FOREST AND STREAM 
285 
imminent. The lead weighs four ounces, the 
line breaks at say 18 pounds strain. It is a 
delicate art to start this weight from its resting 
point three feet or so below the tip of one of 
these really powerful rods, and to so evenly and 
rapidly apply the last pound of power in one’s 
muscles, accelerating the lead throughout each 
inch of the swing until, at just the right time, 
a wave is sent along the rod which reaches the 
tip at precisely the instant the thumb releases 
the reel and puts the “wallop,” so to express it, 
into the cast. 
“Wallop” is just the word-and to get it 
there' without breaking the line where it is 
knotted to the swivel is beyond anything done 
with a fly rod. 
But we have only started the cast. The reel 
is revolving at a high rate of speed. Its bear¬ 
ings are as smooth as those of a watch and are 
lubricated with a fairly thin oil. If the line be 
dry as in tournament casting, its friction will 
burn the skin from the caster’s thumb unless 
protection in the shape of a thumb stall be 
worn. And yet thumbing must control the reel 
down to a point where it delivers line at the 
speed the lead is traveling forward. Trained 
instinct will tell when, and a little faith will 
encourage one, to remove the thumb entirely 
from the reel and the cast goes on gathering 
distance in its graceful parabola until after 
three or four anxious seconds the lead strikes, 
when the thumb abruptly stops the reel. The 
anxiety of these seconds is born of a fear 
that the line may not have been properly spooled 
in reeling up the last cast, or that a speck of 
sea-weed or a stickiness of the line may cause 
it to falter in its delivery from the barrel of 
the reel, or that some foible of the wind may 
corkscrew the line in its journey from reel to 
first guide, or any one of a dozen other causes 
may bring the dreaded back lash and the al¬ 
most inevitable breakdown resulting therefrom, 
when the line is as light as a 9-thread. Escap¬ 
ing this fate, what a 'satisfying picture it is to 
see the line hanging high for an instant ap¬ 
parently in the gracefully curved air-hole the 
lead has made and then crumpling and sinking 
to the sea! It is a sight the angler in fresh 
water never enjoys, for there is nothing like 
it elsewhere than under the magic spell of the 
surf rod. 
I repeat, there is no cast so long, no anxiety 
so intense, no satisfaction so great when suc¬ 
cess attends, in the whole field of casting as 
the surf angler enjoys when all goes well. The 
American tournament record in surf casting 
may be mentioned right here to point the state¬ 
ment as to length of cast. It is 349 feet V2 
inch, made by Dr. Carleton Simon at the Mid¬ 
land Beach Club’s tournament last summer, and 
my information is that it was made with a 
linen line. [Dr. Simon wrote very modestly of 
this event in the February number of Forest and 
Stream .— Ed.] 
As to the poetry of the sport there is the 
ever-changing sea, whose moods run the widest 
gamut of variations that man can know, from 
the gentle playfulness of a child to the wild 
fury of—itself. Now bright and sparkling in 
the dazzling sunlight, sending its white foam 
flickering up the clear sands, now dull and oily 
under an overcast sky. To-day as gentle as a 
kitten, to-morrow lashing the beach with a 
frenzy all its own. 
Woe unto the too venturesome if he follow 
a few low waves down too far in an effort to 
get his lead and bait beyond the combers, for 
his loved friend of yesterday may roll up a 
sea which will first fill his boots and ruthlessly 
sweep the water-logged one into the channel 
where a fight for life would be against great 
odds. One may love the dear old ocean, but 
one must also respect. Reflecting old ocean’s 
moods are the skies. Of the clear white beacli 
one sees but comparatively little at a time. Be¬ 
tween the vastness of sea and sky one realizes 
to the fullest possible extent one’s insignificance 
amongst the infinities and so comes truth which 
is poetry. 
In the pursuit of sport here the angler is 
more free than his inland brother, for no law 
governs him but the unwritten code which it 
is an honor to observe. There is no six-inch 
law to protect his quarry. His hook is his 
self-imposed handicap in that direction, for if 
it were straightened out the wire thereof would 
measure within an inch of the length of the 
trout limit! There is no six-inch mark on the 
butt of your surfman’s rod—instead there is a 
spring balance scaled to 50 or 60 pounds in his 
duffle bag. Here is a sport which the law 
need not restrict, for surf fishing will never 
threaten the extinction of any species which 
comes to the beach except the fish hog! He 
cannot endure in the surf. 
There is no class of fishing less decimating 
to the stock of fish than this. 
The code is simple. Be considerate and kind 
to your neighbor. Leave your tackle bag open. 
Help the beginner with good advice and teach 
him to beach his fish unassisted or lose him 
manfully. Do likewise yourself. If it is im¬ 
practicable to send a big fish to a cook, send 
him back into the breakers; don’t leave him 
on the beach to rot. And let your good right 
forefinger be your gaff—no cruel steel is neces¬ 
sary. — 
HAIL TO THE OLD GUARD. 
Clearfield, Pa., April 14th, 1915. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I do not know what kind of a magazine other 
sportsmen desire, I can only speak for myself. 
When 1 tell you that I have taken Forest and 
Stream for almost thirty years, that should assure 
you that the paper suits me. When you an¬ 
nounced that you proposed to change the paper 
from a weekly to a monthly, I was not sure I 
would like it; and in fact the first two or three 
numbers were not just what I wanted. Then 
you got busy, possibly anticipating what I wanted, 
and the last few numbers are good enough, at 
least for an old-timer. 
For something over fifty years I have loved 
the forests and the streams, and I have had 
much to do with both in old Pennsylvania and 
in other states and countries. That kind of life 
has kept me on my feet and has deprived my 
family physician of many a bill. I will soon 
reach my seventieth milestone. For many years 
I have killed my limit of big game here in my 
own mountains, and hope to do so for some 
years to come. Strange to say, that for the 
last few years I have done better shooting at 
big game than I could do when I was much 
younger. I prize the big game heads that hang 
in my home more than I can tell you. Five 
moose, three caribou, several bears, and as fine 
a lot of deer heads as ever graced a “Den” will 
furnish an inspiration for my dreams long after 
I have hung up my old Winchester and my 
faithful old Parker. 
But I didn’t intend to prolong this letter. I 
only wanted to say that Forest and Stream in 
its new dress suits my fancy as well and better 
than if I were putting it together. But don’t 
give us too much fiction; I like the real and true 
stories of the old-timers. Oh, how we miss 
them! There should be enough good stories 
wrought out in the hard school of experience, on 
the streams and lakes and along the trail; stories 
that come from the host of enthusiastic and suc¬ 
cessful sportsmen to fill your columns, without 
resort to reveries and stories of things that 
never happened. I am not complaining, I am 
only suggesting. 
I owe many happy and mighty interesting 
hours to Forest and Stream. With my best 
wishes for your future success, 
FRANK G. HARRIS. 
