132 ALBACORA 



"There's 400 yards of line in the water, Lou," I 

 shouted, pumping and reeling furiously. Then I had 

 most of my line back and we were on top of the fish. 



At this point, he settled about twenty yards under and 

 proceeded to travel along slowly but with as much de- 

 termination as he had displayed earlier with those grey- 

 hound leaps. Again Walt ran the Explorer in a circle 

 around the albacora. I pumped, exerting as much force 

 on the fifty-pound line as I dared. Too much and the 

 line would break, too little and I'd lose the fish. 



Inch by inch I drew him toward me. I tightened the 

 drag. He weaved back and forth in tired confusion. 



"Quick," I shouted. "Close in on him, Wah. Let's 



go." 



"You better wear him out first," Walt shouted back. 



"Wear him out?" I said. "What do you think I've 

 been doing?" 



"You've only had him on the line for an hour and 

 forty-five minutes," Lou said. "This is no marlin, re- 

 member. It's albacora." 



But it was my albacora and it was my decision. "If 

 he sounds again," I said, "he may go down so deep 

 he'll kill himself. I'll never get him if we wait. I think 

 he's headed for a sulk right now." 



"And I think you're making a mistake," Lou said. 



"I'll chance it," I told him. 



"Close in, Walt," Lou shouted. Then, more softly, he 

 said, "Good luck." 



We eased close to the fish as he lay quietly near the 



