ALBACORA 161 



We backed up a fraction to relieve the line strain still 

 further. 



"Guess he's gone," Lou said. 



"Oh, no," I said. 



Then, in the eleventh minute, my slumbering reel 

 sprung alive. It was only a small turn, but it was a 

 start. Soon the reel spun smoothly, and then faster it 

 whirled, and faster. With all the energy I possessed I 

 struck. 



"Boat," I shouted. 



The engines under me exploded into power and the 

 ship hurtled forward. 



"Strike." 



This was no light-tackle action; I gave it all I had. 

 It was my one hundred and ten pounds against the fish. 

 The harness cut into my flesh as I strained backward 

 against the fierce pressure. My one good leg quivered 

 from strain, but it held. It had to take the brunt. Bosco, 

 running for his life, was on my line. I really felt that 

 all of my fishing had culminated in this one battle. 



Everyone struggled along with me vicariously, for 

 game fishing is a solitary sport. If anyone touched my 

 rod, or moved to brace my arm or lift the harness from 

 the welt that it was burning in my back, then boating 

 Bosco would mean nothing other than a fine, particularly 

 big fish for Luis Rivas. The angler must match himself 

 alone against the fish, without assistance of any sort 

 from anyone. 



