ALBACORA 127 



position at the stern, holding the end of the loop in his 

 fingers. 



"Well, it's your leg," Lou warned. 



I was too busy to turn around and try to answer, 

 for Walt Gorman was already swinging the Explorer 

 into the familiar circle of attack. The bait had to swing 

 across that albacora's nose. The boat continued turning, 

 and my line was now out about three hundred feet off 

 the stern. It was well placed and running close to the 

 line of vision of the fish. Sure enough. He spotted it! 

 He went for it. Walt stopped the boat. Then there was 

 nothing for me to do but wait. It had taken Lou more 

 than thirty minutes to draw his albacora into making a 

 pass at the bait. I had been luckier. Maybe I would be 

 more fortunate with my strike, too. My line reeled off 

 uncertainly for two minutes. Then it began to speed up. 

 I struck with all my strength, rearing back with the rod 

 again and again. It was too easy. The line was loose. 

 I struck again. It was useless. No albacora. 



"That's how it's been all week," Lou said. "They're 

 just not hungry." 



"Maybe I'm out of practice," I said. "I feel a little 

 rusty." 



"No," Lou said. "It's not you. There's too much nat- 

 ural food around. They're well fed." 



"Where did that broadbill get to?" Howard said, 

 scanning the sea around us. 



