164 Big Game Fishes 
coral beaches, apparently floating on the waters, 
possessing a charm peculiarly their own. The 
air was as soft as velvet to the cheek, the days 
clear and beautiful, and the atmosphere had a 
strange resonance as though the blue vault of 
the heavens was a sounding-board which made 
every sound bell-like and distinct. The distant 
roar of the surf on the outer reef, the grinding 
of the dead coral rocks as they were tossed 
hither and yon by the waves, the far-away 
“ha-ha” of the laughing gull, the crash of the 
big ray as its winglike fins struck the water, 
all were heard with extraordinary distinctness 
by the angler drifting in lagoon or channel. 
This explains why the jacks invariably sum- 
moned me to the sport, which for excitement 
and novelty it would be difficult to exceed. 
In my initial experience I was a fourth of a 
mile away when a sound like the pattering of 
rain came softly down the wind. Louder it 
grew, changing into a ringing, rushing noise, 
then into a roar. 
“Don’ yo’ hear it, sah?” whispered Chief, 
resting on his oars, allowing the dinghy to drift. 
I turned in the direction of the sound and 
became witness to my first “jack beat.” The 
