CATCHING THE LITTLE BROTHER OF THE TUNA By EDWARD HUNTINGTON WILLIAMS PHOTOGRAPHS BY THE AUTHOR Fishing for the Albacore Has Many of the Thrills That Come With the Larger Game E isn't such a tiny brother, either, this little relative of Old King Tuna. He hasn't the size of the old Horse Mackerel to be sure, but he has almost every other quality, from striking family resemblance to the disconcerting habit of darting under your boat, around the bow, and back again before you can shorten your line. Also when he is caught by professional fishermen and put into cans by professional canners, he is called "tuna" in plain English. And he is good eating, piping hot from the frying pan, despite the assertion of the fellows who write the books that "The albacore is a poor food fish." These same book-makers do a little better when they admit that the albacore differs from the tuna chiefly "in having the pectoral long and saber-shaped." This, being interpreted into fisherman's argot, means that he has a side-fin long enough to pass for an undeveloped flying fish two-fifths the length of his body, to be perfectly exact. But when our author asserts that the maximum weight of the albacore is twenty pounds, he proves that he is not getting his information first hand, or else that he had very, very poor luck the day he went albacore fishing. He could multiply his estimate by two and still remain entirely truthful Ṫhe albacore is not found on the Atlantic side of the continent, but they infest the waters of the southern Pacific, particularly off the coast of southern California, like packs of hungry sea wolves. The professional fishermen catch them by thousands in hand lines trolled from motor boats. But the sportsman, if he wishes to have a little real sport to fill in periods between essays against tuna, can find it by taking rod and tackle, getting aboard a motor boat such as those used by the fishermen, and cruising about from one to five miles off shore. In these fishing cruises it is not necessary to start before daylight, as the professionals do. But if one wishes to get the full benefit of everything that is going, he had best be up in the early hours, as he is likely to get a little closer to Nature at that time than when the day gets into full swing. If he is going from Newport Beach, near Los Angeles, for example, he can have any kind of a craft he prefers, from dory to steam trawler. But if he is wise he will strike a happy medium and engage passage on one of half a dozen motor boats built especially for the purpose, and capable of holding from twelve to fifteen fishermen, but whose limit is kept down to about six by arrangement. He'd better take the wife and kiddies along, too, and give them an outing. For although a forty-pound albacore on the end of a 100-yard line hitched to a salt water rod is likely to show traits of character somewhat disconcerting to a lady, the women of the party can at least have the fun of getting the strike; and later, when the fight is on, can be of great assistance by shrieking instructions and keeping out of the way of the man who has taken the landing job off their hands. [743]
744 OUTING As I intimated a moment ago, it isn't the mere love of catching fish that makes albacore fishing enjoyable. It is the jumble of ocean, and boat, and queer beasts, birds, and fish, all goulashed together. The proper tackle for albacore fishing is the kind used ordinarily for deep sea fishing salt water rod, heavy reel, and light line with plenty of it. Bait is strictly a secondary consideration, as almost any kind of more or less bright object with a hook attached will do the work. The fishermen pin their faith to a jig made of a piece of bone about five inches long by three-quarters of an inch wide, flat on one side and curved on the other, with a heavy hook rivetted to the flat surface. This lure has. several merits, chief among which is the fact that it does the work. It is also cheap and very durable. But any one of a score of metal spoons, or artificial minnows, is just as effective, although far more depleting to the pocketbook when some peculiarly ambitious albacore deftly winds the line around a propeller blade and takes the lure along as a souvenir. No Lost Time The fishing begins just as soon as the boat has cleared the dock and is chugging her six-knot-course seaward. The boats are made so that four may sit abreast in the stern with plenty of seaway for the lines, while two more farther forward along the rail may put out their lines without danger of entanglement. As soon as everyone is settled and everything running smoothly, the captain shins up the mast to "take a look at the water." Whether he is really able to locate schools of fish in this way, or just how he does it, is a mystery to mere landlubbers. But anyhow, the exercise of shinning up a wobbly mast must be comforting on a cool morning. And, moreover, since he usually finds the fish, it is probable that he really sees something from his perch. There is not the least trouble about knowing when the school is reached. The lures have been flashing along in the wake in plain sight, anywhere from fifteen to a hundred yards behind the boat according to the particular preference of each angler. The hundredyard ones are usually manned by inexperienced fishermen, who may have an inclination to logic and mathematics. They figure that their chances are better for each yard that separates the bait from the churning propeller. The older fishermen are less given to the mathematics of the sport. In any event all eyes are rivetted on the bright objects trailing out astern. Suddenly there is a flash of silver lightning out of the bottom of the ocean, and one of the lures connects with the lightning and disappears. At the same time somebody's reel begins to scream, aided and abetted by its owner who announces his triumph with a wild, "H-i-i-i! S-t-r-i-k-e!" This method of announcing a strike in Comanche serves a double purpose. It relieves the feelings of the exultant angler, and also advises Al, the mate, that it is time to shut off the engine and bring the boat about. It also warns the other anglers that it is up to them to reel in their lures, and do it quick not merely as a matter of courtesy, be it understood, but to guard against having their lines tangled into hard knots by an expert aquatic entangler. Meanwhile the captain has grabbed the gaff and is standing by, alert, but offering no suggestions. These are paying guests and must be allowed to work out their salvation in their own sweet way. In this particular instance, however, a little good advice would have been helpful. For the silver streak on the end of the line, after doing several figure-of eight performances, decided suddenly to leave, taking with him a most attractive (and expensive) fish tempter. "Yellow-tail," Al comments as he opens the throttle. And he adds (strictly to himself) "And easy. But what can you expect of a blamed landlubber, anyhow!" But the mate has a chance to feel better very shortly. Other silver streaks connect themselves with the trailers, and come over the side at a rate that keeps Al fully occupied stopping and starting the engine, and killing fish with a club
FISHING BEGINS AS SOON AS THE BOAT HAS CLEARED THE DOCK
746 OUTING between times. For the mate acts as executioner and engineer, while Captain Bill divides his time between climbing the mast and gaffing. Incidentally he is an expert at both. His gaffing, shorn of all artistic flourishes, is a lesson in efficiency. A twentyfour pound albacore has been hooked and, still fighting like a tiger, is gradually worked up to the rail. Captain Bill, with his four-foot gaff, leans over the side, waiting. The fish is tired, but his weight alone taxes the strength of the tackle, and a sudden fright, such as would be caused by missing him with the gaff, would put enough life into him to snap the line like thread. Suddenly the Captain leans over and swings the gaff with a full swipe all in one motion not the jabbing stroke of the amateur, but the kind of professional swing that brings home the bacon. The next minute a quarter cwt. fish comes over the side with a gaff clean through him. Al hits him with the belaying pin, throws him in the box, and starts the engine. It is all in the day's work, done with the clock-work precision and efficiency of the professional. Anything May Happen But albacore are not the only kind of game fish that come over the rail in the day's catch. There's the barracuda, for example, and plenty of him. And he is a Class A performer in every department. Moreover, he is sometimes five feet long, fully four feet of which is good eating. Everyone knows that the barracuda is built on the latest stream-line model, fashioned like an Indian arrow with tapered head, notched tail, feathers and all. And when he shoots up from the bottom, aimed at one of the jigs, or spoons, he gives the impression that he is shot by some powerful archer down below. If his aim happens to be bad, as it is pretty often, he carries out the illusion by shooting right on out into the open air before he can set his emergency brakes. When he hits the bait, however, he keeps right on in the high, turns on more gas, and gives the man behind the reel a very fully occupied few minutes. Pound for pound, however, the barracuda is not quite as good a fighter as the yellow-tail. And if it happens to be the yellow-tails' day at home, the fishermen are likely to have their hands full, even though ostensibly they are fishing for albacore. For the yellow-tail run in big schools, and will strike at anything that shines and has reasonable size and speed. Their favorite food is mackerel, and large schools of them are seldom seen except when the mackerel are running. But they won't pass up a bone jig, or a nickel-plated spoon, even when the mackerel fishing is good. Nature has arranged things very nicely for the yellow-tail out in the Pacific. The combination starts with the smallest sized mackerel, whose cannibal brothers two or three sizes larger regard as especially delicate morsels. These little mackerel, when they run across the cannibal pack, head for shallow water at top speed, with the cannibals close behind, catching and lunching upon their relatives as they go. And right behind the cannibals come the yellow-tails, grabbing and feasting. So when one catches a yellow-tail he is likely to get an assortment of different sized fish with every package, each fish fitted neatly over a smaller one like the series of various sized hollow wooden eggs in the familiar Japanese toy. There is one other kind of fish that is sure to figure heavily in the catch on every albacore-fishing trip. This is the bonito. This fish resembles the tuna in shape and fighting qualities; but its average size is considerably less than that of the albacore, and it is certainly a poor excuse for food. For its flesh is dark colored and oily, with a strong, disagreeable flavor. But as a game-fish, with classy fighting qualities, the bonito is all right. From all of which it is apparent that the fisherman with his bait trailing in the wake of the boat, has four good chances albacore, yellow-tail, barracuda, and bonito. Moreover, his chances are just as good whether his bait happens to be thirty feet from the propeller or three hundred as the mathematical-minded gentleman of the long line presently dis-
BRINGING HIM IN CLOSE CAPTAIN BILL STANDING BY WITH THE GAFF covers. His theories about churning propellers and frightened fish are all right, and work perfectly when applied to timid fish. But they don't apply to the Pacific fish in general, or to the albacore in particular. For there is nothing timid or shy about him. Indeed the professional fishermen, who take these fish in enormous numbers, catch them on absurdly short hand lines, with the jigs bobbing along only a few feet behind the propellers. In this sort of fishing one might expect occasionally to hook a tuna,* since this is the tuna's feeding ground. But there is not a chance of it. The tuna is an epicure who excludes all artificial lures from his diet list. For that matter he *This is, of course, the leaping tuna of Catalina fame. [747]
THE FIRST VICTIM EVERYBODY INTERESTED excludes most natural bait also, with the exception of flying-fish. And even then he is particular about the way in which the flying-fish is served. He would give no more consideration to a flying-fish that was being snaked along behind a motor boat than to the pieces of bone and metal spoons. However, one is not out for tuna, doesn't expect to catch them, and finds plenty of exciting sport without doing so. One fifteen- or twenty-pound fish hooked every fifteen or twenty minutes, if multiplied frequently enough, is equal to several one hundred pound tuna hooked every week or so. That's about the way the difference in the two kinds of fishing figures up. So it's a matter of what one is looking for when he goes fishing. If he has reached a stage of degeneracy where nothing pleases him in music but some of Wagner's worst, nothing pleases him in art but futurism, and nothing thrills him in fishing but hundred-pound tuna or tarpon, he'd better pass up any contemplated excursions after the tuna's little albacore brother. On the other hand, if he is still capable of responding to a thrill telegraphed along a line by twenty-five or thirty pounds of electrified [748]
COOKING IN THE SAND 749 fish meat, find likes to have his family along to enjoy things when the fun is going, he can put in many enjoyable days fighting it out with the albacores, yellowtail, and barracudas. He needn't be particular about selecting his days, either. Every day is a good fishing day in this kind of fishing; and all days are pretty much alike the year round on the fishing grounds off southern California.