130 ALBACORA 



ing, but now he was the most important man on the ship. 



"You getting this?" Lou asked him. "You getting 

 shots of this albacora?" 



At his perch not far from the bridge, Doty was too 

 busy shooting to answer. 



The albacora did not stop with one jump. He kept 

 hurling his 700 pounds out of the sea, striving to out- 

 race the Explorer, driving northward with spectacular 

 determination. 



"Watch out," Lou warned me. "Don't get too anxious. 

 That's light tackle. Don't hold him so close. Good Lord, 

 woman, give him room to breathe." 



"Umph," I grunted. "Who's doing this?" We always 

 bicker when I fish because Lou wants me to do every- 

 thing his way and I have ideas of my own. 



It was a cool day but I had peeled down to a cotton 

 shirt during the blazing excitement. Still, drops of per- 

 spiration ran from my forehead down into my eyes. Lou 

 leaned over, and with his big white handkerchief wiped 

 my forehead. 



Since I could not lean back in my chair and pump 

 the line too well, I could not force the fish to follow 

 my path. The only chance I had with light tackle was to 

 tire the albacora and then coax him my way. It was a 

 long shot, I realized, but one well worth taking. 



When the albacora sounded, I decided that I was 

 through. Down he plunged swiftly, ripping my line from 

 the reel almost as rapidly as he had done on my first 



