8^ 
The Log of a Sea Angler. 
The Tuna Season. 
BY CHARLES FREDERICK HOLDER, AUTHOR OF “bIG GAME 
fishes/'’ ’"adventures of torqua/'’ etc. 
It is a question -whether angling or archaeological 
research is the most fascinating. On the way across 
the San Clemente Channel, Mexican Joe revealed to me 
a secret — he is the oldest inhabitant and has lived on 
Santa Catalina Island forty odd years. It appears that 
one Cabrillo, a captain of Cortez, discovered the fair 
island, so far as the Spaniards were concerned, in 1542 
and named it. He found it inhabited by a sturdy race 
having canoes which held twenty men. In 1602 the 
islands were again discovered by Viscaino, who re- 
named them. The historian of the latter, Torquemada, 
left an account of the natives he found in possession; 
declared them to be worshippers of gods, and de- 
scribed a certain temple to the god Chinigchinich 
somewhere up in the mountains; but where? Mexican 
Joe confided to me that he thought he could find it 
just as Bob on the outer reef swore by all the gods 
that he would show me the robalo, and I fell into the 
illusive trap. 
I have been on the quest of Chinigchinich ever since. 
When I am on the turquoise waters, fishing with 
Mexican Joe or some other delight-giver of these sum- 
mer seas, I really believe I am on an angling trip; 
but the fishing is merely a subterfuge; I am roaming 
up the canons that reach from the sea to the upper 
range, or scanning the winding rivers of verdure from 
the little bays upward, thinking of Chinigchinich and 
his temple, that, according to Joe and Torquemada, 
stood somewhere just over the divide or between the 
bend of some distant canon. 
I have more than a fondness for the St. Lawrence 
River. Between Quebec and the mouth of the Sague- 
nay, the land rises in a splendid slope to the Lauren- 
tian Mountains- — the oldest hills in this fair land. Near 
at hand they are clothed in green, but the peaks and 
ridges eight and ten miles ahead, are a most beautiful 
blue, an ineffable tint or tone that has no color name. 
When I first saw it, the pleasure in the anticipation of 
reaching it was a delight; but as we sailed on, I found 
that this glorious blue was a thing dreams are made 
of — was a fantasy of distance. There they stood, moun- 
tains garbed in all the glory of color, ever beckoning, 
and as I sailed on and on, I never gained an inch on 
these mountain Lorelei, new peaks and ranges, assum- 
ing the splendid tone always ahead, alluring, enticing 
nereids of color which drew one on and on into the 
very heart of this land of dreams. 
Every land has this fetich. It is some big fish, some 
rare flower, some radiant gem, some forgotten ledge of 
gold or silver, and at Santa Catalina, at least to_ me, it 
is the temple of Chinigchinich; and I am breaking no 
confidence between Mexican Joe and myself when I 
enter in this log the expectation that some time when 
trolling by the rocky cliffs, he or I will sight it, per- 
haps stumble upon it after the quest of many years. 
Orizaba is one of the highest peaks of Santa Cata- 
lina, 2,200 feet or so in height; and at its base, in a 
canon formed by two of its divides, lies one of the 
fairest bays on the island. It is on the north coast, 
and consequently the lee, and off its shining sands we 
rounded to and cast anchor. According to Joe, it was 
in the very center of the best fishing, and the wildest 
views on the island reached away from the anchorage. 
Our tents were pitched under some cottonwood trees, 
and from it I could hear the love notes of the in- 
numerable quail up the canon, see a bald eagle circling 
in upper air, while the azure sea, here clear as crystal, 
smooth as a disk of steel, stretched away to the main- 
land, thirty miles distant, over which rose the snow 
peaks of the Sierra Madre. The bay faced the channel, 
nearly always smooth, a lee being formed by a rocky 
point which extended out two miles above. It was a 
singular fact that this point and the rocks of Avalon 
Bay, four miles to the south, formed the limitations of 
the tuna fishing ground; in other words, all the tuna 
are taken here. 
We sent the men down to Avalon for the daily mail, 
and now had the luxury of papers, with the delights of 
civilization, in camp, and yet its charm of isolation. 
The third day Joe hailed us from the beach and pointed 
to the channel. Something had happened. There was^ 
no wind, the sea was perfectly smooth, yet an area 
covering possibly twenty acres was lashed into foam 
as though some submarine force was at work. 
“Tunas!” shouted Joe. 
“Tunas!” echoed up the canon, and two anglers ran 
down the beach, tumbled into the boat, and shortly 
were running out of the little bay, one in the launch, 
and one in the rowboat- — a division of chances. The 
tuna is a large mackerel, and a world-wide traveler. 
On the Pacific he comes inshore in May or June to 
feed upon flying fishes and squids, driving the former 
into the open bays, rounding them up with the skill 
of a general. In ten minutes I could hear the roar of 
waters, then the flying fishes began to go by, over and 
under the boat. Then, ah, then, the reel spoke, as I 
had rapidly paid out my line and had 60 feet out by the 
time we reached the school. 
The maddened fishes were chasing a large school of 
flying fishes, and the roar and foam came from 
their rushes along the surface in pursuit of the game, 
and now and then one went hissing into the air to turn 
gracefully and drop into the sea of foam. The tuna 
took the bait in a rush and tore 200 feet of line from 
the reel so quickly that I hardly missed it, then bore 
down and jerked the rod with powerful blows — zip- 
zip-zip — with a tension that told on the thumb pressing 
upon the leather pad, and took all feeling out of it. 
Such a brake with an ordinary fish is a deadly thing, 
but it was a bagatelle to this fish, that gathered in the 
line by feet and yards. In vain did I brake it with the 
left hand, pressing the line upon the cork grip, making 
two brakes, and with the patent drag, three. Despite 
this, zee-zee-zee went the line, always going, and the 
boatman backing the launch after the fish and using his 
oars to keep me face to it. 
FORESt AND StREAfd. 
Nearly four hundred feet -yvere taken by the tuna 
before I stopped it; then it turned and came up like 
a rocket, swirled at the surface of the clear blue water, 
and dashed around the boat to head out to sea, towing 
us in a straight line, as though holding a course. I 
now gained thirty or forty feet by an herculean effort, 
and broke its course, forcing it to sulk again down 
somewhere in the heart of this great rift in the Santa 
Catalina Channel, really a vast canon between the lofty 
island and the mainland. Now the tuna turned in, tow- 
ing us at a four-mile-an-hour gait, and carried the boat 
determinedly inshore, while I pumped and lifted, reeled 
when I could, and all the time that seeming miracle was’ 
being enacted — a fish of unknown size towing a heavy 
boat by a 21-thread linen line 350 feet in length. 
An hour slipped away, then another, and the launch 
was being towed in a circle and the tuna was 250 feet 
away, and apparently as strong as ever. My companion 
had lost a fish, and now rowed by, advising me to “go 
in and win!” How cheap is advice to the looker-on. 
Three hours slipped by, and I was still contemplating 
the space below, while that untamed steed still fought 
and swam. I soon found that when I rested, the fish 
gained twice as much, and the only way to end the 
game would be to fight to a finish without cessation. 
This was apparently easy, but to the angler who has 
been holding a dead weight on his left arm for three 
hours, and pressing his right thumb against a leather 
pad all that time, it is a forlorn outlook. But I rallied, 
and by mere good fortune brought the fish to the quar- 
ter. My boatman was about to gaff it, when it stopped 
struggling, rolled upon its side, dead, and was gaffed 
and hauled in, a fine fish that weighed 150 pounds. 
There was but one conclusion to so sudden a termina- 
tion to the battle — the tuna had died of heart failure, 
and I have seen several such endings. I have had a 
fish struggling and fighting with a fierceness that 
threatened rod and line, at least 200 feet away, sud- 
denly stop and doubtless die of the over-exertion. I 
have had the good fortune to take large fishes of many 
kinds, but for hard fighting and persistency, force and 
strength, I award the palm to this, one of the largest 
of the bony fishes. 
The tuna presented an attractive appearance as it 
lay on the canvas; about six feet in length, trim as a 
privateer, well proportioned, of the bonito type, body 
stout, tail powerful, a little row of finlets between the 
sharp dorsal and the caudal, the side fins short, the 
eye bright and beautiful, jaw powerful, silver belly — 
altogether a most striking and attractive creature. _ 
“Tunas mighty uncertain,” quoth Joe, as he rebaited 
my line. “Sometimes they strikes in_ in May, then in 
June, and sometimes they jest about give the island the 
go-by.” 
“You mean they sometimes don’t come at all in 
numbers?” 
“That’s it,” replied Joe. “I dunno where they come 
from, but most of the men think they go out to sea 
and to deep water off the Cortez Bank, some sixty 
miles to the southwest; but I’ve caught them in winter, 
and some are around all the time.” 
“Once,” he continuted, “I was sailing a big boat from 
the island to San Pedro, and was trolling with a big 
hand-line with a red rag as bait. All at once the boat 
stopped, a big tuna had stopped her, as though she 
were anchored, and we were running before the wind at 
that.” , 
Joe was baiting my hook as he spoke, and the den- 
cate line was a source of wonderment to him. The 
hook was a No. 7, the line a 600 21-thread Cuttyhunk, 
the rod a 12-ounce greenheart, built to order, 8/2 feet 
long, light, supple, but strong enough to lift a sulking 
fish. I had a leader 8 feet long, longer than the fish, 
so that it would not chafe off on the finlets when the 
fish was boring down; the bait was a big flying fish, 12 
inches in length — the natural food of the tuna at this time. 
There were half a dozen boats fishing now; two or 
three were fast to tunas and being towed hither and 
yon. Later I had other strikes and missed several. 
Upon examining the bait I found that the tuna had 
struck at the large black eye of the flying fish and 
crushed the head. 
This was a remarkable day for tunas. An acquaint- 
ance, Mr. Wood, of Los Angeles, hooked a fish early 
in the morning and played it seven hours. _ He is a, 
powerful man, but he never reeled the fish within sight 
in that time, and wisely gave it up. I had passed a 
few minutes before, and he was then five miles off- 
shore, holding the road that formed a perfect curve, 
his wife sitting by him, anxious and excited; the boat- 
man, Harry Elms, keeping the craft stern to the fish, 
which was slowly but steadily towing them out mto 
the channel. Word had been passed to Avalon, and 
various parties came out to see the- man who had 
fought the “unknown” seven hours. One carried him 
some lunch, and everything was done to aid the heroic 
angler; but he had just recovered from the grippe, 
and the struggle was beginning to tell on him, and at 
the end of seven hours, indifferent to advice, he handed 
the rod over to Elms, a strong, sturdy fellow, who, 
being absolutely fresh, thoucrht he could bring the fish 
in in a short time. But they had under-estimated the 
strength of this fish, as, despite the lifting and pumping, 
the hours melted away, and the big fish towed the gamy 
boatman out to sea. Ten hours from the strike. Elms 
was alone in the boat, hoping that he could still wear 
out the fish, but the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth hour 
passed, and counting the turns in and out, it was esti- 
mated that he had been towed two miles an hour, or 
nearly thirty miles, and ten miles directly out into the 
channel. A sea had picked up, and Elms now found 
that he could gain by lowering his rod when the 
launch fell into the hollow of a sea, then by holding 
hard the next sea would lift the fish, and in this way 
he could gain a foot or two. 
I doubt if an angler ever had a more strenuous strug- 
gle, and at the end of thirteen and a half hours, Elms 
found that he was gaining, and fourteen hours from 
the strike he shouted that he could see the fish. Several 
launches were lying by him, and as it was manifestly 
impossible for him to gaff the fish and hold the rod, 
an angler offered his services, and was put aboard. 
The tail of the fish now appeared at the surface; the 
fish was boring down head first. The gaffer leaned 
down and struck home, but the hook did not take; it 
ti^ULY 4 1965- 
scraped along the surface, alarming the fish, which 
gave a mighty rush, broke the swivel and disappeared, 
after having worn out two men. Such is fisherman’s 
luck. From the size of the tail, those who saw the 
fish that was played fourteen hours fairly with a rod, 
believed it to have been a 6oo-pound or more fish. The 
fight doubtless killed the tuna, as the steamer Falcon 
passed a very large fish floating on the surface near 
the fishing spot the following day, doubtless the same 
tuna. A large reward was offered for the fish when 
the news was reported, and various Hunches went in 
search of it; but the sharks dined on the great un- 
known that made the gamiest fight ever recorded on 
these happy hunting grounds. 
l‘he best tuna fishing is in the large bay at Long 
Point. Inshore lies the white sandy beach, and from 
it reaches away the verdant river — the canon rising to 
the Cabrillo Mountains— while along the shore rise 
rocky cliffs in reds and greens; the water, deep, in 
marvelous tones, reflecting the vagrant cloud flecks and 
the rocks and mountains,, is filled with life. Fanciful 
shapes of jellyfishes, some minute, others giants, with 
long trains; while inshore and skirting the rocks are 
the wonderful hanging gardens of the sea. Not a 
breath of wind disturbs the surface, and in the morn- 
ing, as the sun rises, this sea of delights takes on tints 
and colors indescribable and impossible to reproduce. 
If the waters could speak, what tales they would tell 
of savage life, of the galleons and packets of the Con- 
quistadores of Cabrillo, Cortez, of Viscaino, Drake, 
Monterey and many more; and somewhere up there, 
in a deep canon, overgrown, perhaps, by chillocothe, 
wild lilac or ironwood, is the temple of Chinigchinich. 
I fancy I can see it as the launch moves slowly on, and 
I turn to Mexican Joe and ask him if he has ever 
hunted in that particular canon. Joe laughs, and then 
my rod is jerked into the water. Zeeee-zeeeee! and I 
am in the toils of the leaping tuna. I hooked this fish 
at once, and it towed me four miles, once up the coast 
to Long Point, then down to Avalon, where it was 
gaffed. 
Never had such a tuna season been known, and it is 
sufficient for this log to give some of the most strik- 
ing incidents in the season’s catch. On July 3 I went 
out with Col. C. P. Morehouse and sighted tunas to the 
north. We thought a heavy sea was breaking on the 
Long Point rocks, but it was a school of tunas. We 
both had strikes at the same time, and both saved our 
fish. As it was manifestly impossible to play them 
from the same boat, we separated, and in an ' hour had 
both tunas aboard — 150 and 130 pounds. The fish bit 
rapidly as we made a turn about the school, and in a 
short time we took two others. It was a strong temp- 
tation to see how large a bag we could make, and we 
agreed that we could have broken the record for num- 
bers for a given day then and there; but we broke the 
record in theory only, not wishing to waste the splendid 
fish, and not being able to use more than we had, which 
were in demand by the local taxidermist. We tried 
casting for them, with success, on another day. The 
tunas were not leaping, but were swimming in schools 
over the bay in a form like ducks swimming, with one 
in the lead. I found we could reach within thirty feet 
of the school and cast ahead of them. Evidently they 
thought that a flying fish had alighted among them. 
There would be a swirl of waters and the reel would 
give tongue as the frightened fish dashed deep into the 
channel, dispersing the school. 
Those placid waters were the theatre of strenuous 
sport. Here I took the first large tuna, an 183-pounder, 
at the time the largest taken with a rod and 21-thread 
line. My boatman was Jim Gardner, an Englishman, 
who developed very clever qualities as gaffer and 
angler. This fish towed us ten miles, and in the fourth 
hour towed us straightaway four miles; during this 
latter period I was nearly beaten. I had fought the fish 
with all the strength at my command for three hours, 
and the continued drag on my left hand and arm began 
to produce violent palpitation of the heart, and grad- 
ual weakness. When the fish was not fighting or 
attempting to plunge, it was towing the boat by 200 feet 
of delicate 21-thread line, and after three hours and 
three-quarters I realized that I was in extremis^, while 
the tuna appeared to be as strong as ever. I remember 
I endeavored to distract my attention from the fish, 
and as it towed me steadily to fix in my mind upon 
some foreign object, as I appreciated that the heart fag 
was to some extent the result of mental excitement 
consequent upon the struggle and the peculiar and 
unique tactics of this particular fish, it having re- 
peatedly charged the boat on the surface, then, turning 
and rushing away when ten feet distant, a magnificent 
performance, a spectacle to arouse enthusiasm; but 
when repeated time and again I found that it wore on 
my nerves. I knew I had big game, and the fear that 
one of those rushes would end the play was disquiet- 
ing. I thought of the temple of Chinigchinich, looked 
at the graceful outlines of the mountains; I even 
counted slowly in a vain effort to reduce the beating 
of my heart, but it was all useless; that strange pull, 
that strange vibration, coming up the line, the un- 
known fish towing us with unabating strength, forced 
itself deep into my mind and imagination, and twenty 
minutes before the end I expressed the opinion to 
Jim, quietly but positively, that the tuna had me, in 
what is known in sporting parlance as “on the run.” 
I had been fighting this fish steadily for nearly four 
hours, and collapse was staring me in the face. I felt 
that I had reached the limit of endurance. My arms 
were numb and my heart was giving all the symptoms 
of failure, and I remember, despite my agony of mind 
and body, that it occurred to me that it was an inter- 
esting physiological study, this effort to beat down the 
extreme exhaustion of the body. Whether it was the 
invocations of my gaffer behind my shoulder, or the 
encouragement of some friends who were following in 
a launch, or the desperate shame of failure before the 
lookers-on, I do not know; but in some incomprehen- 
sible way, I pulled myself together and again bent to 
the reel; and the splendid' fish, ever circling the boat, 
came slowly in. It seemed an eternity; then we saw 
the full and complete outline of the fish for the first 
and appreciated the cause of the struggle; then, tell it 
not in Gath, the reel stopped. It was one of the best 
reels in the world-^an Edwin Vom Hofe — but so great 
