128 ALBACORA 



We searched the water. There was no sign of a fin. 

 My heart was lead. The search seemed hopeless. 



"Albacora," Gus called out from the mast. 



Sure enough, he was out there astern of us. 



"Get a fresh bait ready, Gus," Lou called. 



I reeled in to change my battered bait for a fresh one. 

 "He's coming right at us," Howard shouted. "Hurry!" 



In consternation I saw that Gus had not finished sew- 

 ing up the fresh bait. We had no time to lose. 



"Hand me the small outfit," I called to Howard. 

 "It's all baited." 



Howard quickly thrust a fifteen-thread outfit into my 

 hands. It was baited with a mullet, a small fish weigh- 

 ing about a pound and a half, and the line could take 

 only fifty pounds of pressure. This was my striped mar- 

 lin outfit, set up specifically to handle fish which usually 

 run half the size of albacora. I tossed the bait over- 

 board and let it run out three hundred feet or more. 

 The chance of landing albacora on this tackle was one 

 in a thousand. It seemed absurd to imagine that a fish 

 of this size, which had been so reluctant to lunge at a 

 skipjack, would work up interest in anything so small 

 as a mullet. But as Gus and Mario were preparing to 

 drop the big bait into the water, the albacora slammed 

 my mullet viciously. 



I squealed. "He hit it. He's socked my little bait." 



"Damned if he didn't," Lou hollered. 



I shrieked again. The reel spun faster and faster. 



