ribean and naturally I was interested 
then, as were we all. 
Some of the old salts said it meant 
bad luck with all those sharks following 
us, and I expect they were right. I 
imagine that it would have been rotten 
luck for anyone had he fallen overboard 
among those hungry scavengers. 
We soon found out, however, that 
they were not following us in the hope 
of gathering in the careless; they were 
simply on watch 
for the cans of 
spoiled “embalmed 
beef” that were be¬ 
ing heaved over. 
We all heaved it 
over, without the 
cans, after the first 
meal. Holy Mack¬ 
erel, ye Gobs of 
’98, do you remem¬ 
ber it? Phew! 
Cans bobbing along 
merrily in our 
wake, the bursted 
ones toothsome 
morsels for the 
sharks the whole 
cans so full of gas 
that they couldn’t sink! 
It was while we were at anchor off 
Havana, on July 4, ’98, that I caught 
my first shark, not in a very sports¬ 
manlike manner, I’ll allow, but, as I 
say, I caught my shark and I caught 
the shark-fishing bug right then and 
there. 
I had wheedled the ship’s smith into 
making me a shark hook out of a steel 
rod that he had; it was a good one, too, 
and he equipped it with six feet of 
chain and a big swivel. I remember 
that we baited it with an old sock filled 
with that awful embalmed beef and 
heaved the whiffy lure over, attached to 
a coil of half-inch rope that lay on 
deck. It was not very long before one 
of the huge sharks, that swarmed about 
our vessel, began to nose it; he finally 
gulped the horrid morsel, and with a 
hard jerk we firmly hooked him. 
A dozen or so of us then tailed 
onto the rope and hauled the immense, 
thrashing monster in over the ship’s 
side; I have the jaws, pleasantly agape 
still; they are grinning at me from the 
wall of my den as I write, as if to de¬ 
ride my first attempts at salt-water 
angling 
My next experience was when I, a 
perfectly good fresh-water basser and 
sometime troutest, was lured from my 
beloved lakes and streams by a dear 
friend of salt-water tendencies. A 
mighty hunter, angler and camper be¬ 
fore the Lord was he, and he took me 
under the shelter of his wing (smoky 
tent), fed me sanded grub, gave me 
brakish water to drink, and let me 
wash all the dishes, pots and pans. 
He loaned me his pet surf-rod and 
reel, and taught me to stand in the 
swirling waters and cast, and then, 
brother angler, amid the spume and 
wildly scudding sea wrack, amid the 
roar of the pounding breakers and the 
scream of the gulls, a new soul was 
born. Generations of seafaring Dutch 
ancestors lent their aid and a fresh¬ 
water angler died and was no more. 
I stood with wildly beating heart; 
how could I tell what sea monster 
might even then be investigating my 
bait? Thigh-deep I stood, with the 
undertow pulling at my legs. I landed 
an occasional skate and once and again 
a savage blue-fish. 
“Put on a bigger bait,” advised my 
friend; “use a whole bunker.” I se¬ 
lected a nice firm one and carefully 
baited up and heaved it out. 
A scream from my reel, a smoking- 
run-off of line; a hundred yards, two 
hundred yards were torn off my whir¬ 
ring reel, my thumb was blistered from 
trying to break; then—nothing! My 
trembling fingers could hardly reel in 
the line; I was sick with disappoint¬ 
ment. 
The end of the leader was bitten 
clean off, so friend Warren advised a 
shark rig. Six feet of piano wire re¬ 
placed the gut leader, and another 
sniffy side of mossbunker was impaled 
upon the big hook and securely tied with 
line thread to preclude the possibility 
of its being thrown off during the next 
cast. 
A far cast this time, by mere good 
luck for the beginner, and I waited, all 
set for a strike. I waited not in vain 
—again a smash¬ 
ing strike from 
that ravager of my 
previous rig; again 
that rush straight 
out, a hundred 
yards gone, fifty 
more, another hun¬ 
dred disappeared 
into the ocean as, 
with ever - increas¬ 
ing speed, this 
“tiger of the sea” 
lushed out toward the deeper water. 
My reel handle spun in a blur. I could 
not recover it, so I simply braked with 
scorching thumbs and dumbly prayed 
that my line would last until the shark 
vould pause and I could turn him. 
I was wild, that’s sure; never before 
had I such sport—up and down the 
beach I went. I gave and took in line; 
again and again I thought I had him 
beaten, but each time the shark would 
be off, apparently as fresh as ever. 
Finally he sulked about one hundred 
yards off the beach and I despaired of 
ever landing him. 
Pump him a bit,” advised Warren 
and pump him I did. This started him 
at full speed seaward again, and for 
half an hour more, with aching arms, I 
fought this powerful fish; time and 
again he would leap clear of the waves, 
and I thrilled with delight when my 
pal yelled: “Good boy, you’ve certainly 
hit into a big one. I see him!” 
About another half hour of stiff work 
brought the shark into the undertow, 
and there my troubles began again— 
most beginners do lose their fish at this 
point, I might add. Finally a monster 
curler rolled up and, on top of it, I 
triumphantly rode in my game fish. 
We got a gaff in him finally and drag¬ 
ged him up the beach. 
I was too tired to do much but to 
wonder how I had done it! Well, that 
was another shark experience, and now 
I want big fellows that will run over 
(Continued on page 474) 
