SOME RARE FISH 



singularly enthusiastic about the waahoo, and what 

 he said excited my curiosity. Either the genial 

 judge was obsessed or else this waahoo was a great 

 fish. I was inclined to believe both, and then I 

 forgot all about the matter. 



This year at Long Key I was trolling for sailfish 

 out in the Gulf Stream, a mile or so southeast of 

 Tennessee Buoy. It was a fine day for fishing, there 

 being a slight breeze and a ripple on the water. 

 My boatman. Captain Sam, and I kept a sharp 

 watch on all sides for sailfish. I was using light 

 tackle, and of course troUing, with the reel free run- 

 ning, except for my thumb. 



Suddenly I had a bewildering swift and hard 

 strike. What a wonder that I kept the reel from 

 over-running! I certainly can testify to the burn 

 on my thumb. 



Sam yelled "Sailfish!" and stooped for the lever, 

 awaiting my order to throw out the clutch. 



Then I yelled: "Stop the boat, Sam! . . . It's no 

 sailfish!" 



That strike took six hundred feet of line quicker 

 than any other I had ever experienced. I simply 

 did not dare to throw on the drag. But the in- 

 stant the speed slackened I did throw it on, and 

 jerked to hook the fish. I felt no weight. The line 

 went slack. 



"No good!" I called, and began to wind in. 



At that instant a fish savagely broke water abreast 

 of the boat, about fifty yards out. He looked long, 

 black, sharp-nosed. Sam saw him, too. Then I 

 felt a heavy pull on my rod and the line began to 

 slip out. I jerked and jerked, and felt that I had 



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