THE GREAT WHITE BASS 



503 



dezvous, the Tuna Club, is the head- 

 quarters for flie campaign during the 

 brief visitation in May and the first 

 week or so in June. Careful records of 

 the weight of all bass caught resulted 

 in the continued supremacy from 1900 

 to 1904 of a magnificent 58 pounder 

 caught by Mr. Boggs, of Los Angeles. 



At the earliest peep of dawn on a 

 May morning, in 1904, our snug little 

 launch puffed out of Avalon, with 

 black intentions against this renowned 

 finny heavyweight. A two hours' run 

 along the stern coast, a quick turn 

 about a tremendous promontory, and 

 the great inviting circle of the "Isth- 

 mus Bay'' opened ahead. Here, and in 

 the adjacent waters, the flying fish 

 gather in droves, a fact that the wiry 

 white bass knows full well. The bait- 

 man stood alone on the pebbly beach, 

 the long rakish tails of his flying-fish 

 drooping in a bundle over the basket 

 edge. Two dozen we took aboard and a 

 bucket of glistening sardines. 



Our lines were run out, to wet them 

 thoroughly, that the leather reel-brake 

 might not burn them off in a sudden 

 rush. Seated in two chairs secured to a 

 plank across the boat, facing the rear, 

 we held our rods with the butt fixed in 

 a leather cup between the legs. 



We quietly approached the huge 

 mass of seaweed or kelp, called "Eagle 

 Bank," rising eighty feet from the 

 ocean floor to the surface and spread- 

 ing thereon, undulating with the gentle 

 respiration of the long Pacific swell. 

 The sun now rose quite above the hori- 

 zon in a wonderful chromatic display 

 and our watches showed 7.10. Just in 

 time, and devoutly we hoped that the 

 "first call in the diner" had just been 

 proclaimed below. 



My father, who occupied the left- 

 hand chair, chose a large sardine for 

 his contribution to the breakfast fund, 

 but I staked my hopes on the regula- 

 tion "flyer." Cautiously we paid out 

 about 120 feet of line, and the engine 

 slowed down to the pace of the prover- 

 bial snail. 



From end to end we passed along 



the weed, some twenty feet away, but 

 without result. Again we crawled in 

 silence along the fatal stretch until half 

 its length had been traversed. "Cap" 

 scratched his head in perplexity and 

 gazed over the rail. Then, with a sud- 

 denness almost appalling, the water 

 astern burst in a mighty swirl ! Both 

 reels screamed in frantic unison. Then 

 one was silent, it was mine. A pulpy 

 mass of flesh and fins, once a 14-inch 

 flying-fish, bore evidence of the awful 

 force of those crunching jaws that had 

 closed upon my hook for a brief in- 

 stant. 



The drawn out metallic screech of 

 the reel pierced the hushed air of the 

 early morning with the startling inten- 

 sity of a policeman's rattle at the dead 

 of night. The frightened gulls flapped 

 heavily from their resting places on the 

 rocks, with hoarse, raucous cries. 



With unerring aim the fish fled for 

 the seaweed with a speed that was irre- 

 sistible. Zeee — eek-k-k — eee-zeee sang 

 the reel, the core of line melted with 

 heartrending rapidity despite two hard- 

 pressed thumbs on the brake-pad. 

 Without loss of time "Cap" started the 

 engine at a lively gait, and the boat 

 sped away from the menacing bank of 

 kelp that, once gained by the bass, 

 would foil all our efforts to untangle 

 the line from its myriad entwining 

 branches. Though this strategic move 

 necessitated paying out line at a rate 

 about as fast as the boat advanced, it 

 turned the fish in his rush, which com- 

 pensated for the loss. Like a rocket he 

 started out to sea, and was soon towing 

 the heavy launch, the engine being 

 stopped, at quite a perceptible pace. 



The old tuna rod, hero of more than 

 one battle with 300-pound jewfish, 

 creaked and quivered under the re- 

 peated onslaught. So far no line had 

 been regained, for every thought was 

 to restrain the fierce runs of the bass. 

 Several minutes had passed, a scant 

 hundred feet of line remained, the fish 

 was apparently as fresh as when 

 hooked, and was certainly complete 

 master of ceremonies. The situation 



