TALES OF FISHES 



Once oflf the Point, where the tide rip is strong, 

 he began to circle in great, wide circles. Strangely, 

 he did not put out to sea. And here, during the 

 next hour, I had the finest of experiences I think 

 that ever befell a fisherman. I was hooked to a 

 monster fighting swordfish; I was wet with sweat, 

 and salt water that had dripped from my reel, and 

 I was aching in every muscle. The sun was setting 

 in banks of gold and silver fog over the west end, 

 and the sea was opalescent — vast, shimmering, heav- 

 ing, beautiful. And at this sunset moment, or 

 hour — for time seemed nothing — a school of giant 

 tuna began leaping around us, smashing the water, 

 making the flying-fish rise in clouds, like drifting 

 bees. I saw a whole flock of flying-fish rise into 

 the air with that sunset glow and color in the back- 

 ground, and the exquisite beauty of hfe and move- 

 ment was indescribable. Next a bald eagle came 

 soaring down, and, swooping along the surface, he 

 lowered his talons to pick up a crippled flying-fish. 

 And when the hoary-headed bird rose, a golden eagle, 

 larger and more powerful, began to contest with 

 him for the prey. 



Then the sky darkened and the moon whitened — 

 and my fight went on. I had taken the precaution 

 to work for two months at rowing to harden my 

 hands for just such a fight as this. Yet my hands 

 suffered greatly. A man who is not in the best of 

 physical trim, with his hands hard, cannot hope to 

 land a big swordfish. 



I was all afternoon at thisi final test, and all in, 

 too, but at last I brought him near enough for Cap- 

 tain Dan to grasp the leader. . . . Then there was 



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