ALBACORA 155 



Despite the procession of good wishes, morning 

 brought no action. The sky was hazy, and the sea lay 

 flat and glazed like a silver mirror. The smell of fish 

 rose from the water but all I saw was the small boats of 

 commercial fishermen scattered haphazardly across the 

 horizon. It was difficult to differentiate between those 

 skiffs and birds that might be floating on the water. The 

 craft were open boats, only sixteen to eighteen feet long, 

 powered by five-horsepower Diesel engines. Two or 

 three men worked in each boat, ploughing as far as one 

 hundred miles out to sea, lingering for days on the 

 ocean, although they were almost naked to the elements. 

 When one of the commercial boats spotted fish, there 

 was no careful, delicate process of baiting. The boat 

 raced up to the quarry and one man, standing in the 

 bow, hurled a harpoon. The harpoon men of Chile, 

 Ecuador and Peru learn to throw in their childhood, just 

 as American boys learn how to throw a baseball. From 

 their low perch they hurl the harpoons — which they con- 

 trol with great accuracy — in a long high arc. When 

 a fish is harpooned, the primitive battle is begun. The 

 fishermen cling to the harpoon rope with their bare or 

 gloved hands. The fish, sorely injured, hurls itself about 

 with fury that usually abates only with death. Here is 

 conflict that hinges on physical strength and skill. They 

 let the line slide through their hands when they must, 

 then haul with merciless determination at the first slack- 

 ening of speed. When the fish are harpooned in a spot 



