THE ISLE OF SUMMER 45 



sport. There is a fleet of glass-bottomed boats; fleets 

 of rowboats and yachts of the owners who Hve on 

 the slopes of the neighboring hills overlooking the bay. 



The angling interest becomes acute at the south 

 side of the bay, where a long pier leads out into the 

 water — a structure absolutely unique. It is the resort 

 of the professional tuna boatmen. Their stands are 

 arranged along each side, and consist of long boxes, 

 holding rods, reels, and all the paraphernalia of a 

 professional fisherman. Over the stand and seat is 

 the name of the boatman. Nearly all of the older 

 boatmen are weU known aU over this country and 

 England. 



These stands are the offices of the boatmen, and 

 their fine eight- and ten-horse-power launches are at 

 anchor near by. There are three or four landings 

 from this pier, which are reached by stairs, and, having 

 made your engagement, you join your boat here, or at 

 the private dock of the Tuna Club, if you are a member. 



At the end of this angling pier are two singular 

 objects. One looks like a gallows, another is a locked 

 scale. On the first, the great game fish — of from 

 twenty to five hundred pounds — are weighed and 

 photographed. In the morning, at noon, and at night 

 this pier is the centre of attraction, as all the fish taken 

 in the tournaments must come in here to be weighed 

 by Vincente Moriche, and other official weighers of 

 the Tuna Club. 



Launches are constantly arriving, big fishes being 

 hoisted up, people crowding to see the heroes of the 

 hour land. Fishes are tossed out, big ones weighed, 

 the talk is of three-six, nine-nine, and the big feUows 

 that got away. The photographer, Sefior Peter V. 



