ALBACORA 133 



surface. Mario reached for the leader, a line of fiber 

 that held the fishline to the bait. Gus held a gaff in his 

 hand. When the Explorer drew alongside the fish, I had 

 trouble believing what I saw. This was not Bosco, per- 

 haps, but it was certainly a very close relative. 



Mario and Gus were leaning toward the albacora 

 when, suddenly, the fish lashed furiously. Gus swung the 

 big gaff hook down and missed. Then he swung up and 

 missed again. "No," I shouted. The fish whipped the 

 water with his tail. I saw my hook embedded in the 

 skin in front of his dorsal fin. The fish turned and 

 twisted again. The hook tore the flesh. "No," I shouted 

 again. The big fish rolled over once more and broke 

 away. The hook had pulled out of his skin. My line 

 was empty now. The fish had won. 



For a few minutes nobody said anything. I knew that 

 it was up to me to break the gloom, but I could not 

 quite bring myself to do it. 



"Lou," I said, "I'm sick." 



"I know, Genie," he said. "It was only one chance 

 in a thousand." 



"He went over 700 pounds for sure," Howard said. 



Luis Rivas, who had been in the bow during the ac- 

 tion, was back in the stern with us now. "Well, didn't 

 you tell me," Rivas said, "that more broadbill break 

 away after hooking than anything else that swims?" 



"Yes," I said, "because ninety-five per cent of them 

 are foul-hooked." 



"There will be others later on for you," Rivas said. 



