TALES OF FISHES 



sweet, floated on the breeze. Catalina showed clear 

 and bright, with its colored cliffs and yellow slides 

 and dark ravines. Clemente Island rose a dark, 

 long, barren, lonely land to the southeast. The 

 clouds in the west were like trade-wind clouds, 

 white, regular, with level base-line. 



At the end of the second hour I was tiring. There 

 came a subtle change of spirit and mood. I had 

 never let up for a minute. Captain Dan praised 

 me, vowed I had never fought either broadbill or 

 roundbill swordfish so consistently hard, but he 

 cautioned me to save myself. 



"That's a big tuna," he said, as he watched my 

 rod. 



Most of the time we drifted. Some of the time 

 Dan ran the boat to keep even with the tuna, so he 

 could not get too far under the stern and cut the 

 line. At intervals the fish appeared to let up and 

 at others he plugged harder. This I discovered was 

 merely that he fought the hardest when I worked 

 the hardest. Once we gained enough on him to 

 cut the tangle of kite-line that had caught some fifty 

 feet above my leader. This afforded cause for less 

 anxiety. 



"I'm afraid of sharks," said Dan. 



Sharks are the bane of tuna fishermen. More 

 tuna are cut off by sharks than are ever landed by 

 anglers. This made me redouble my efforts, and in 

 half an hour more I was dripping wet, burning hot, 

 aching all over, and so spent I had to rest. Every 

 time I dropped the rod on the gunwale the tuna 

 took line — zee — zee — zee — ^foot by foot and yard by 

 yard. My hands were cramped; my thumbs red 



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