160 ALBACORA 



"He sees it," I cried aloud. "I think he's going for 

 the bait!" 



The two fins shifted slightly in the water. The ripples 

 blurred. Then the fins moved again. The albacora turned 

 toward the bait. The fins might have been bombsights. 

 The albacora aimed his body at the target. Watching 

 the bait sidle away from the albacora, and the fins turn 

 cautiously toward the bait, hypnotized us into unbreath- 

 ing silence. Then the albacora charged. 



He whammed the bait with his bill and Howard let 

 go of the loop. The reel spun. It was in free-spool. 

 Everyone turned away from the ocean. The story lay in 

 the reel. It was a time for patience and restraint, and I 

 could only watch the reel spin spasmodically, a sign 

 that the fish was still at the bait. Nothing stirred for 

 five minutes. Then slowly some line pulled out — and 

 stopped. Another wait. In a very low voice, I murmured 

 a prayer. If anyone overheard, no one acknowledged. 

 With every second my chances lessened, for each might 

 mean distance if the albacora were dashing away from 

 us. He might be on the hook and he might not. There 

 was no way in which I could tell without taking a fool- 

 hardy chance. Fish may be foolhardy in battle, but 

 anglers can't afford to be. 



For nine minutes, by Luis Rivas' watch, I sat stark 

 still. 



"Why the hell won't the fish move?" I said. "He's 

 probably halfway back to Iquique now." 



