Tales Of the Angler's El Dorado Nz Page 11
"Has he showed?" I asked breathlessly.
"Bill saw him," replied Captain.
"Hell of a buster!" ejaculated Bill.
Whereupon, with chills and thrills up my spine, I took a turn at the drag wheel and shut down with both gloved hands on the line. It grew tight. The rod curved. The strain lifted me. Out there a crash of water preceded a whirling splash. Then a short, blunt beak, like the small end of a baseball-bat, stuck up followed by the black-and-silver head of an enormous black Marlin. Ponderously, he heaved. The water fell away in waves. His head, his stubby dorsal fin, angrily spread, his great, broad, deep shoulders, climbed out in slow wags. Then he soused back sullenly and disappeared.
"Doc, he's a monster," exclaimed the Captain. "I sure am glad. I said you'd get fast to your black Marlin."
After the tremendous feel of him, and then the sight, almost appallingly beautiful, my uncertainty ceased. He was there, solid and heavy. Whereupon amid the flurry of excitement on board I settled down to work, to get the hang of Captain's tackle, the strange chair and boat. None of these fitted me, and my harness did not fit the rod. But I had to make the best of it.
The swordfish headed out to sea, straight as an arrow, and though I pumped and reeled with fresh and powerful energy he gained line all the time. We had to run up on him so that I could get the line back. My procedure then was to use all the drag of reel and hands I dared apply. This checked him. He did not like it. Slowly the line rose, so slowly that we all knew when and where he would show on the surface, scarcely a hundred feet away. Frank and Peter, in my boat, were opposite, running along with us; and they were ready with cameras. Mitchell and Morton also had cameras in hand. What a long time that break was in coming! A black, blunt bill first came out. Then with tremendous roar of water the fish seemed to slip up full length, a staggering shape of black opal, scintillating in the sunlight, so wide and deep and ponderous, so huge in every way, so suggestive of immeasurable strength that I quaked within and trembled outwardly with a cumulation of all the thrills such moments had ever given me.
As he thumped back, sheets of green and white spread, and as he went under he made a curling swirl that left a hole in the water. Then he sounded, but he did not stay down long. That is one of the fine things about Marlin swordfishing. As he came up again at the end of that run, I had to have the help of the boat to recover two hundred yards of line.
The sun had come out hot. The seas were flattening. I began to sweat and burn, but never did an angler enjoy more such results of labor. This swordfish was slow. I could tell what his moves would be. Still, remembering the others that had fooled me, I did not trust him. With hawk eyes I watched the tight, singing line. If it curved the least at the surface I saw and gauged accordingly.
When we ran close again it was evident that the black Marlin meant to rise and come out. How wonderful to see the line rise! To expect the leap and know for sure! We were all ready, with time to spare. Yells of various kinds greeted his glistening bulk, his great wagging head. He veritably crashed the water. And he rose so high that he lifted my line clear of the water, straight and tight from fish to rod, ten feet above the surface. That was a remarkable thing; and I did not remember it having happened to me before.
He led us out to sea, and in two miles he flung his immense, gleaming body into the air ten times. Naturally this spectacular performance worked havoc with my emotions. Every time I saw him I grew a little more demented. No child ever desired anything more than I that beautiful black Marlin! It was an obsession. I wanted him, yet I gloried in his size, his beauty, his spirit, his power. I wanted him to be free, yet I wanted more to capture him. There was something so inexpressibly wild and grand in his leaps. He was full of grace, austere, as rhythmic as music, and every line of him seemed to express unquenchable spirit. He would die fighting for his freedom.
Whenever he showed himself that way I squared my shoulders and felt the muscles of Hercules. How little I suspected pride goes before a fall!
Again I maneuvered to work close to him, and this time saw the double line slip out of the water. That was an event we all hailed with a shout.
"How much double line?" I asked Captain.
"Only fifteen feet," he replied dubiously. "You see that line is short anyway. I couldn't spare more."
This was the beginning of the other side of the battle, the fearful, worrying, doubtful time that was to grow into misery. A great fight with a great fish rings all the gamut of the feelings.
Grimly I essayed to pump and reel that double line to my clutching thumbs. I got it almost to the tip of the rod. As the leader was only twenty feet long my black Marlin was close. I risked more, straining the rod, which bent like a willow.
"I see him," yelled somebody out forward. Captain Mitchell and Morton ran with their cameras.
Suddenly the double line swept down and my reel whirred. A quick wave heralded the rise of the swordfish.
"Look sharp!" I called warningly, as I released my drag.
As he had been slow, now he was swift. Out of a boiling, hissing smash he climbed, scarce a hundred feet from the boat, and rose gloriously in the light, a black opal indeed, catching the fire of the sun. But he could not clear the water. He was too heavy. I saw his great, short club bill, his huge, gaping jaw, his large, staring black eye, terrible to behold. My own voice dinned in my ears, but I never knew what words I used, if any. His descent was a plunge into a gulf, out of which he thundered again in spouting green and white, higher this time, wilder, with catapultic force--a sight too staggering for me ever to see clearly enough to describe adequately. But he left me weak. My legs, especially the right one, took on the queer wobbling, as if I had lost muscular control. If the sight of him was indescribable, then much more so were my sensations.
Tense we all were, waiting for another burst on the waters. But it did not come. My swordfish quickened his pace out to sea. Sight of him so close had acted as a powerful stimulant. Like a fiend I worked. Half an hour of this sobered and steadied me, while it certainly told upon my endurance. I had labored too violently. As many a time before, I had not kept a reserve of strength.
Suddenly with a crack the reel came off the rod. My grasp of it kept it from going overboard. "Quick!" I yelled frantically. "The reel's come off. Help!"
The situation looked desperate. I released the drag, letting the swordfish free of strain. Fortunately he did not rush off. While Captain Mitchell bound the reel seat on the rod I performed the extremely difficult task of carrying on without a bungle.
Naturally, though, I lost confidence in the tackle. I could not trust it. I did not know how much I could pull; and that with a new trouble, a slow rolling swell which made it almost impossible for me to keep my seat in the chair, operated to help the fish and wear me out. It took time to conquer this, to get back what I had lost.
Then the reel broke off again. As I was holding it, more than the rod, I lost my balance and half fell into the cockpit. All seemed lost. Yet, like the fool I was, I would not give up, but stung my companions to quick and inspired tasks, and then got the reel fastened on again. And in a short time I had gained all the line lost. My spirits did not revive to any degree, but at least grim disaster left me.
In the next half hour, strange to relate, encouragement did rise out of the gloom; and I worked so well and so hard that I began to imagine I might whip this great fish yet. To that end I called for my boat to come round behind us, so Peter could board us with my big gaff, and Morton could go on board my boat with his motion-picture camera. This change was made easily enough, and with Peter beside me I felt still more hopeful. I knew from the feel of my back, however, that I had overdone it, and should ease up on the rod and patiently save myself. But this was impossible.
Then the reel broke off the third time. I almost pitched both reel and rod overboard; but Peter's calmness and his dexterous swift hands had cooling influence upon me.
"You could fight him better from our boat," said Peter.
I released the drag, and holding the rod up, with Peter holding me, I made the change into the Alma G. without mishap. And then in my own chair I fell to fighting that swordfish as hard as I had fought him two hours before. He felt it too. Slowly his quick, free, tremendous moves lost something; what, it was hard to say. Eight times I got the double line over the reel, only to have it pulled away from me. Each time, of course, the end of the leader came out of the water. Bill, who had come on board my boat with the Captain, leaned over at last and grasped the leader.
"Careful," I warned. "One hand only. Don't break him off." Twice Bill held momentarily to the leader, long enough to raise my fluctuating hopes.
Peter stood back of me, holding my chair. The tremendous weight of the swordfish, thrown against the rod socket, pushed the chair round farther and farther.
"Mr Grey," said Peter, "what you want on that fish is your big tackle. If you pull the leader up again I can slip your line through the swivel."
"By George--" I panted. "Peter...you're...the kind of boatman... I want around."
Fired by this sagacious idea, I strained rod, reel and line, and eventually drew the leader up a foot out of the water...two feet...three, when Bill grasped it, and Peter with swift, careful fingers slipped my line through the swivel, knotted it and then with flash of knife cut the Captain's line.
"By gad! That's great!" ejaculated Captain Mitchell. "You'll lick him now."
Everybody whooped, except me, as I hauled away with the big rod that had killed so many big fish. I seemed to have renewed strength... I certainly saw red for the moment and swore I would pull his head off. In short order I had the leader out of the water again, closer and closer, until Bill once more grasped it.
This time he held on. Frank kept the boat moving ahead. We gained on the fish. Slowly he rose, a huge, shining monster, rolling, plunging. My heart leaped to my throat. Bill yelled for help. Peter, with gaff in right hand, leaned over to take the leader in his left. I could see how both men strained every nerve and muscle. That frightened me. How many great fish had I seen lost at the boat! The swordfish pounded the water white just out of reach. I ordered the men to let go; and with a thumping splash he disappeared and took line rapidly.
He seemed a changed swordfish. He ran off much line, which was hard to get back. He grew wild and swift. He had got his head again. Perhaps the stronger tackle, the narrow escape at the boat, had alarmed him. Anyway, he was different. He kept us going. But I felt master now. I knew I could whip him. My aching arms and paining back were nothing. His long runs did not worry me. Let him drag three hundred yards of line! But when he got too much line we shot ahead so that I could recover it.
So that stage of the fight went on and neared the end. I felt that it would mean victory. There are signs a fisherman can detect, movements and sensations which betray a weakening fish. I kept my knowledge to myself. How many mistakes fishermen make!
This period was somewhat after the third hour. It had not afforded me much relief, although a restored equilibrium certainly helped. The next action of significance on the part of Mr. Black Marlin was to sound. He had not attempted this before to any extent, but now he went down. I made no effort to check him. Indeed, that would have been useless. I watched the line slide off, in jerks, yard by yard; and through my mind went many thoughts, all optimistic. When a great fish sounds after a long fight it is favorable to the angler. At the depth of five hundred feet the pressure of water is tremendous, and the farther down then the greater proportionately. Broadbill swordfish often sound with their last flurry of departing strength.
My black Marlin continued to go down. I asked Captain Mitchell if his record nine hundred and seventy-six-pound Marlin sounded like that.
"Yes, only not so deep; and earlier in the fight," responded the Captain. "I don't like the idea of this fellow. He's getting too deep. Suppose he should die down there?"
"Well, I reckon the old tackle will lift him," I replied confidently.
Nevertheless Captain Mitchell's concern was transferred to me. It was too late to attempt more strain; indeed I had to ease off the drag. Slowly and more slowly sounded the swordfish, until he was taking inches instead of feet. Then, at last, he stopped taking line altogether. One thousand feet down! There he seemed anchored.
Hopefully I waited for some sign of his working back. None came. Then I braced my shoulders, heaved on my harness, and stretched my arm tackles in a long, hard lift. The old rod described a curve, till it bent double and the tip pointed straight down at the water. I waited for the spring of the rod, for the slow rise of the tip that always helped so materially to bring up a fish. The spring came, but so slowly that I had more concern added to my trouble. By dropping the rod quickly and swiftly winding the reel I gained a few inches of line. This action I repeated again and again, until sweat broke out hot upon me. All the same a cold chill waved over my back. I realized my gigantic task. The great swordfish had fought to the last gasp, and had died down at that tremendous depth. Now he was a dead weight, almost impossible to move more than a few inches at each lift. But still I felt perfect confidence in the tackle, and that by pushing myself to extremes I could bring this black Marlin up.
So I toiled as never before; and as I toiled all the conditions grew worse. It took both Captain Mitchell and Peter to hold my chair straight. The roll of the boat as it went down on a swell, added to the weight on the rod, pulled me from one side to the other, aggravating in the extreme.
Inch by inch! That old familiar amazement at myself and disgust at such senseless Herculean drudgery took possession of my mind. What emotions were possible that I had not already felt? I could not name any, but I was sure there were some, and presently I must suffer them.
When I timed a heave on the rod with the rise of the swell I managed to gain half a foot perhaps. If I missed the proper second then I failed to gain line. And as I lost strength the roll of the boat grew harder to bear. I was swung from one side to the other, often striking my knees hard. Then the chair whirled around so that I had no brace for my feet, in which case only the support of Captain Mitchell kept me in my seat at all. It grew to be torture that recalled my early fights with broadbills. Still I sweated and heaved and toiled on.
The moment arrived when I became aware that my rod was dead. It bent down to the water and did not spring up a fraction of an inch. The life of the great rod had departed on this giant black Marlin. If despair had not seized me, followed by a premonition of stark, tragic loss, I would have been happy that this wonderful Murphy hickory rod--which had caught the world's record tuna, seven hundred and fifty-eight pounds and also six hundred and eight-four, six hundred and thirty-nine; a host of other tuna up to three hundred and eighteen; nine broadbill swordfish and many Marlin--had bent its last on such a wonderful fish. But all I thought of was now I never could lift him!
Yet so intense was my purpose and longing that I found both spirit and endurance to lift him, inch by inch, more and more, until I knew that if I did not die myself, as dead as both rod and swordfish, I would get him.
All of a sudden Bill yelled out hoarsely and wildly:
"My Gawd! Look at that mako fin!"
We gazed in the direction indicated. As I was sitting down and hunched over my rod I was the last to see. The others, however, yelled, shouted and otherwise exclaimed in a way calculated to make one thrill.
"He's foolin' round that box of bait Peter chucked overboard," cried Frank.
"By gad!" ejaculated the Captain, breathing hard.
Then I saw at quite some distance the yellow box, and close to it a dark fin glistening in the sun, cutting the water swiftly, and so huge that I could not believe my eyes.
"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.