FOREST AND STREAM 
889 
—Sea-Horse (Hippocampus Zosterae). 
Female. (After Jordan and Evermann.) 
Landing Record Shark at Cedar Keys 
What Can a Fish Do? What Sort of a Fish Does it Take to 
Pull as Hard as Six Men? Read and See 
By W. T. McCawn. 
I N my article appearing in Forest and Stream some time ago entitled, “The 
Game Hog at the Gulf,” I related some experiences with the smaller 
fishes of that noble fishing territory, in which small hooks and light 
equipment tested your skill, as an accomplished angler. I also promised to 
write you of my experiences with a man-eater. We were eight miles out in 
the Gulf from Cedar Keys and enjoying it as only land lubbers can, when 
an immense shark appeared and encircled our boat. “If I had the proper 
tackle, I would like to try conclusions with you,” said the writer. “If you wish 
to fish for shark,” said McKinstry, my host (than whom I have never had a 
better), “you may do so to-night, from the wharf at the Keys. At the fish 
packing plant, the fish are packed at night, the refuse being thrown into the 
water and consequently the sharks come in every night to feed. About io 
P. M. most every fish in the bay ‘folds his tent and silently steals away’ until 
next morning, for the sharks are voracious and omniverous. There is only 
one shark hook on the island, and it is home made, we will get that.” On 
our return this was found, and looked ample for any emergency; a wrought 
iron hook about as large as one’s little finger, with a barb of an inch in 
length; this hook was fastened to a three-foot trace chain which had a 
swivel at each end to keep the chain from knotting and to this was attached 
five hundred feet of three-quarter-inch rope. Yes! it looked ample for any 
emergency. To bait this hook, I took a mullet fish of two lbs. and hook¬ 
ing him through the body grasped the rope about eight feet back and cir¬ 
cling it around my head as a Texas ranchman would do a lasso, let fly 
—Sea-Horse (Hippocampus Zosterae) 
Female. (After Jordan and Evermann.) 
at the opportune time and made a cast of forty 
feet. The water was twenty-six feet deep. I 
fished for half an hour when the bait was taken 
as gently as a sea bass could have done it, 
and making a short run of ten feet or more the 
hook was cast free. I took in my line and re¬ 
baited. In about ten minutes the hook was 
gently seized again, and the same performance 
gone through with as before. I knew as well 
as if I had seen just what was taking place. 
The shark would seize the bait and with his 
tongue push out the hook retaining the fish. Still 
my fish packing friends said the proper way was 
to let him hang himself. I knew that I could 
not have caught a trout with an old hook in 
this manner and after the fourth bait had been 
taken I decided to act on my own initiative. “The 
next time he gets it and starts away I am going 
to set the hook in his jaw,” said I. In a few 
moments the line began to move slowly way. I 
waited until he made his first run, and then 
struck hard—harder than I ever did in all my 
life, and my first big shark was hooked. As 
the barb sank home, I was almost jerked into 
the water by the impetuous rush of the big 
fish. I had tied the end of my rope around a 
piling and coiled it directly in front, so that I 
might not become entangled in it and do the 
“high dive” as did a gentleman who fished at 
this place a short time before. When his fish 
was hooked, he became entangled in the rope 
and was taken in and under and was picked up 
by one of the fish packing crew after an experi¬ 
ence he will never forget. He was full of sea 
water and also full of fear that the shark would 
return to the home plate and take a bait that had 
not been prepared for him. As I saw coil after 
coil of this rope disappear, I was glad indeed 
that I was not entangled in it, for I had no de¬ 
sire to be telegraphed out to sea. 
The midnight hour was on—there was no 
moon and yet the path of that fish could be dis¬ 
tinctly traced. As the rope cut through the 
water, the micro-organisms therein made the 
water luminous. It was a spectacular display. 
The waters parted before that rope in literal 
streams of liquid fire, revealing a spectacle as 
novel to us as it was beautiful, and when the 
end of that rope was reached, and the momen¬ 
tum of the fish brought him to the surface, the 
harbor appeared a lake of fire. 
Never have I seen anything more beautiful, 
and that fish stood out in bold relief as he was 
outlined in that molten sea. 
For a full half hour he lighted up the harbor 
for us. He was never still. One minute he was 
out as far as the line would let him go, and 
then would rush in, and finding little resistance 
there, would seek the end of his tether again. 
He would curve and criss-cross, go to the bot¬ 
tom and then on the surface again until one 
could understand why two swivels were made in 
the chain and wondered if a third could not be 
used to advantage 
Then he took the sulks. 
“And nought disturbs the silence of the night 
All sleeps in sullen shade or silver glow.” 
I grasped the line, took in the slack and se¬ 
curing a good hold threw my 200 avoirdupois 
against it with all my might. He did not move. 
I then braced myself behind a piling and tried 
to break a blood vessel, all to no purpose. I 
glanced around and my friends were laughing at 
me. The second man was called in. Same re¬ 
sult. Then the third, the fourth, and the fifth. 
Would he never be moved? We had one more 
man. Could the six pull him in? A twelve 
pound eagle can lift forty-five pounds and fly 
away with it. What can a fish do? What size 
fish would it take to pull as much as six men? 
After several attempts we got him started and 
took in two-thirds of the rope when he decided 
to go to sea. We didn’t like the trip, so we 
turned loose rather than be pulled into the water. 
Then finding a crack between two planks, we 
placed the rope therein and pulled him in a few 
feet at a time. When he would make a desperate 
surge we would stand across the plank holding 
steady until it was over and thus by degrees, 
he was brought to the wharf fourteen feet be¬ 
low us. “Slide down the piling, Mr. Me. and 
put the block and tackle hook in his mouth so 
he can be hoisted,” said my friend Brice. I re¬ 
membered a gentleman who only a year before 
had lost his leg at one stroke from a five foot 
shark. Not for me. One of the others volun¬ 
teered to go down and place the hook if we 
would agree to hold the rope cross-wise of the 
plank. After a few minutes the hook was placed 
and the man-eater was hoisted to the wharf by 
block and tackle. The block and tackle support 
was only eight feet from the floor, and for that 
reason, Mr. Shark had a “sitting” to the pho¬ 
tographer in the swinging position you see in 
the picture. He measured 8 1-3 feet and weighed 
400 pounds. And such a mouth! Serrated 
teeth—three rows of them, long, sharp, and tri¬ 
angular. Little wonder he is called the “Tiger 
of the Sea.” He has death dealing instruments 
and the nerve to use them. 
As I glance at his picture above my desk, I 
can feel again the soft southern breeze, again 
I can hear the rush and the roar of the out¬ 
going tide and see the phosphorescent glow that 
lit up the harbor as that giant athlete made his 
struggle for liberty. 
Shall I ever cease to enjoy it? If so, it can 
not be said to me, “His eye was not dim, nor his 
natural force abated.” Look at him on next page. 
