ALBACORA 131 



Strike. Finally he stopped, but I was certain he had 

 stopped too late. 



"How far down do you figure he's gone?" Howard 

 asked. 



"About three hundred yards," I said. "Let's circle." 



"Not yet," Lou said. 



I waited. 



With the fish down so deep, I was helpless. An angler 

 using heavy tackle can drag a fish up from the ocean 

 floor, providing he has the brawn. If I had tried drag- 

 ging this fish upwards, I would have been left with 

 nothing more than a broken, dangling line. 



Through the silent wait, I pumped and reeled at each 

 slight sign that the fish might be weakening. It seemed 

 useless. He was down deep, sulking and determined. 

 For forty-five minutes I tried everything in my little 

 bag of tricks. I plucked at the line — when it is taut like 

 that it sends a vibration down to the fish that may an- 

 noy him. I circled the fish to change direction. Finally 

 I played my trump ace — I free-spooled the line. It was 

 a long shot and I could easily lose him and all the line, 

 too, but I had to chance it. Out ran the line and off 

 into the deep blue ran the albacora. Then when I thought 

 the spool would surely go bare, up he shot, breaking 

 through the surface a good two hundred and fifty yards 

 away, leaping like a gazelle, all 700 pounds of him. 



The boat spun around and tore after him, Lou urging, 

 "Fast! Fast! Get that line in!" 



