by Grey, Zane
"That's another big kingie," averred Peter.
I tried a number of times to haul this stubborn yellowtail up, and, failing, had to settle down to a real earnest fight that lasted three-quarters of an hour.
"Oh, what a corker!" yelled Frank, as at last I brought the fish alongside.
"Beats the one-hundred-and-ten-pound record," added Peter, with much satisfaction.
Not proof against such remarks, I stood and looked over the side of the boat, while Frank pulled on the leader. The calm, clear water afforded perfect vision. I saw a big fish head, broad, dark, with gaping mouth like that of a tuna. Then he rolled over on the surface, disclosing what seemed an impossibly large yellow tail. But how beautiful! Gold-tailed, green-backed, with the wonderful mother-of-pearl tints on the broad side, he was verily a magnificent fish. I thought of Hooper and Murphy, famous Avalon anglers, now dead and gone, who fished many years for yellowtail and considered it to be the equal of tuna. Next I thought gleefully of how thoroughly I had Captain Mitchell's eighty-pounder beaten. A little consolation was coming to me late!
This yellowtail, called kingfish by New Zealanders, was their favorite fish before Marlin were known. It was while fishing for kingfish that an angler accidentally hooked a Marlin. This misnamed fish attains immense size in these waters. In the Gulf of California the yellowtail grows to seventy-five pounds or more in weight, though I have no record of any caught. Mine weighed one hundred and eleven pounds, beating the world record by a narrow margin of one pound.
Captain Mitchell had hovered around Sunken Reef. But it appeared to me he was using dead bait, to his disadvantage. I was to find out presently, however, that live bait could be most extraordinarily hard to catch. The school of trevalli appeared only at infrequent intervals, and then to remain on the surface just long enough for some enormous fish underneath to make them flash into a roar of seething waters and vanish.
The little white sea gulls, in flocks of thousands, screamed and screeched their own protests at this summary disregard of their needs. They had to eat also, and their meals depended upon the trevalli chasing the tiny minnows to the surface. But now the trevalli were concerned with the matter of self-preservation.
We saw a colossal reremai fin on the surface, weaving behind the trevalli. And poor unlucky Captain Mitchell had the terribly bad luck to have that shark take his bait. By strenuous labor he got the leader to Bill, who promptly looped it round the bit. That relieved the Captain of this unwelcome weight, and also half of his leader.
During the next hour, while I unavailingly essayed to catch a live trevalli, I saw Captain Mitchell catch two small mako, which he handled as if extremely annoyed at getting fast to them at that important hour.
Suddenly I heard a plop. Then I saw a yard-wide round black that I thought belonged to a porpoise. Only it did not! A long dark-bladed tail swept up. Black Marlin! My yell roused the boatmen. We were too late, however, as the giant fish passed our boat scarcely thirty feet away. We followed him, saw him several times, lost him, found him again half a mile from Sunken Reef, and got a bait and the teasers in front of him. I went through all the familiar thrilling agonies, augmented by the possibility of a marvelous climax for this last day. But the black Marlin would not rise.
We went back to Sunken Reef. There we saw Captain Mitchell wildly running about, and when we got within hailing distance, Bill yelled, "We had hold of a big black Marlin. Threw the hook!"
At that I lost my intense eagerness and insistent breast-convulsing excitement. I realized there was not to be any climax. The wonderful last day had ended, as far as catching fish was concerned. Still I went on fishing, trying to catch a live bait, trolling a dead one, drifting also, and to no avail.
The sun began to redden between the purple clouds above the purple ranges. We had a long run to make back to camp. The day was done. I suffered one shock, one twinge, and conquered that inexplicable desire to keep on fishing. Slowly I reeled in my line, and peace came to me.
Peace with the realization of many things: of the marvelous success of this New Zealand fishing; of the delight in virgin waters; of the desire and determination to come back, to fetch R. C. and my son Romer; to fetch my ship the Fisherman, and fish these waters right! What a prospect! I think it was decided then and there. It saed me wholly from anything but gratitude and appreciation. I concentrated all my faculties for a few intense absorbing moments of seeing, hearing, feeling.
There gloomed the broad, dark sea. The swells were slow and low, and a gentle ripple ruffled the waters. The white gulls, like showers of feathers, were now rosy in the sunset glow. They ascended to fly over the frothy patch of water where the trevalli roared like a running brook, and screaming they alighted amidst the school. Suddenly the trevalli raised a splash and disappeared, only to reappear. The birds took to wing again. The air was full of moving fluttering specks of white. Crash! Another great swordfish had smashed at the school.
To make this scene perfect for me, and no doubt for the Captain also, a gigantic black Marlin rolled up to show a long, dark, straight fin, broad as a board. He went down. Then the acre of trevalli, a creeping acre of white seething foam, burst into a crashing splash. It vanished like magic. I watched and listened. No doubt the little gulls were doing the same. Behind me I heard the soft gurgling sound of water. The trevalli had come up again. Then the gurgle increased to a distinct roar, loud as that made by a tumbling stream. Then crash!
The battle went on there over Sunken Reef. It was life and death, something vital, beautiful, inevitable and unquenchable, and at the same time sinister and tragic. The black mystic waters rolled over this hidden reef and the inexplicable nature of the deep. My moments of watching and listening lengthened until the sun sank in magenta haze over the ranges. Then as we sped away over the darkening sea, campward bound, with the last great day done, I watched the white gulls hovering and wheeling in the strange afterglow of light.
THE END
