by Philip Wylie
How did such an organization come about? What is the IGFA? Thereon—as always, when the subject is fishing—hangs a tale.
A decade or so ago, the question of who caught what biggest fish on which tackle was wide open. The American Museum of Natural History kept a haphazard list of so-called “world record” catches of marine fishes. But the listings were not carefully checked, the method of catch was not ordered by rules, and, while some of the “records” in this list were turned in by famed and reliable anglers, others were the casual claims of gentlemen who may have used harpoons instead of rods and reels or may perhaps have shot their fish after they had been hooked. Among the anglers, Mr. Zane Grey and Mr. Michael Lerner—fishermen who had tossed baits into some of the remotest, giant-haunted seas on earth—had made entries.
In England, where the inland art and skill of Izaak Walton began the long, thrill-spangled history of sports fishing, and where a Briton will go a whole hundred miles by small boat into the frigid North Atlantic for a whack at a tuna, the British Tunny Club was making an attempt to bring order out of the chaos of claimed records. In California, a tradition brought by a Texas angler had been used to set up the very high standards of several clubs—which insisted that a fish taken on line larger than twenty-four-thread (breaking strain: seventy-two pounds) wasn’t worthy of notice! These pioneers made some extraordinary records on that relatively light gear. At the same time, in Australia and in New Zealand, great ranges of black marlin, of striped marlin, of mako sharks, threshers, and various other fishes had been discovered. And fishing enthusiasts in those areas, proud of their achievements and jealous of the possibility that Mother England might become the sole arbiter of records, felt that a non-British headquarters for angling would be ideal—a very fortunate feeling, for on September 3, 1939, England was at war.
In 1939, while he headed an expedition for the American Museum of Natural History to Australia, Mike Lerner fell to discussing the matter with Clive Firth—of that land down under—another noted angler. It was Mr. Firth’s suggestion that Americans should devise and administer the rules. For the Australian noted a long-standing tendency of the colonies and the mother country to quarrel about everything—even about rules for fishing. Mr. Firth, aware of the feats of the Californians, of Floridians, Long Islanders and others, felt that England, along with her colonies and dominions, would accept American judgment as sporting and impartial—and without starting another Revolutionary War. He thought all other nations would accept the lead of U.S.A. and Britain.
Mike Lerner (and Dr. W. K. Gregory, together with the late, famed Harry Raven and several equally noted members of that expedition) pondered the Australian’s proposal on the voyage home. Mike next got in touch with leading anglers and prominent fishing clubs the world over, for opinions. They were enthusiastic. Everybody wanted to be in the game—but nobody wanted to umpire.
A bit reluctantly, Mike selected a group of deep-sea fishermen known for their skill and fairness, a number of ichthyologists and other scientists, and a few chaps like Van Campen Heilner, who had fished about everywhere and written authoritative articles and books on the subject. Included in the last category was the great Ernest Hemingway, whose sports stories have graced the pages of many a publication and are among the very best in the language, and who is a hell-for-leather nemesis of sea-lurking monsters. Later on, this writer also became an officer of that world-umpiring society. (I had, by then, written a bit about sea fishing and wet a line here and there—though I shall remain to my dying day a tyro at fishing compared with Mike or Van or Ernest or a hundred other men known personally to me and thousands who exist unknown.)
Today, the IGFA supplies to anyone on request printed rules for standard tackle and “fair” fishing methods. The IGFA also supplies forms to be filled in by anybody claiming a world record—forms which include directions on how to measure fish properly and which demand the exact data on the kind of line used, the type of rod, reel, number of hooks (no more than two are allowed) and so on. A snapshot of the fish and the tackle is required. So is a sample of the line actually used in making the catch; and that sample, in every case, is checked by a professional testing company. “World records” are kept in many categories, each depending upon the “breaking strain” of the line used. Thus, there is a set of world records for fish taken on line that breaks at a strain of twelve pounds (or “twelve-pound test”), on twenty-pound test, thirty, fifty, eighty, and so on—with a final “All Tackle” class which lists the biggest fish caught fairly on whatever size tackle.
Today, though you belong to no fishing club, you can submit your entry simply by writing for one of the IGFA forms, filling it in properly, having it witnessed and notarized, and sending along with it a hunk of your line and a photograph.
It may seem a little far-fetched to imagine yourself taking a world-record fish on your first trip at sea, with no angling experience whatsoever—except those catfish. But the only thing that’s far-fetched is our imaginary “broad-head.” On the master record chart of the IGFA are several world records made by novice fishermen—and fisherwomen. In fact, one day while I was arranging a charter at a Miami Beach fishing dock, I saw a lady come in with what became the women’s All Tackle record for Atlantic sailfish and I talked to her about the catch. It was her first—her very first—experience with a rod and reel in any water!
The IGFA has been in existence for more than a decade. Its reports are recognized everywhere—except in Soviet Russia, where we have no word of the fishing situation. (Doubtless, the Reds, if they took part in the perpetual, planet-wide contests, would claim all records in all classes—and refuse to furnish any proof whatsoever!) An established fishing club whose members desire it to belong to the IGFA is admitted upon application and after an examination to make sure the club is bona fide and its members are genuine sports fishermen. There are several hundred such “member clubs.” In the angling centers of all civilized nations (and many that would be considered highly uncivilized), the IFGA has a “representative” who serves for the honor of the post and the love of the sport. He is available to give anybody and everybody IGFA information as well as to investigate any question that may come up about a record claim from his area.
The IGFA itself is housed in the American Museum of Natural History, on Central Park West, in New York City and is reached by all letters thus addressed. Its resident officer is Miss Francesca LaMonte, the association’s secretary—and a noted ichthyologist. All other officers, representatives and so on serve without pay. There are no dues for member clubs and no charge is made for publications. The IGFA has no individual members, as the officials connected with the association are not, strictly speaking, “members.” They hold their status merely to serve the member clubs, and the great sport of marine fishing. They scrutinize all claims for records. The “okay” of at least the president, a vice-president and the secretary is necessary for the acceptance of a claim as a new record. Wherever insufficient or confusing information about a catch is furnished, the secretary first asks for clarification. If that proves insufficient, a local representative is instructed to make an on-the-scene investigation.
So, frequently, men in Capetown and Queensland, in Tahiti and Chile, take trains and planes to some remote spot where a gigantic fish has been caught—or a fish spectacularly large for the type of tackle used—just to make sure a “world record” is justified. If the “local” man fails to solve a questionable situation (Was the line really twelve-pound test? Did the fish actually weigh seventy-six and a quarter pounds? Are the scales that said the marlin went over a thousand accurate? Was the fish gaffed according to IGFA rules—or is the rumor it was harpooned, true?), an official from the home office may start a long trek to check in person.
There is something inspiring about every sportsman and his devotion to what is, after all, a kind of “arbitrary idealism.” In the ten years I’ve served the IGFA, I’ve helped with many queries and investigations and I’ve seldom missed one o
f the meetings at which the officials thresh out the hardest questions accumulated in each year. Before I served IGFA, I imagined myself something of a purist on tackle and a stickler for form and detail. But my colleagues taught me more. I’ve seen our newest official, Ben Crowninshield (who is one of the best anglers living today) spend a month over the matter of the way hooks were employed on a claimed-record catch. I’ve seen Mike Lerner take off for remote parts to check a detail as small. I’ve seen all the men in IGFA invariably do their utmost to give the angler every possible “break.” But never have I seen a sign of prejudice, of personal interest or motive, of anything but hard-working integrity.
Yet the problems are sometimes a strain on the judges, as human beings. For example, not long ago, an Allison tuna was taken in the Pacific by a lady angler who was more or less a novice. The captain of the boat she had chartered was an old hand. The tuna hit the bait while the rod was in a “socket” (like the sockets that were used long ago to hold buggy-whips). The lady angler grabbed for her rod—which fit tightly in the socket. The tuna, meantime, had taken the bait, whirled and was running away—no doubt feeling the hook as it ran, which, if true, accelerated him.
At such times, even on the boats of the oldest anglers and in the presence of the most experienced guides, anything but calm prevails. The strike of a walloping big fish is to an angler what a lion or an elephant in his rifle-sights is to a hunter. In fact, it’s more; for the hunter’s work usually ends with that high moment—while the angler’s just commences. Think, then, of such an instant—a big strike, a tremendous run, and a lady unable to get her rod free of the socket, owing to its close fit and to the pressure being exerted on it by the racing tuna.
In this crisis, to free the rod, the skipper hit it jarringly a few times with his open hand. The lady was thereby enabled to get the rod-butt out of the socket, carry the gear to the fighting chair, set it in a gimbal, and go to work on the fish. Some hours later—and what hours of combat a big tuna can supply!—she brought the fish to the boatside where the mate took the leader, the skipper thrust home the gaff and a “world record” Allison tuna was boated—if the officials of the IGFA would agree it had been fair caught.
Now it happens that the lady in question was the wife—the handsome, photogenic, famed and charming wife—of a man of great wealth and influence. It happens that the city off which she took her big fish was very anxious to get the publicity that would ensue if a world record was made there, especially by so charming and famed a lady. But it also happens that the rules of the IGFA say unequivocally that the angler shall hook and fight and bring to boat his fish unaided and that no one else shall touch any part of the tackle at any time until the final moment when the leader is seized so the fish may be gaffed. On the other hand, it is well known that the IGFA officials will do their best, when the situation warrants it, to judge in favor of the angler. But they will not violate rules! The claim for a record was, consequently, denied.
A considerable amount of protest was made over that decision—which was reviewed at an annual meeting. Again the claim was turned down. Some of the city fathers were huffy about what they called “quibble over an outrageous technicality.” But the lady herself did not protest at all—however much she might have liked to hold a world record. Note, instead, that in her affidavit she reported the captain had repeatedly struck the rod to free it. That’s sportsmanship! She and they could have omitted the fact—and would certainly have been awarded the record.
But note further the points pondered by the IGFA officials in discussing the matter. That “jury of experts” brought out the obvious fact that if a skipper or mate is allowed to touch a rod on one occasion, a hundred skippers and mates will do more, on the next. Further, the hard, open-palmed slaps the skipper gave the rod to loosen it may have been the blows that drove the hook into the tuna’s mouth. That is to say, had the lady managed to lift the rod unassisted, and started with it to the fighting chair, the tuna might not have been hooked and might have escaped! For any interference by a second person changes the fishing conditions. And too many skippers and mates the world over (especially when taking out inexperienced anglers) are prone to grab the rod whenever a fish rises. Maybe they’ll hand it to tyro before the fish hits; but some will themselves make sure the fish is well hooked before turning over the tackle to the customer. That’s patently unfair.
So the lady forfeited her claim—with the regret of the IGFA officers. Perhaps there ought to be a special award for “near misses” in world records and another for “extreme gallantry”—in which case the lady would be eligible for both. But the anglers who sit on the IGFA “jury” are not likely to put up such awards. For every man-jack of them has at the very least nearly boated a “world record” fish, time and again—including even me.
People cheat—occasionally. The lady who told the exact truth about her Allison tuna is far more representative—a hundred times more—than the man or woman who tries to defraud the IGFA and to be accredited a world record on a fish unfairly caught, or a fish not as big as claimed, or something of that sort.
Naturally, the IGFA relies first and foremost on the integrity of the angler. It has to. The IGFA cannot have an inspector in every boat and on every dock and beach where anybody is fishing, the world over. So you could catch a walloping big fish—but not a record—and photograph it along with, say, far lighter tackle than you actually used. You could then claim it to be heavier than the fact—and a record on, say, twelve-pound test line when you really used seventy-two-pound test. You might find a dockmaster and a weighmaster and other persons who would swear that your report was gospel truth. Your filled-in form and your affidavit, your photograph of your fish and of tackle you didn’t use—along with your phony sample of line—might pass muster. You might, eventually, get word from the IGFA that you held the twelve-pound-test world record for—say—snook. The IGFA relies on the honor system since it cannot police the world.
But we officials at IGFA believe there are no violations even of the most trifling parts of the rules among the catches listed as world records. For one thing, anglers—contrary to the legend about them—tend to be more scrupulously honest than the general run of Homo sapiens. For another, the eyes that scan the photographs and read the affidavits are very expert—the eyes of trained scientists, veterans anglers. For a third factor, since honor is a jealous guardian of world records, the angler who cheats raises the hackles of all other anglers. And the rumor of a faked entry gets around: a man who used heavy tackle to take a fish that he claimed as a record on light tackle may have been seen, that day, faring forth with his heavy gear and nothing else. Somebody—some indignant angler—writes the IGFA. Investigation gets under way. And presently, the malefactor is trapped or persuaded into admitting his dishonest attempt.
Occasionally, someone who doesn’t know all the IGFA rules enters a fish innocently and finds out afterward that his catch wasn’t made “according to Hoyle.” Perhaps his leader wire was longer than the legal limit. Possibly his guide—an unschooled native in some remote land—instead of gaffing the fish, threw a trident into it the first time it surged within spearing range. That angler will, in our experience, invariably write to withdraw his claim.
It is not the dishonesty of people but their scrupulousness which makes IGFA work fascinating. The great majority of investigations conducted by us are not owing to our suspicions about claims but to inquiries concerning the legality of a catch made at the request of the angler himself.
In a time in our national sports history when football and basketball and other such games have come under the pall of proven dishonor, of bribery and corruption and cheating, it is refreshing to see how ardently myriads of fishermen—fishermen in a hundred countries, fishermen of every tint of skin, fishermen who speak all the major languages—not only play the game straight but take near-universal pride in doing so. (It can be seen here that the IGFA is lucky to be housed in the American Museum of Natural History since its
correspondents often use languages it takes an archaeologist or an anthropologist or some other scientist-visitor of remote regions to translate!)
Anglers are funny people. And the IGFA, being a sort of world crossroads for anglers, is in consequence an unusual and interesting place. People drop in at IGFA for advice on where to take a next vacation or on what tackle to carry to the Celebes or Patagonia. These persons drop in again, usually, on their return—with marvelous tales of fish, seen, hooked, lost—and caught, mounted and ensconced above the mantel at home. Cablegrams come in from every quarter of the globe asking for every imaginable sort of fishing information and telling every conceivable kind of tale about fishes seen or apparently seen or reported by somebody to somebody else.
A great many travelers, foreigners in America, know only the IGFA when they arrive here for a visit. So they make tracks to the American Museum. Their reception is always warm. Americans voyaging into any of the sixty-odd regions overseas where IGFA has a representative or a member club, or both, have found that “I’m a fisherman” is an open-sesame to new languages, to an ideal way to make new friends and a sure means of finding new piscatorial fun. For fishermen, being philosophers, are also friendly; ninety-nine in every hundred take pride and pleasure in “hanging” a stranger on one of their local big-game beauties. The notion that anglers keep secret their “best” fishing grounds has been blown to statistical mincemeat by IGFA. Hunters may have such a selfish practice; but if so, fishermen are different.