
Leaving the water 
WAS sojourning at Pass a Grille 
Island, near St. Petersburg, Florida 
enjoying a brief vacation, and had 
been content with fishing from the city 
pier, where small fish such as mango 
snapper, mackerel, grouper, and red 
fish were caught in abundance without 
any great amount of effort or particu- 
lar skill. Then the really professional 
anglers arrived, and began to go after 
the king of all the finny tribe—the tar- 
pon, often known as the “Silver King.” 
After watching the professionals go 
out, and seeing them return with their 
beautiful prizes, and listening to their 
tales of strenuous fights, I determined 
to catch a tarpon, or waste the re- 
mainder of my vacation in the attempt. 
While I had often captured tarpon 
by harpooning, the sport of hooking, 
and playing one to a successful termi- 
nation, had never been among my pis- 
catorial achievements, but after in- 
specting the eighteen, and twenty-four 
thread lines the tarpon anglers were 
using, the trick did not strike me as 
such a wonderful feat after all. 
Before getting my tarpon tackle, I 
nearly drove the old-timers to the point 
of jumping overboard in my search for 
inside dope pertaining to the secrets of 
tarpon fishing. Among other things I 
learned that very often expert fisher- 
men caught large king fish, and in iso- 
lated cases small tarpon had been suc- 
cessfully landed with nine thread line. 
IGHT then I decided to try my luck 
with the small line, and if the try 
proved futile, then to substitute the 
larger thread. 
An exceptionally good split bamboo 
rod of ten ounces, six feet long, and 
a good reel, being among my tackle on 
hand, all that was needed to complete 
my outfit was 600 feet of nine thread 
line, several leaders, and medium hooks 
sharpened to a needle’s point, swivels, 
sheet lead, ete. After procuring these 
articles, all that was lacking to begin 
86 
my quest for the big ones, was the bait, 
and a good guide with a boat, the moon 
and weather being all that could be 
desired. 
It was necessary for me to wait sev- 
eral days, days that seemed like weeks, 
with the result that my impatience al- 
most got the better of my determination 
to have George Roberts, the recognized 
peer of all tarpon guides, take me out. 
However, the day to go finally ar- 
rived, myself, a young man whose name 
I do not recall, who was called “Butch,” 
and George the guide headed for the 
tarpon feeding grounds at Egmont Key, 
eight miles from Pass a Grille. 
OON after reaching the spot where 
the wily tarpon were wont to ca- 
vort, the tide just right, and everything 
favorable for good fishing, George had 
a strike, lost his bait, and found his 
hook bent. By this time it was neces- 
sary to start the engine, and run the 
boat back to the fishing grounds, as 
we were drifting with the current 
which was running so swiftly that 
-about twenty minutes was as long as 
we could fish at a time before getting 
back into position. 
There were at least ten other boats 
in our immediate vicinity with from 
two to four persons in each, and some 
of them were having great sport, oblivi- 
ous to everything except the business 
in hand—that of trying to land a fish 
that is quicker than lightning, stub- 
born as a mule, tricky, and apparently 
tireless. 
At one moment there were as many 
as five silver beauties in the air at one 
time, jumping clear of the water in 
their frantic efforts to dislodge the cruel 
hook. The water seemed alive with 
tarpon. 
As soon as we reached the spot where 
we thought good. fishing most likely, 
Butch and I cast out while George was 
putting a new hook on his line. Min- 
utes that seemed -hours passed with 
Tarpon 
ona 
Nine Thread 
Line 
By CAPT. C. W. MCMULLEN 
anglers near us having the time of their 
lives while we were evidently jinxed. 
Butch was in the bow, while I occupied 
the stern of the launch; not a word was 
being spoken, muscles and nerves were 
taut, when suddenly a whopper tarpon 
left the water almost beneath me, 
within two feet of my rod. 
HAT silver beauty headed skyward, 
to the accompaniment of a lusty 
yell from Butch, and came very nearly 
finishing me right then and there, for 
I was within an inch of going over- 
board. Butch gave the boat an awful 
lurch at the same time he let out his 
Indian war whoop, and I knew the wa- 
ters there were infested with leopard 
sharks of tremendous size and ferocity. 
Butch spilled himself all over the 
boat for several seconds before he was 
able to settle down for the fight, which 
he handled like a veteran after finding 
himself. For twenty-five minutes Butch 
had both hands full; his fish made three 
beautiful air trips, and we could see 
that the tarpon would weigh in the 
neighborhood of 140 pounds. As a 24- 
thread line was being used, and the fish 
was without doubt well hooked, it 
looked as though the betting was in 
favor of Butch. 
Suddenly his line drooped, became 
slack, a crimson splotch appeared on 
the surface of the water, telling us 
plainer than words that Butch had lost 
his prize, and that a shark had butch- 
ered his tarpon, making me shiver all 
over again when I thought of my nar- 
row escape a few moments before. 
UTCH was some mad; between puffs 
he gave vent to his wrath, freely 
interpersed with his opinions of sharks 
in general, and the one that took his 
fish in particular, while George ran the 
boat back for another start. 
The guide had been so busy maneu- 
vering the boat while Butch was play- 
ing his fish, that he had not quite fin- 
S 8 +62 are ee . 
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