
The first two tuna of the Block Island season weighing 57 and 65 pounds— 
the small fish in the foreground is a bonita. 
uated well out in the Atlantic south 
of Point Judith. 
The tuna were said to be at least 
thirty miles off shore and swordfish 
were rather scarce, but we decided to 
try our luck with the latter, with the 
result that two were landed in two 
successive days, the harpoon being 
used in each case. They brought 
twenty cents a pound over the side, 
netting Captain Smith about $120. No 
tuna were sighted, and we had no 
strikes, with the exception of a few 
five to nine pound bonito, very good 
little fighters. 
On August 11th, I accepted as my 
companion a very congenial and 
mighty interesting elderly chap, who 
confided that he was a “school teacher 
and typical landlubber.” I later found 
out that he was the principal of a large 
high school in a prosperous New En- 
gland town, being the boss of about 
fifteen hundred students, and anxious 
to get something new to talk about. 
The day was the most ideal I have 
ever seen on any of my various trips 
after assorted and miscellaneous food 
and game fish all the way from Long 
Key, Florida, to St. Johns, Newfound- 
land. Practically no ground swell and 
scarcely a ripple marred the “mill 
pond” surface of the greatest tuna 
ground in the North Atlantic with the 
possible exception of Cape Breton. It 
was the kind of a day that a patron 
of game fishing dreams about, but 
rarely achieves. 
BOUT two bushels of mackerel 
were taken while slowly trolling 
on the way out, to be used for bait if 
needed. Our boat, as are all the Block 
Island boats, was equipped with a well 
which permitted keeping them alive 
for bait or chum in case of emergency. 
Using mackerel for bait, I hooked a 
twelve-foot shark, and without any 
perceptible fight, he came alongside 
452 
and permitted me to empty the clip 
of an old army Colt in his head and 
gills. My companion wanted a pic- 
ture of him, and after that had been 
accomplished, he was put in tow and 
we started for more interesting wa- 
ters. 
lee captain was in the lookout atop 
the mast and my companion and I 
were reclining peacefully in our easy 
chairs in the cockpit. Then came the 
big thrill with the voice from the look- 
out: “Cut that damn shark loose—tuna 
head—big ones.” The shark’s destiny 
took but a second. Our tackle was 
ready and after a short suspense—it 
seemed like an hour, it may have been 

Bringing a blue shark to gaff. 
only a minute—the crash came and the 
craft rocked as if hit by a torpedo. 
When a tuna strikes, it is the grand- 
est kind of a sensation and every nerve 
was tingling. My first tuna was on 
his way; he went down and we circled 
the boat to meet him. 
@22 must remain cool and refrain 
from catching “tuna paralysis,” a : 
close relative to’ the well known “buck 
fever”—try and do it if you can. Ia 
have landed many big fish and lost 
still more but always that necessary 
sense of absolute composure departs 
for the first few minutes after the 
strike. I became a kid again and lived 
through the same sensation that swept 
over me when the first “snapper blue” 
took my hook out in Long Island many 
years ago—and incidentally that same 
“snapper” made me a fisherman at 
about nine years of age. 
The first rush was good for two 
hundred feet of line and then he rested 
as if undecided as to his next move. 
With a hard line the boat slowly ap- 
proached the spot over his temporary 
quarters, but it was not for long. 
Away he dashed first in the depths 
with almost a perpendicular line—a 
good hundred feet—and then three 
quarters suddenly came clear of the 
surface. My fish was up and at it 
again. His rise was so sudden I al- 
most anticipated a leap, but it was not 
to be. He lacked the education of his 
California brothers. He didn’t know 
how it was done. 
The dorsal showed, but it was go- 
ing away, two hundred feet, then four 
hundred. Now a pause, next down, 
then back to the surface. What a won- 
derful sight and thrill and such an 
ideal day for it all. In all his mad 
rushes he never directly headed for 
the boat. After thirty minutes, I 
realized I was not alone. Good old 
Harry Smith had been jockeying the 
Carnegie II. into each position and 
with faultless judgment had made me 
entirely oblivious of all else save my 
tuna. How essential to have a good 
skipper. The professor was also ac- 
quiring a new line of education. 
lé was time for the gaff. This took 
but a second. A _ beautiful combi- 
nation of dark blue, silver, gold, gray, 
and several blendings of the primary 
colors lay flapping on the cockpit 
boards. The thumping of his tail was 
sufficient to vibrate the entire boat. 
When dying, the dark blue back ap- 
pears to turn black, and if touched with 
the wet hand it leaves a stain as if 
from ink. 
this smudge from clothing, towels or 
any fabric by ordinary washing meth- ¢ 
ods. Unlike his Gulf of Mexico com- 
It is impossible to remove — 
4 
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