by Grey, Zane
While crouching there I suddenly remembered Stevenson's Lantern Bearers and my mind was illumined. The concrete fact of my actually being cold, wet and miserable had little to do with it. Only now and then was I conscious of such state. Like the little lantern bearers, boys at a game, sitting in the dark rainy night, with lighted bull's-eye lanterns hidden under their coats, I was almost oblivious to externals. The boy in me existed as always.
It was this then that nailed me to my martyrdom; this enchantment of the mind, this illusion. The shibboleth I might have cried out in the teeth of the rain was that I was fishing; that the fisherman is born, not made.
Five more days of rain and wind! Then came a change, or at least something to delude us. We went to the Cavalli Islands again, arriving about ten o'clock. The aftermath of the storm was manifest in the huge swells piling up on the rocks and the unearthly roar of waters. We tried drifting around the islands. Not a strike in four hours! Then we ran outside to find schools of kahawai on the surface, and swordfish everywhere. Captain Mitchell caught two, and I caught three. They were jumpers with a vengeance; and in those great swells it was something unforgettable to see the pyrotechnics. I got upward of one hundred leaps out of mine. The last of my triplets was a "long, lean, hungry soaker", as Frank called him, that had a broken bill. His performance of forty-one leaps, of all kinds and heights, was a truly wonderful example of swordfish agility. He was hard to whip, too.
This particular Marlin had roused my curiosity long before he was lashed to the stern. If it had been possible I should have let him go alive. He had an extraordinary build, very long, slender, round, with a spread of tail large enough for a five-hundred-pound fish; but his beauty was marred by the absence of his bill. It had been broken or bitten off long before, no doubt in terrible encounter with rival or foe.
Deprived of his weapon of defense and for procuring food, this Marlin might well have been expected to be thin, Rat, in poor condition. Nevertheless he was solid, fat, in splendid shape. He had been compelled to rely on his speed; and I surely could testify to that.
Another of my swordfish had a healed wound fully a foot long, back of the dorsal fin, where some huge shark had bitten out a piece. All these swordfish showed scars of battle, of the unremitting strife that goes on under the sea.
Chapter IX
GOOD LUCK AFTER BAD
We heard from reliable authority that two large Marlin swordfish had been found dead some time ago along the beach of Whangaroa Harbor. No particular thought was given this, though the lengths of the fish were taken. The longest measured thirteen feet eight inches; the other over thirteen feet. These fish were almost certainly black Marlin.
As to the exceeding great size I was not so astonished as thrilled. R. C. and I both had seen black Marlin off the White Friars in Mexican waters, that were close to fourteen feet in length. A more accurate estimate could not be made, as we sighted the Marlin back of our teasers and under the water. My opinion as to the size of these fish has been ridiculed in certain quarters. Captain Mitchell's capture of a twelve-foot eight-inch black Marlin weighing nine hundred and seventy-six pounds is something of a vindication.
Now a great black Marlin a foot longer than the Captain's would be fully that much larger in girth, perhaps more. At the very least it would weigh three hundred pounds more. Shades of fishes! Once more I am reminded of the twenty-five-foot sailfish off Madagascar in the Indian Ocean. Always there will be bigger fish in the sea than are ever caught!
Alma Baker kept importuning me to join him in taking a trip to the North Cape, about eighty miles up the coast, where, the Maoris had informed him, there were huge mako and swordfish and a very game fish called ahiriri, never yet caught on a rod. The Maoris caught this fish on hand-lines, and claimed it jumped marvelously.
Captain Mitchell added his persuasion, and so, much against my judgment, for we had located big fish and it was not sense to leave them for mere possibilities, I consented to go, and we planned for about a five-day trip. In the end Mr. Baker, on account of threatening weather, decided to hold over awhile; but Captain and I went ahead.
On the way up, off the Cavallis, I landed a fine striped Marlin of three hundred and twenty pounds, and then a mako, just one hundred pounds less in weight. Captain Mitchell began badly, losing three fish.
That afternoon late we ran into Whangaroa Harbor. The entrance was narrow, between high walls; inside, a wonderful bay opened out, having many picturesque ramifications deep into the headlands. Dome-like peaks towered over the bay. The slopes on many sides were delicately green with tree ferns. Here and there deep canyons ran down rugged and rough to the water. Sheer perpendicular cliffs, yellow slopes, ragged walls of lava and glistening beaches of sand surrounded this beautiful many-bayed harbor. One little hamlet, consisting of a few houses, located miles inland from the entrance of the harbor, kept it from being utterly lonely and wild.
The next day was bad. We ran thirty miles north, trolling baits all the way, without a strike. Captain Mitchell said he raised several Marlin that refused to bite. Off the Kara Kara Islands we were joined by Baker, who had come on and was keen to continue to North Cape. But I did not care to place any more miles of rough sea between me and the place where I knew I could raise fish. Baker went on, while Captain Mitchell and I turned back.
Late that afternoon, just off Cape Karikari, we saw some favorable indications of bait, so halted there to fish awhile. I saw two swordfish tails cutting the swells, for the sea was heavy, but could not follow them. A little later, just as I got fast to a hard-fighting yellowtail, the boatmen both sighted an enormous fin. They yelled, "Black Marlin!" And there I was tied up to a bulldog yellowtail. The swordfish swam along not far from us. I labored frantically to haul the yellowtail in, so we could hurry after the Marlin. Meanwhile it swam leisurely toward Captain Mitchell's boat. At last I freed my line of its heavy incumbrance, and we shot away in chase of the black Marlin. I was just in time to see that fish rush after Captain Mitchell's teasers. It refused his bait, but took one Bill let out on the second rod. There was a mix-up when Bill tried to hand the rod to Captain Mitchell. Between them they bungled the chance and missed the fish. Imagine my consternation, dismay, then bitter disappointment! All the rest of that fruitless day this last proof of my lucklessness rankled in my breast. I fought the morbid suggestion. No such thing as luck, good or bad! So I tried to delude myself. Vain oblation!
That sunset we cast anchor in a perfectly sheltered crescent bay, with wide sand beach and canyoned bluffs on one side, and red chalk hills on the other. Outside, the surge boomed on the rocks; inside, the wash of the waves on the strand was soft and musical. Sheep bleated on the far grassy slopes. In the notch between the mountains on the mainland the sun sank shrouded by the smoke of autumn fires. How the sweet smell of burning leaves made me thrill sadly and longingly for the autumn fields of lands far away and days long ago!
A hermit thrush, caroling his lonely twilight song, added poignantly to my feeling. Then I heard a strange bird note, most striking to me. It was the low, sweet toll of a bell. I thought my ears had deceived me. But Morton, the New Zealander with me, told me the bird was the tui, a native songster of the island that imitated the real and rare bell bird. I listened for a long time, and at length was rewarded by another of the exquisitely clear and deeply sweet bell notes. But though I waited longer, no repetition came to my expectant ears.
Night found me weary and prone to the disenchantment of fishing. The motion of the boat was like a gently rocked cradle. My bed felt warm and snug. Outside, the haunting sounds of the sea and the distant clamoring of gulls filled my ears until they heard no more.
Before seven the next morning we were on our way back to the Cavallis, hopeful again, rested, full of eagerness for the long thirty-mile troll. But the morning calm was a delusion, the smooth sea a deceit, and the ever newly born hope of a fisherman without fruition. I trolled all day. Toward evening I raised a striped Marlin that was as cunning as an educa
ted fox. He just wanted to play with the teasers. Captain Mitchell told me, when we again dropped anchor, that he had raised three swordfish just as tricky and wary as mine.
Morning broke dark, with lowering clouds, cool wind and a redness in the eastern sky. "When it is red in the morning, the sailors take warning!" goes the old saying. Nevertheless we undaunted and once more hopeful anglers ran off to the Cavallis to fish.
In the first place, it took a long time to catch bait. In the second, the wind freshened, the sea came up to meet the swell that had persisted for days. We could not find any fish near the rocks or close offshore, so we ran out four or five miles. We trolled, then drifted, trolled and drifted again. Finally Captain Mitchell hooked something. We ran close to watch. It was a heavy fish. The big swells lifted the boat, making a fight with a fish straight down something most exasperating. Captain Mitchell broke his black palm rod. By hard work he and his boatmen maneuvered to get the line on another rod and reel. Then the Captain, feeling sure of the hickory, began to haul on that fish very hard indeed. I cautioned him twice; but in spite of my warning he broke the hickory square off at the reel seat. After that he and the men hand-lined up a fivehundred-pound reremai. Two rods broken on an old shark! The Captain looked what he felt.
That was catastrophe, but nothing to what befell me presently. We went on trolling, and after a while I saw a flash of purple color back of the left teaser. Jumping up, I espied a large Marlin shape rather deep down and dark in color. I yelled for the boatman to haul in the teasers. "Looks like a pretty big fish," shouted Frank.
Then the swordfish went for my bait. He did not show very distinctly, as he kept well under on a slant. He seized the bait and flashed away with inconceivable speed. I felt his weight before I put on the drag. He practically hooked himself. Like an arrow from a bow he sped ahead of us as if the drag was nothing. Then he sounded just as swiftly, and suddenly came up to leap half out. "Black Marlin!" we all yelled simultaneously. Then for a moment we gave way to elation.
Peter had been up on deck, standing, and he had the best look at the fish. "Between four and five hundred pounds," he said. I thought the fish would weigh more than that. Fish seen in the water always look smaller than they really are.
With sight of that black Marlin and then the sudden tremendous strain on my rod, I was seized with wild exultation. I felt I had him solidly hooked. My sensations were thrilling in the extreme. Happy as a boy!
We ran along with the fish, and my line cut the water about fifty feet out. It appeared to curve toward the boat and to move faster. Suddenly the line whistled through the water. It was curving toward the bow, swift, swifter!
"Look out, Frank!" I yelled in alarm.
He threw on full speed just as my line shot squarely under the boat, high up on the surface. I had only time to throw off my drag and release my harness hooks. My line spun off my reel, then slacked. I felt it had caught on the propeller. Next I saw it trailing limp behind the boat. Catastrophe! I realized it with terrible intensity, but for an instant could not believe the evidence of my eyes. What a pang tore my breast! I was frantic in protest against such horrible sudden misfortune.
While I sank back in my chair, crushed, overcome, the boatmen drew in the line and disentangled it from the propeller. Almost a hundred yards was missing. Neither of them made any comment at first. As for me I went into the cabin and lay down, conscious of loss utterly out of proportion to the actual facts. It was only a fish! But the transition from sheer exultation to stark tragedy was too violent too swift for me to bear with equanimity. Bad indeed were those few moments in the cabin.
Nor was that quite the end of an imperfect day! The southwest wind increased to a gale, and we had to buck it for eighteen miles to get back to camp. I was thoroughly used up and bruised all over from the knocking about of the boat on the rough waters.
Ten years before this I had fought and lost the first black Marlin I ever saw, though I did not then know it under such name. This happened in Catalina waters. I never forgot that nine-hour battle. Then last winter I had my record encounter with one of these grand game fish. It lasted over four hours and ended in calamity. I had hooked three black Marlin in New Zealand waters, all of which had actually outwitted me. They appeared to be incredibly fast; strong, sudden and resourceful. Captain Mitchell averred that nothing but sheer luck saved both this fish. The larger black Marlin took all his line in one run and stopped with only a few yards left on the reel. He testified to the bewildering suddenness of their change of tactics, though fortunately neither of his fish darted under the boat. If my boatman had deliberately kept far away from this last black Marlin I hooked, we might have caught it. But we could not foresee such an apparently impossible move. It taught me, most bitterly, that no skill on the part of angler and boatman was equal to the supremest sagacity and rapidity of this wonderful black Marlin.
We were fishing around Bird Rock a day or two afterward. The swells were mountainous; and to troll in such a sea was futile. Nevertheless we made the attempt and showed perseverance worthy of a better cause.
Captain Mitchell took to drifting with live bait, and I followed suit. The change was restful, as the boat rode the long slow swells with ease and grace, and the motion grew exhilarating. After a time we saw a dark fin cutting the water close to the Captain's boat. His men saw it, for they waved with gestures of deprecation, meaning the fin belonged to a hammer-head. But really it belonged to a mako, which most assuredly showed its preying nature by charging my bait. I saw the fish in the top of a clear green swell, its sharp, vicious nose, prominent eyes, strange bullet shape, green and gold, and the motion of a tiger on the spring.
This mako was the largest I had felt. He astonished me. His burst out of a swell, straight across the deep hollow into another swell, was something electrifying and most beautiful to see. We were far behind time in trying to photograph him. But we made ready for a second jump. As he shot off with my line I knew neither Frank nor Peter would cover him with camera if again he leaped. Suddenly out he shot, not high, but low, straight across the sea in a long greyhound leap. My line went slack. Upon reeling it in I found my leader bitten off as cleanly as if it had been done by nippers.
"That was a big one. Four hundred!" Peter ejaculated. "Dod gast it! That fellow you wrote about, who said you were the most unlucky fisherman in the world, had it right-o!"
One other boat besides ours was fishing there; and it contained two boatmen who had no angler for the day and were fishing for themselves. Evidently they were enjoying it. When quite some distance away from us they hooked a fish and proceeded to run out to sea. Presently they came back; and we did not need to be told they had lost it. I had seen this identical thing happen many times. As the passed us one of them yelled lustily, spreading wide his hands:
"Big black Marlin! He rolled up once; wide as a door!"
It was simply impossible for me to evade the shock that was equivalent to a hurt. The thought of another grand swordfish breaking away from that flimsy tackle, with a triple gang hook in its stomach, made me positively sick. How many times had that identical thing happened in the half dozen years of New Zealand swordfishing? Hundreds, no doubt! Not one of those large Marlin had ever been captured on the kind of tackle used, and not one ever would be. While succumbing to despair I could only hope that time would educate these anglers to the futility of such method.
That incident took the heart out of the afternoon, and I was glad when the sea grew so rough we had to quit. At camp Captain Mitchell expressed himself vigorously, and when he said, "What a pity you couldn't have had that strike!" I threw up my hands.
"Never mind, old man, you're going to get your black Marlin," he added feelingly.
That night the strong wind beat the flaps of my tent, the titrees moaned, and the flags rustled. The tide surged in to the bank, low, sullen, full of strange melody. And it seemed to me that an old comrade, familiar, but absent for a long time, had returned to abide with me. His name was Resign
ation.
Daylight next morning disclosed gray, scudding clouds and rough, darkened water. We remained in camp and tried our hands at the many odd jobs needful to do but neglected. After a while the sun came out, and at noon the wind appeared to lag or lull. The thing to do was to go fish. I knew it, and I said so.
Out at Bird Rock we found conditions vastly better than we had expected. The schools of bait, white and frothy, were working everywhere, with the sea gulls screaming over them. High swells were rolling in, but without a break or a crest. Four boats besides ours were riding them. The clouds had broken and scattered, letting a warm sun shine.
We trolled around the rock, to and fro past the churning foamy schools of kahawai, and out farther, long after the Captain had taken to drifting. As last we raised a large striped Marlin. He was so quick that he got hold of a teaser. That made him wary, and though he at last swam off with my bait, he soon let it go. After such treatment we took to drifting. Pretty soon Frank called:
"They're waving on the Captain's boat."
"Sure enough," I said. "Guess he must have a strike or have seen a fish."
But when Bill appeared waving the red flag most energetically I knew something was up. It took us only a moment or two to race over to the other boat, another one for me to leap aboard her, and another to run aft to the Captain.
His face was beaming. He held his rod low. The line ran slowly and freely off his reel.
"Got a black Marlin strike for you," he said with a smile. "He hit the bait, then went off easy... Take the rod!"
I was almost paralyzed for the moment, in the grip of amazement at his incredible generosity and the irresistible temptation. How could I resist? "Good Heavens!" was all I could mumble as I took his rod and plumped into his seat. What a splendid, wonderful act of sportsmanship--of friendliness! I think he realized that I would be just as happy over the opportunity to fight and capture a great black Marlin as if I had had the strike myself.