ALBACORA 83 



sea: chopping and grinding up fish and throwing the 

 chum, or choppings, overboard to attract any game fish 

 that are swimming in the area. There were 300 pounds 

 of dead fish on our little boat and one large meat 

 grinder. My work was cut out for me. I clawed hand- 

 fuls of the slimy bait out of the barrel and proceeded 

 to grind and toss, grind and toss. In a short time there 

 was a long, shiny oil slick in the sea. Lou stood in the 

 stern, playing out a line through the slick. Captain 

 Thorne showed some compassion for me, or at least 

 gratitude for my efficient chumming. "Nice going, Mrs. 

 M.," he told me. "But get ready to be chair boy for Lou 

 in case a big one strikes. Just keep the fighting chair 

 turned in the direction of the fish. These tunas are tough 

 and we're short-handed, you know." I hadn't known any- 

 thing of the sort. 



I eased closer to Lou. He was wearing oilskins now, 

 like Clint's, and his evening clothes had given way to 

 dungarees like mine. "Clint," he said, suddenly, his 

 voice husky with excitement. "There's a swirl. Out 

 there." 



"How can you see in all this blackness?" I said. 



"That's them all right," Clint said, ignoring me. 

 "Toss the chum, Mrs. M. Steady, not too fast." 



Then there was silence. An hour passed. The sun 

 came up, cold and dim through the heavy overcast. Then 

 it broke through and the sea, eased by the morning 

 warmth, turned calmer and less petulant. Around the 



