84 ALBACORA 



horizon I saw other anchored boats, almost like dots in 

 the distance. They were commercial fishing craft, an- 

 chored the same as we, but the great tuna run was not 

 primarily what had brought them out to sea. They were 

 fishing for bluefish. 



Long ago light-tackle fishing was unknown and Lou 

 was working with equipment that I barely could have 

 lifted. His reel was new and roughly the size of a small 

 derrick. His rod was made of black palm that was no 

 more flexible than a river pile. I watched Lou closely 

 and with a little fear. Catching a tuna requires both 

 strength and experience, and Lou in those days was not 

 really an experienced fisherman. It was a long and try- 

 ing wait for every one of us. I broke the wall of silence 

 to exclaim, "I'll be right back." No sooner did I get 

 below than our motors suddenly bellowed forth full 

 blast. "The wait is over," I thought. "Lou must have 

 something." Modesty vanished as completely as my 

 Helen Morgan routine. I hurried to the deck, full speed 

 ahead, blue jeans not secured. Sure enough, when I 

 reached the deck there was Lou leaning back in the 

 fighting chair, the line singing as it played out. Then I 

 noticed Clint Thorne at the controls, his gaze fixed on 

 Lou's line. "The chair, turn the chair!" he yelled to me. 

 "That rod'll snap. Hurry!" I grasped the chair and went 

 to work. 



Then I began adjusting my outfit to conform with 

 public laws. If I had known more about fish fever, I'd 

 have realized that the adjustments were mere idle ges- 



