46 ALBACORA 



are called "foul-hooked," and they are far more difl&- 

 cult to keep on the end of a line than one that has bitten 

 at the bait. Ninety per cent of all the albacora that have 

 been caught are foul-hooked, which is why so many of 

 them are never caught at all. Even alongside the boat 

 just before gaffing, foul-hooked albacora have managed 

 to break free. 



It is a humbling thing to consider the tenacity and 

 the courage and the brave hearts that albacora show in 

 mortal battle. My ribs have been cracked and my 

 hands have been rubbed raw in fights against them. 

 Without a doubt they are king of all the deep-sea game 

 fish. 



Before we docked, we knew that John and Jo Manning 

 would be waiting. But someone in the village of Iquique 

 had heard Lou's radio message, too. Forty thousand 

 people live in Iquique. From the Explorer, in the fading 

 afternoon, it seemed that every one of them and several 

 carloads of their country cousins were gathered at the 

 dock to meet us. The Mayor was there leading a delega- 

 tion of the local brass. No Roman legion coming back 

 from Gallic victories ever received a more impressive 

 greeting. 



But as we reached the Iquique dock, I wanted neither 

 greetings nor a crowd. My wants were three: a bed, a 

 bath and, if someone forced my hand, a Scotch on the 

 rocks. The boat pulled under a towering crane which we 

 used to haul fish and fishing equipment twenty-five feet 



