around the graying horizon and grunted 
his content with the world. 
R BAL mackerel fishing this day,” 
said he and edged the throttle for- 
ward another notch. 
The night before the prophesy had 
spread through the little fishing colony 
at Port Aransas that to-day a mackerel 
run would be on. This is a 
boatman’s bonanza, so I had 
promised Brundy we would try 
for the sporty little breakfast 
food, starting as early as he 
wished, providing he landed me 
at the tarpon grounds by nine 
A.M. Brundy had been secured 
for me through the courtesy of 
Captain Ed Cotter, boss and 
proprietor of Tarpon Inn and 
most of its environs, and 
Brundy had “pulled” me faith- 
fully for four days. We had 
arrested and acquitted four 
tarpon varying from three to 
six feet—all on “heavy” equip- 
ment, and now I longed to 
make my début with “light 
tackle.” There is as much dif- 
ference between “light” and 
“heavy” tackle as there is be- 
tween light and darkness. The 
usual light tackle consists of a 
six-ounce rod, and a _ nine- 
strand eighteen-pound test line, 
nine hundred feet long, which 
latter, when attached to a hun- 
dred and twenty-five pound 
tarpon, looks and feels like a 
Lilliputian hair. 
OR two days I had tried un- 
successfully to buy or bor- 
row a light line and now the 
Doctor’s departure home and 
his usual generosity with his 
equipment, left one at my dis- 
posal. His light rod I had re- 
fused as irreplaceable, digging 
up instead, out of my grip, a 
Bristol steel bass rod four feet 
and a half long, which I had 
brought to surf cast for mack- 
erel and lady fish. The Doc- 
tor’s five-inch reel on my 
spindly toy rod looked like a 
tumble-bug climbing a tooth- 
pick, and raised a chorus of de- 
rision, the night before, from 
the bunch on the porch of the Inn. 
From Port Aransas two rock jetties 
reach out for a mile and a half into the 
Gulf and keep the channel clear for 
ocean vessels which seldom come. 
Along the outside of these jetties is the 
home of the Silver King, while out be- 
yond their point the mackerel school 
and play. For four hours we fished 
for mackerel. With five spaced trolling 
lines cast fifty feet behind our gas-boat, 
Page 141 
each hook “baited” with a tassel of 
white crochet thread, we twisted and 
turned and circled, among a score of 
boats of all sizes and kinds. Every 
motor trying to keep in the heart of the 
quivering turmoil of striking, milling 
fish, they cut in and out missing each 
other by inches, often with five fish on 
their lines, fishing rather than steering, 

THE AUTHOR'S FIRST TARPON, 
pulling in fish hand over hand, jerking 
at the rudder with a leg or an arm or 
whatever wasn’t busy; careening, stag- 
gering, half aboard and half out, work- 
ing, playing, laughing, shouting—and 
then in a flash silence! lines straight 
and still! not a fish in sight! That is 
the way the mackerel strike and stop; 
that is the way a school is found 
and lost; some mysterious submarine 
radio flask2s the signal and right now 
for 100,000 fish, breakfast is over! 
And so it was with us. After eight 
o’clock not a bite or a strike, and with 
our barrel about filled with two hun- 
dred pounds of fine-looking mackerel 
which Brundy would sell for eight 
cents per, back we went to the tarpon 
grounds. 
The mackerel were good sport for an 
hour, but like all game quest 
which is untempered by hard- 
ships and unlimited in results, 
only novelty held the interest 
and the game soon palled. I once 
fished for trout in Game Creek 
on Chichagof Island, Alaska, 
where the fish lay in sheets 
nosing up stream, almost 
touching each other and where 
no cast was made without a 
fish. One after another we un- 
jointed our rods and in an hour 
were bound for camp. We shot 
moose further west on the 
Kenai—just one apiece, and 
had little desire to try for an- 
other. After reaching the 
moose fields it was too easy— 
too much like bagging a nice 
gentle old bossy cow. 
B UT when we hunted sheep 
on the mountains in the 
same location; where we 
walked long, cold, wet weary 
miles up high cliffs, down dan- 
gerous slides, pitting our care 
and strength and proficiency 
against the fastidious nose of 
the sentinel ram, matching our 
wit against his imagination, 
his intuition, his luck—we 
never knew which—when, long 
after nightfall, we wandered 
wearily to camp, sometimes 
without a shot, sometimes with 
a beautiful pair of horns—oh! 
there was joy indeed! How 
we long for the day when we 
can return! 
At the tarpon grounds we 
changed to our skiff and were 
soon trolling slowly up and 
down along the jetties, the end 
of our line decorated with a 
fine six-inch mullet. 
Here everything was silence. 
Two other tarpon boats slowly 
plied their quiet drowsy way. 
Three pelicans sat majestically on the 
cross arms of a beacon. A Mexican in 
a big sombrero still fished from the 
rocks. A big turtle basked in the sun. 
A heron stood one-legged on the sea- 
most rock patiently waiting for fishing 
to begin. All was hot southern tran- 
quility and peace. 
The sun was so scorching, searing 
hot that even the acclimated Brundy 
(Continued on page 179) 
