Big Game at Sea 



The boatman and gaffer sits amidships. Another seat 

 extends from rail to rail, with two comfortable chairs 

 facing astern for yourself and companion. Thus 

 equipped, rods in hand, the boat is shoved off and 

 cuts the smooth waters of the bay. It is to be yellow- 

 tail, and the lines are run out sixty feet, the engine 

 slows down to about the rate of slow rowing, the 

 course set along the kelp-lined shore, about which the 

 rocks rise in picturesque bluffs and cliffs, reaching 

 back to melt into the mountains of the interior. It 

 is July or August, but the air is cool, and as far as 

 the eye can reach the sea is like glass. 



The anglers are lost in the beauty of the surround- 

 ings when z-e-e, z-e-e! goes the reel, its high staccato 

 notes rising so loudly that an angler in a boat near by 

 shouts his congratulations. The fish are plungers. 

 Down into the deep blue they go; z-e-e-e, z-e-e-e-e! 

 rising on the soft tremulous air, the line humming its 

 peculiar music. Now, started by the big multiplier, 

 the fish comes up, breaking away with feet and inches 

 to again plunge, circling the boat with savage onward 

 rushes. Lines cross, but rods are passed over and 

 under. Ten, twenty minutes have passed away, and 

 as fast as the fish comes in, it breaks away again to the 

 melody of the singing reel. Finally, deep in the blue 

 water a dazzling spot appears; then another, and up 

 they come, by a marvel not fouling. Now one cir- 

 cles the boat ; away it goes at sight of the gaff, z-e-e-e! 

 to come in again. Five times it circles the boat, dis- 



