End of the Tiger (4 page)

The bait danced and skittered astern, taking off into the air at the crests of the waves, sometimes going under the surface for a dozen yards.

Wolta called for more beer and called loudly again as the sailor was uncapping the bottle.

The engineer, acting as lookout, yelled and pointed. Pedro took a quick look and heeled the boat around. The sail was a dust brown shape dimly seen a few inches under the surge of the blue sea.

We dragged the bait by him, and he seemed to shake himself, move in a big circle, come in on the bait with arrowlike speed. He was headed for Gerran’s bait. For a moment the sail knifed the water a few yards behind the bait and then there was a boiling spot on the flank of a wave and the line snapped out of Gerran’s clothespin.

I watched the line tauten as Pedro cut speed.

“Now!” I said.

Jimmy hit him just a shade late, but hit him with the right force. The line whined out of the reel as the sail, about seventy pounds of angry, startled temper, walked up into the air, three feet of daylight showing under his bullet-lean tail.

Jimmy gasped. The sail jumped high again, ten yards farther. High in the air he shook his head, and we saw the bait snap free and fall out in a long arc. The fish was off the hook and, somewhere under the surface of the sea, he was heading for distant parts.

There was that letdown of tension that always comes with a lost fish.

“Absolutely beautiful!” Jimmy said softly.

Wolta gave his hoarse laugh. “Absolutely butter-fingered, pal. You had him and you lost him.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” Jimmy said.

“I’d have liked to see him boated,” Wolta said. “What the hell good is it to look at a fish?”

Pedro smiled at Jimmy and said, in his thick English, “Bad luck. Next time you get heem.” Then he turned to Wolta. “You reel in too slow, meester. Faster next time, eh?”

Wolta, smiling, said, “You run your boat, pop. I’ll reel in like I damn well please.”

I threw my bait out over the side toward the stern. I was learning about Wolta. I said in Spanish to Pedro, “This one is all mouth, my friend.” I said to Wolta, “I just told him that if I hook a fish, he’s to cut your line if you don’t bring it in fast enough.”

Wolta said, “Okay, okay. Don’t get in a sweat, Thompson.”

I sat down. I had the drag off, my thumb on the spool. Jimmy said, behind me, “You don’t use the clothespin?”

“No. When I get a strike, I let the line run free, then
throw on the drag when I hit him. It’s harder to do it right this way, but when you get onto it, you can figure the time to fit the way each fish hits.”

Wolta said, a faint sneer in his tone, “Don’t bother the expert, Jimmy.”

I let that one pass.

Ten minutes later Wolta said, “I hear it takes about a half hour, forty minutes to boat one with the equipment I’m using. How long does it take with your rig?”

“Longer. Maybe an hour with the same size fish.”

He still wore the smile. He said, “That’s great! I pay a third of the boat the same as you and then when you hook one, I got to stop fishing for an hour.”

“That’s right,” I said mildly.

Pedro had reached the area he liked. He began to zig-zag back and forth across the area. The Spanish word for that maneuver is, very neatly, the same as the Spanish word for eel.

I was first to see the fish coming in toward Wolta’s bait. I said, “One coming up.” Pedro slowed a little as Wolta tensed. It was as unreasonable as any sailfish. It cut by Wolta’s bait and, instead of hitting mine first to kill it, it gulped it whole. It was one very hungry fish. I hit it immediately.

When it jumped, I saw that it was probably a shade smaller than the one Jimmy had hooked. As it ran I saw Wolta reeling in rapidly.

Any sailfish could find freedom if it had the sense to run on a straight line, take all the line, break the line at the end of the run. But five hundred yards is a long way to go in a straight line. I stood in front of the chair. When it jumped, I kept the line taut, pulling it off balance, slapping it down against the sea before it could shake its head.

It headed for the Orient; then, as I was getting worried about the line, it began to cut around in a vast circle, and I won back a little line. It stopped jumping. Bringing in the line was the usual tough problem. A hundred yards from the boat and twenty minutes later it walked on its tail for a good dozen yards and then, as I had expected, it sounded. I horsed it up, a few feet at a time. It made one more jump close to the boat and then
came in, dog weary. Pedro handled the gaff. The sailor grasped the bill, and Pedro belted it across the back of the neck with the weighted club.

The sail came in over the transom, glistening with a hundred impossibly beautiful irridescent colors. Jimmy squatted and watched the colors slowly fade until the fish became the usual shining gunmetal black of the dead sail. He turned glowing eyes up toward me and said, “That was wonderful!”

“The experts are always wonderful,” Wolta said. He grinned at me. “Do I have your permission to fish?”

He got his line in first. Fresh bait was put on the other line, and Jimmy took his place in the chair. It was not over five minutes later that a sail, without warning, came up from downstairs and slapped Wolta’s bait. I was behind his chair. He waited the proper time until the line straightened and then hit, much too hard. But it didn’t do any harm because he wasn’t hitting against the fish. The sail was waiting longer than usual.

Instinctively I reached down over Wolta’s shoulder and released the drag so the spool would run free, allowing the bait to remain dead on the water.

Wolta pushed my hand away hard, saying in a tight voice, “Catch your own fish, Doc.”

It was a comedy of errors. The fish took the bait, and then Wolta tried to hit it with the drag off and without his thumb on the spool. The spool whined and the line snarled. Pedro came running and grasped the line ahead of the rod and yanked hard three times, setting the hook. The fish went high. It was one fine sail. I guessed it as close to ninety pounds. The world’s record is 106 pounds off Miami in 1929. Pedro managed to click the drag back on and ripped at the snarled line while the sail jumped wildly, lashing, fighting.

With the snarl gone, the fish hit the end of the slack with a jar that made Wolta grunt and yanked his arms straight, yanked the rod tip down. When the fish jumped again, Wolta horsed it so hard that he spun the sail in the air.

I yelled at him, “You’ll bust the line!”

He worked with a tight hard grin on his face. The sail took line on him, but took it with the full drag and with
Wolta’s hard thumb on the spool. I don’t know why the line didn’t break. It would test at 96 pounds.

I’ll say this for Wolta. He was a powerful man. Cords like cables stood out on his brown forearms as he horsed the fish toward the boat. Pedro began to look worried. Even boating a tired fish is rugged work. Last year, just as a man reached for the bill, the fish took one more leap, freeing himself of the gaff. The bill entered the brain of the sailor through his left eye. And Pedro saw himself trying to boat a fish that still had a lot of fight left.

Pedro worked the boat, turning it perfectly, keeping it so that Wolta had free play of the fish. The fish made short hard savage lunges close to the boat. Pedro left the wheel, handled the gaff himself, sunk it neatly. The fish gave a convulsive heave that nearly lifted Pedro over the side. The sailor went half over the rail, grasped the bill with his gloved hand, and slammed the fish twice behind the eyes. Pedro heaved it aboard.

The fish lay there. Reflex muscles made it quiver. Wolta grabbed the club from the sailor and hit it again. It was an understandable thing to do. But the way he did it, the way the club smashed against the hard flesh, revealed something savage and soul-naked about the man. Pedro looked disgusted.

Wolta turned to me and said, “I got it in spite of you. Next time keep your damn hands off my rod and reel, mister.”

I said, “Wake up, Wolta. If I hadn’t thrown off the drag, you wouldn’t even have a fish. He didn’t have the bait when you hit him. I let the bait free so that it stayed back there. You kept me from putting the drag back on. That’s why your line snarled.”

He smiled at me. His pale eyes still held anger. “If you say so, expert. Anyway, this one will outweigh yours.” He kicked the dead fish. I didn’t like that, and neither did Pedro. A sail is an honorable opponent, a brave fish, a gentleman of the sea. Even dead he isn’t to be kicked.

“It probably will,” I said.

We had the two flags up for the two sails. I took Wolta’s place while he went inside to have another beer. I had noticed that his thumb was raw where he had pressed it against the escaping line.

Jimmy Gerran dropped his bait back into the water. Wolta hollered out, “Both the
men
have got a fish, kid. Now let’s see if you can lose another one.” He laughed hugely. Jimmy smiled weakly. I smiled not at all.

We fished without result for over an hour and then we ate. Even without another strike, it would have been a good day. But I was pulling for Jimmy to latch onto one. And I had a hunch that when he did, he’d do a better job than Wolta had. Only Wolta seemed oblivious of the fact that enormous luck had kept his line from snapping.

We were out a good dozen miles, and the sun was almost directly overhead, making a dazzling glare on the blue sea.

The time went by slowly. Wolta said, “Somebody catch something. I want some more fishing.” He waited a few minutes. He said, “Jimmy, if you don’t have anything by three o’clock, I’m taking over.”

I said, “Don’t you think we ought to stick to the rules?”

“Okay, Jimmy?” Wolta said. “Three o’clock?”

Jimmy didn’t look at me. He said, “Sure, Lew.”

The older man had him buffaloed. I knew the signs. I liked Gerran. So all I could do was to think that it was just too bad.

While I was wondering how Gerran got himself tied up with Wolta, Pedro hissed and said in Spanish, “There is a monstrous fish to starboard, senor.”

I searched the sea until I saw it. It was too close. There wasn’t time for me to reel in and change to the boat rod. This fish wasn’t going to be brought in on my tackle.

For a moment I had a yen to try for him, anyway. But I reeled in quickly.

Wolta said, “What’s up? Why’re you reeling in?”

At first the sun was in my eyes. And then I saw him coming in like a freight train. He slapped Jimmy’s bait out of the water. It fell dead, free of the clothespin, and the fish took it. Jimmy hit it perfectly, four times. The huge fish was on his way out to sea when he felt a nasty little jab inside his jaw. He felt a jab and a tugging weight. To free himself of it, he went upstairs. He went up in a shower of spray—five hundred pounds of blue marlin.

Wolta yelled in astonishment. A wide grin split Pedro’s face. The hands gabbled in excitement. There aren’t many
fish like that one off Acapulco. Jimmy didn’t give him any slack when he jumped again and again. Then the big blue headed for off and beyond, and the reel sang a high shrill song of irresistible power.

Jimmy should have been using a 30 ounce tip, a 16/0 reel and 54-thread line. In relation to the blue, his tackle was as relatively light as mine was for sail. Jimmy held the rod and gave us one taut, startled look as Pedro and I grabbed the straps and strapped him to the chair.

The reel continued to sing, and the line going into the water was a white hissing streak. I began to pray to Aztec gods for the big fish to get tired of that straight line. Pedro was back at the wheel. He jammed it into reverse and backed along the line of flight of the fish. The powersong diminished in pitch a few notes, but still the monster drove on, trying to run from the pain in his jaw. He made a leap a full fifteen hundred feet from the boat. He was so far away that he looked like a minnow. Pedro stopped backing instantly to keep from piling up slack.

Jimmy began to pull on the fish. It was going at right angles to the boat. Pedro kept the boat in a small turn to keep the fish centered over the stern. With both hands on the rod, Jimmy pulled slowly, pulling the rod from a horizontal to a vertical position. Then, as he lowered it quickly, he reeled in a few feet of the precious line. It was heartbreakingly slow compared to the speed at which it had gone out. Fifty times he strained to pull up on the rod, gaining a few feet each time, and then the fish, undiminished in power, took it all away from him again.

We were covering a lot of ground. Every time the fish took off, Pedro would keep after it, conserving that precious line. Once the spool showed as the fish stopped his run and jumped.

I glanced at my wristwatch. Forty minutes so far. The sweat poured off Jimmy Gerran, and his shirt looked as though he had been doused with a bucket of water. I kept encouraging him in low tones. I knew what the fight was taking out of him. Heave up and reel in, heave up and reel in. Minute after minute.

Then the fish came like an express train, right for the
boat, its miniature sail cutting the water. The line came fast then. It passed the boat within fifty feet and went on out in the opposite direction. I was afraid of what would happen when it hit the end of the temporary slack. Jimmy was smart enough to stop reeling and wait, rod level. The spool jumped from complete stillness into whining speed as the line went out. But this time the fish turned and tail-walked some three hundred yards from the boat.

Once again the laborious process began. When I saw the blood on Jimmy’s wrist I knew what the blisters were doing to his hands. His face was set and death-pale, and there was more blood on his lower lip.

Wolta sat in the other chair and said in a wheedling voice, “Kid, you’re bushed. You’re not tough enough for that baby. Next time you get a chance, slip the rod over here. Old Lew’ll bring him in for you.”

The kid didn’t answer, but he didn’t seem to be working so hard on the fish. I know the feeling. I’ve been hooked into fish who have almost convinced me that it is impossible to bring them in.

Yet he worked on, his arms trembling each time he pulled. I looked at my watch. An hour and fifteen minutes of heartbreaking, muscle-ripping, back-bending labor.