marlin, one of which weighed three hundred and eighty pounds, the largest of that species I had ever seen. The Captain reported nothing but barren seas.
“Cap,” I said, “you ought to follow me around more.”
“By gad! I’d be afraid I’d swamp the boat,” he replied. “But I had one wolloping strike to-day.”
Next day I took Morton with me for the avowed purpose of having him take some pictures of my boat. But my real intent was to hook him on to a swordfish. He had never tried for big fish and was crazy to do so. I thought to do him a good turn and incidentally have some fun.
Indeed, as a man always experiences when he attempts a kindly act, I had more pleasure and reward than I had bargained for.
Trolling over Sunken Reef I raised a good big swordfish, and I hooked him solidly. Then, as he came up rather sluggishly and wallowed on the surface, I thought it a good chance to put Morton on the rod. I did so and straightaway the fun began. The fish woke up and began to run and leap, so that we were compelled to follow. Morton had no idea what to do with rod and reel, but was not slow to follow my instructions. At first he could do nothing at all with the Marlin, and his expression was one of mingled awe, dread and wild delight. Both my boatmen were hugely enjoying the situation; and I observed that Frank ran the launch rather poorly for him. When the swordfish sheered toward us and threatened to ram the boat or leap into it, Morton was a spectacle to behold. But whatever his feelings he was game; he never spoke a word, and he worked valiantly with the tackle. His shirt did not quite come off, as I have seen happen with tenderfoot anglers, but it certainly came up around his neck. He was red and sweaty. His legs shook, and his left arm grew weak. I was afraid he would not last the battle out, but he did; and when we gaffed that swordfish I never saw a happier angler novice. Morton was not a born fisherman, but he was a made one.
About three o’clock the school of trevalli began to rise, foam over the surface, crash the water white and vanish as if by magic. Big fish again! We trolled around without raising another with the teasers. We needed live bait. The boatmen wanted to run way back to the islands for live bait. “Nix,” I said. “This bait is what I want. Catch me a trevalli.”
Frank vowed the trevalli would be too big. Peter did not commit himself, though he was dubious. But I knew. Trevalli could not be caught with a lure, so we had to run around the school and snag one. It was fully six or seven pounds, rather long in shape, oval and thin, and bright silver — a very pretty fish. Once on the hook it proved to be an ideal bait, apparently none the worse for its predicament. Very soon I had a running strike. The next few minutes we were trying to catch up with a marvelously leaping striped Marlin, and while my companions essayed to photograph him in action, I was hard put to it to keep him from getting away. I was an hour on this splendid fish, again the largest I had ever seen of his species.
We returned thrillingly to Our Sunken Reef, to find conditions there more and more fishy. Soon I had another trevalli on for bait, and hardly had Frank stopped the engine when I had another great strike.
I saw my line sweep out swiftly and rise toward the surface. Then the bulge of a big fish! I clapped on my drag. What a jerk! I was almost dragged over the gunwale. That fellow hooked himself and at once broke water in a wide-flung splash, disclosing great breadth of shoulder and great depth. But for the long rapier-like bill I would have mistaken him for a black Marlin. He tore off line out to sea, and kept us guessing. After a while he leaped, a wonderful series of leaps, all low and heavy, which did not disclose his size. But I had that pretty well figured, and worked as if I had tied up with one of the black fellows. Not easy to land was that striped swordfish! I had all I wanted for a quick, violent fight.
It took the four of us to load him on the boat, a most gorgeous specimen of the striped Marlin; bronze-backed, silver-bellied, wide and deep and long, with vivid purple bands. He measured eleven feet five inches in length, and four feet two inches in girth. Even before getting these remarkable measurements I knew I had the world record for the striped Marlin. I knew he would exceed even the disqualified four-hundred-and-thirty and three-hundred-and-seventy-two pound Marlin taken in Catalina waters. My brother held the qualified record with three hundred and fifty-four pounds. “Well, old R.C.,” I exclaimed, “I’ve surely got you trimmed.”
As a matter of fact, this beautiful Marlin weighed four hundred and fifty pounds.
Back at Sunken Reef, just before sunset, we had a hard time catching another trevalli. They had grown wary. Big game fish were chasing them up and down. Then at last when I did get a trevalli it was a large one — too large I feared. Nevertheless, some great game fish, probably a mako or a huge black Marlin, jerked it off my hook before I could wink. What a tremendous strike! I was stunned. The bait had been hooked on securely. Only a fish with large, powerful jaws could have snapped him off without taking line.
“Mr Grey, that’s the biggest mako fin I ever saw,” said Peter, who was the only calm one of the lot.
“Captain, there’s your chance. Go after him,” I suggested.
“No. You need me here, Doc. We can’t catch all the fish. A fish on the line is better than two in the water, you know.”
“I don’t need you,” I protested. “I’ve got this black Marlin killed, and I can lift him. Take my other big tackle and go hand a bait to that mako...Say, but isn’t that some fin? Never saw one to compare with it.”
Captain Mitchell still refused; and I actually had to drive him away from my chair. I yelled for the other boat to run close, and I saw that Peter put my other big tackle in Captain’s hands.
“Good luck!” I shouted, as the boat sped away.
I could not forget my own fish, for the tremendous weight bore down upon my shoulders, but I just held on while I watched the Captain circle that mako. The big dark-green fin disappeared and then showed again. I had a feeling of something tremendous about to happen.
The intervening distance was close to a quarter of a mile. I saw the boat circle the fin, get ahead of it, slow down. Captain Mitchell leaned far forward with his rod.
Suddenly the fin vanished.
“Somethin’ doin’,” yelled Frank, “and there’ll be more in a minute.”
It appeared to me that the Captain was jerked forward and lifted. I saw a low, wide, swift splash back of the boat. Next, the rod wagged most violently.
“Boys, he’s hung that mako!” I shouted, with wild delight. Captain Mitchell’s ambition to capture a great mako was second only to mine regarding the black Marlin.
“There he is!” shrieked Frank.
A huge long round gold-white fish pierced the sky. Up, up! He had not raised the slightest splash. Up he shot, then over in the air — a magnificent somersault, and down, slick as a trick diver.
The enormous size of the mako, even at that distance, could not be mistaken.
“Oh, Peter, he’s big or am I seeing things?” I implored.
“Big? He sure is big. That mako will go over twelve hundred pounds.”
As Peter ended, a cream-white torrent of water burst nearer to us, and out of it whirled the mako going up sidewise, then rolling, so his whole under side, white as snow, with the immense pectoral fins black against the horizon, shone clearly to my distended eyes. His terrific vigor, his astounding ability, were absolutely new in my experience with fish. Down he smashed into a green swell. We all heard the crash.
With bated breath we waited his next leap; but it did not come. When we turned our fearful gaze back to the boat, we saw the Captain reeling in a limp line. The mako had shaken free or broken off. I sustained a shock then that I could liken only to several of my greatest tragic fishing moments.
The comments of my comrades were significant of their feeling. “Well, Mr. Grey,” continued the practical Peter, “you’ve got a fish here that’ll take some landing.”
That nailed me again to my martyrdom; and somewhat rested, or freshened by the intense excitement. I worked prodigiously, and to some purpose. Presently, when the pressure became overpowering, and I felt that something in me would burst, I asked Frank to throw in the clutch and start the boat very gently, to see if we could not break the swordfish from his anchorage. We were successful, but I did not want to risk it again. The next time that ponderous weight became fixed, immovable, I asked Peter to reach down with one hand and very carefully pull on my line, so as to start the fish again. This, too, was successful, without too great a risk. Once started, the fish came inch by inch until I gave out momentarily and he felt like an anchor.
The Captain’s return to my boat was an event. He looked pretty agitated. Among other things he said: “Great Heavens! What a fish! I was terrified. It seemed that mako filled the whole sky. He was the most savage and powerful brute I ever saw, let alone had on a line!”
“Too bad! It makes me sick, Captain,” I replied. “I never wanted anything so badly as to see you land that mako.”
Then I went back to my galley-slave task again; and in half an hour had the great black Marlin up. Never shall I forget the bulk of him, the wonderful color, the grand lines. We had to tow him in.
Sunset was at hand when we passed Bird Rock, where the black Marlin had struck. The sea was smooth, rolling in slow swells, opalescent and gold. Gulls were sailing, floating, all around the rock, like snowflakes. Their plaintive sweet notes filled the air. Schools of kahawai were moving in dark patches across the shining waters. Cape Brett stood up bold and black against the rosy sky. Flocks of gannets were swooping in from the sea. In the west the purple clouds were gold rimmed above, silver edged below; and through the rifts burned the red-gold sun. I watched it sink behind the low cloud bank; and at the instant of setting, a glamour, an exquisite light, shaded and died. It was the end of day, of another of my ever-growing number of wonderful fishing days!
My black Marlin might have been a brother of either of Captain Mitchell’s. He had great symmetry, though carrying his weight well back to his tail. His length was eleven feet eight inches, his girth five feet six inches, and the spread of his tail three inches short of four feet. Seven hundred and four pounds!
CHAPTER X. THE POOR KNIGHTS AND SUNKEN REEF
SEVERAL TIMES WE had made preparations for a two-day trip out to the Poor Knights, picturesque islands twelve miles off the coast, but owing to high winds and rough seas we were not able to go until the middle of March.
Among the many Maori legends and stories we had heard was one that concerned the Poor Knights Islands, and which had made them renowned above other groups of islands on this ragged shore of New Zealand.
In the early days, so history records, a tribe of two hundred and fifty Maoris, men, women and children, took refuge on the isolated and almost unscalable Poor Knights. They had incurred the enmity of a large and powerful tribe. It happened eventually that a camp fire at night betrayed the whereabouts of the fugitives. They were surrounded and captured, every last one of them, and taken back to the mainland, to an encampment on a beautiful sandy beach. Here a great festival or feast was held, during which the captives were cooked and eaten. Only one escaped the massacre, and that one was a little child, a girl who had fallen or hidden under a pack during the frightful performance. She was saved and lived to be a hundred and three years old.
Such a tale, gruesome as it was, could not but add to our interest in visiting the Poor Knights; and, as luck would have it, the morning we started the sea was calm and smooth. From Cape Brett to the Poor Knights the distance was close to twenty-five miles. I sat or stood on the bow of my boat during the whole of the three-hour run.
Slowly the dark islands rose out of the sea. Upon near view they were seen to be quite large, high, and with bright-green domes above gray and yellow cliffs. The passageway between the two islands was dotted here and there with ragged jutting rocks. I was disappointed at the scarcity of birds and apparent absence of fish. At least we saw very little sign of bait or fish on the surface.
We trolled around the larger island, and while I fished I had opportunity to see the wonderful walls and heights at close range. These walls reminded me much of the canyon walls of Arizona, both in vivid hues and in the caverns, arches, shelves and bare blank spaces of rock. The sea had performed for these walls what the wind had worked upon the desert cliffs. How the surge rolled in, solemn and grand, to bellow into the black caves or rise green and white and thundering against the grim walls! There was only one place where the heights were surmountable; and that was a narrow cove and steep crack, up which the doomed Maoris and their relentless pursuers had climbed. On top there were heavily-timbered slopes and eminences, and no doubt many thicketed gorges where fresh water was available.
My impression of this larger island was of a wild and lonely fortress out in the ocean; and I imagined I espied the Maori scout who had seen the approach of the dreaded enemy. A few song birds that we saw and heard lent something softer to this forbidding yet beautiful rock. Patches of bronze grass contrasted vividly with copses of shining green. The presence of the sea seemed the most unforgettable thing. I could not rid myself of the haunting moan and boom of the sea.
I caught a mako and several large yellowtail. Captain Mitchell did not have any luck. Meanwhile the sky had become overcast and threatening. As there was no safe anchorage, we considered it wise to run for the mainland, and had not gotten far before a heavy squall burst upon us. Fortunately wind and sea were in our favor. The boatmen put up a sail, and that with the engine sent us along at record speed. It was fine to race over the green and white billows, with rain and spray beating in my face; to watch the sea birds skim the water, and the clouds over the mainland break to let silver rays and gleams shine through the mist.
We ran into the very bay that had become memorable through the massacre of the Maoris from the Poor Knights; and I walked along that wide, curved beach, where they say skulls and bones are washed up out of the sand to this day.
Before that week ended Captain Mitchell and I had one of our remarkable experiences. A heavy run of Marlin swordfish came in to the cape, and we happened to be there before any other of the boats arrived. The day was pleasant, with rippling sea, smooth in the lee of the great rock. Several large patches of kahawai and trevalli were working to and fro, showing signs now and then of pursuers underneath.
The details of that day would be too bewildering to force upon any readers, even if they were ardent fishermen. Captain Mitchell had his best bag, catching five swordfish, two of which gave him hard hour-long fights. He hooked one other Marlin which he lost, more by the fact of my being near than any awkwardness of his own.
Our two boats were rather close off the north point of the rock. Captain Mitchell, Peter and I all had strikes simultaneously, and all hooked our fish. They began to leap. I actually saw three large Marlin in the air between our boats at the same time. The Captain’s fish ran round my line. Presently my Marlin leaped and tangled in his line. I released my drag, but Captain Mitchell did not release his, and as a consequence broke his line. He shook his fist at me, and I yelled back, “You should keep your fish away from mine!”
By noonday several other boats and yachts were on hand, full of enthusiastic anglers. Swordfish were striking everywhere. The schools of bait were on the run. I saw one man, fishing from a skiff, hook and lose two swordfish. Six other Marlin were hooked and lost from the two yachts. One other boat caught a fish during the several hours that I watched.
My own luck was remarkably mixed, good and bad, mostly bad. I actually hooked twelve swordfish, some of them over three hundred pounds. Four of these threw the hook at the first leaping run. Another I lost after nearly an hour’s battle, and another let go of the hook before I struck. Two others came unhooked at the boat, after they had been whipped. I landed four. I was keen, of course, to beat Captain Mitchell, but it was just one of those days when the inexplicable happened. R.C. would have said, “Well, old top, you weren’t shooting straight to-day,” or else, recalling our baseball days, he would have said, “You’re hitting off to-day. You’re chopping at the fast curves and pulling away from the plate!”
After the heat of battle and rivalry was over I was heartily glad I had lost most of my fish. Captain Mitchell could be happy with his record. I would beat him next time. The other remarkable incidents in connection with this day were too many to remember or record. But I could never forget the way the Marlin flashed around my boat. We had two follow our lures when fishing for bait. I raised half a dozen Marlin with the teasers. We had two rise and take dead kahawai we had thrown away. I saw at least a dozen purple sickle tails stick out of the water. And lastly, Peter, fishing from the bow, had an enormous black Marlin follow his bait as he wound it in. Peter never uttered a sound at the moment. Later he told me that the fish was so huge it scared him. It swam round his dead bait and refused it and then went down.
Upon returning to camp I greeted Captain Mitchell in this wise: “Cap, you sure shot your bolt to-day. If you had fallen overboard you would have hooked a Steinway piano. And now, with our last few days at hand, you’ll be funny. You won’t be able even to catch cold!”
Of course I was only joking, but as it chanced that is exactly what came to pass.
We had three days left, and among the many places to go, absolutely unfished waters, except by ourselves, I chose two that we had named The Groaners and Sunken Reef. The Groaners were some ragged low rocks, off one of the points, and Sunken Reef was a wide ledge about ten fathoms deep. These places were four miles apart and not more than ten from a little cove on the mainland where we had a safe and quiet anchorage.
As it turned out we had scarcely any fishing at The Groaners, all of it being around and on Sunken Reef. I had discovered this reef by accident. Perhaps not wholly by accident, as several times the presence of gulls and schools of trevalli had made me wonder about this locality and spend some time there. While drifting I caught my hook on the reef, at less than ten fathoms. This was illuminating, and afforded my boatmen and me much satisfaction. Wherefore we hung around, while the Captain scoured the seas looking for that mako he wanted so badly.
I caught a forty-pound snapper on the reef and several yellowtail. About the middle of the afternoon big fish came in to work on the school of trevalli. Then things began to happen. Before sunset I had several striped Marlin, one of which weighed three hundred and eighty pounds, the largest of that species I had ever seen. The Captain reported nothing but barren seas.
“Cap,” I said, “you ought to follow me around more.”
“By gad! I’d be afraid I’d swamp the boat,” he replied. “But I had one wolloping strike to-day.”
Next day I took Morton with me for the avowed purpose of having him take some pictures of my boat. But my real intent was to hook him on to a swordfish. He had never tried for big fish and was crazy to do so. I thought to do him a good turn and incidentally have some fun.
Indeed, as a man always experiences when he attempts a kindly act, I had more pleasure and reward than I had bargained for.
Trolling over Sunken Reef I raised a good big swordfish, and I hooked him solidly. Then, as he came up rather sluggishly and wallowed on the surface, I thought it a good chance to put Morton on the rod. I did so and straightaway the fun began. The fish woke up and began to run and leap, so that we were compelled to follow. Morton had no idea what to do with rod and reel, but was not slow to follow my instructions. At first he could do nothing at all with the Marlin, and his expression was one of mingled awe, dread and wild delight. Both my boatmen were hugely enjoying the situation; and I observed that Frank ran the launch rather poorly for him. When the swordfish sheered toward us and threatened to ram the boat or leap into it, Morton was a spectacle to behold. But whatever his feelings he was game; he never spoke a word, and he worked valiantly with the tackle. His shirt did not quite come off, as I have seen happen with tenderfoot anglers, but it certainly came up around his neck. He was red and sweaty. His legs shook, and his left arm grew weak. I was afraid he would not last the battle out, but he did; and when we gaffed that swordfish I never saw a happier angler novice. Morton was not a born fisherman, but he was a made one.
About three o’clock the school of trevalli began to rise, foam over the surface, crash the water white and vanish as if by magic. Big fish again! We trolled around without raising another with the teasers. We needed live bait. The boatmen wanted to run way back to the islands for live bait. “Nix,” I said. “This bait is what I want. Catch me a trevalli.”
Frank vowed the trevalli would be too big. Peter did not commit himself, though he was dubious. But I knew. Trevalli could not be caught with a lure, so we had to run around the school and snag one. It was fully six or seven pounds, rather long in shape, oval and thin, and bright silver — a very pretty fish. Once on the hook it proved to be an ideal bait, apparently none the worse for its predicament. Very soon I had a running strike. The next few minutes we were trying to catch up with a marvelously leaping striped Marlin, and while my companions essayed to photograph him in action, I was hard put to it to keep him from getting away. I was an hour on this splendid fish, again the largest I had ever seen of his species.
We returned thrillingly to Our Sunken Reef, to find conditions there more and more fishy. Soon I had another trevalli on for bait, and hardly had Frank stopped the engine when I had another great strike.
I saw my line sweep out swiftly and rise toward the surface. Then the bulge of a big fish! I clapped on my drag. What a jerk! I was almost dragged over the gunwale. That fellow hooked himself and at once broke water in a wide-flung splash, disclosing great breadth of shoulder and great depth. But for the long rapier-like bill I would have mistaken him for a black Marlin. He tore off line out to sea, and kept us guessing. After a while he leaped, a wonderful series of leaps, all low and heavy, which did not disclose his size. But I had that pretty well figured, and worked as if I had tied up with one of the black fellows. Not easy to land was that striped swordfish! I had all I wanted for a quick, violent fight.
It took the four of us to load him on the boat, a most gorgeous specimen of the striped Marlin; bronze-backed, silver-bellied, wide and deep and long, with vivid purple bands. He measured eleven feet five inches in length, and four feet two inches in girth. Even before getting these remarkable measurements I knew I had the world record for the striped Marlin. I knew he would exceed even the disqualified four-hundred-and-thirty and three-hundred-and-seventy-two pound Marlin taken in Catalina waters. My brother held the qualified record with three hundred and fifty-four pounds. “Well, old R.C.,” I exclaimed, “I’ve surely got you trimmed.”
As a matter of fact, this beautiful Marlin weighed four hundred and fifty pounds.
Back at Sunken Reef, just before sunset, we had a hard time catching another trevalli. They had grown wary. Big game fish were chasing them up and down. Then at last when I did get a trevalli it was a large one — too large I feared. Nevertheless, some great game fish, probably a mako or a huge black Marlin, jerked it off my hook before I could wink. What a tremendous strike! I was stunned. The bait had been hooked on securely. Only a fish with large, powerful jaws could have snapped him off without taking line.
