I had my chance at a great black Marlin. He loomed a massive purple shadow behind my bait, became clear and sharp, a magnificent and appalling sight. He struck viciously at my bait — took it — sheered away — while I shook in my seat. But he felt the hook and threw it...That loss colored my thoughts for long. But the late afternoon and sunset were reward almost for any loss, let alone that of an incurable fisherman.

  All day the smoke from forest fires had blown out over the sea, and that, with the gathering clouds, had prepared a beautiful veil through which the red sun burned. There were lights on the water that did not belong on land or sea. The shafts of rock stood up bronze and gold through the smoke. The schools of kahawai spread and rippled on the dark water, every now and then crashing a wide white area of spray that turned into a million diamonds of gold and fire.

  Far out a storm gathered, a dark, violet cloud massed low above the horizon; and in the west the sun became lost in a haze of dusky rose. I seemed to smother in the fragrance of burning autumn leaves. My ears were filled with the low, sad surge of the sea. Sunset, twilight, dusk; then we ran round the main island to a protected bay.

  After supper we went ashore in the dingy. A strong breeze had blown away the smoke and clouds, and from a clear sky the white moon shone. Again, for the thousandth time, I walked alone on a lonely beach, listening to the grating roar of the pebbles that the sullen surge drew down. Lines of Matthew Arnold’s great poem, “Dover Beach”, lingered in my mind.

  Next day there were all kinds of beautiful weather — calm, still, hot, windy and squally, bright sunlight on a blue white-crested sea and dark purple shadows sailing like ships on the swells. All day I had in my charmed ears the song of the surge. That is to say, I heard this low music of the sea during those rather infrequent periods when I was not fighting a fish. Yet sometimes even then I was aware of the heave of the billows against the hollow cliffs and over the ragged reefs.

  About two-thirty p.m. when I regretfully remembered we were a long three hours’ run from camp, I had two swordfish and one mako aboard the boat. Captain Mitchell’s boat appeared rounding the lower rock, where we had found bait so plentiful, and I thought I had better remind him that we must soon leave. Then I was rather glad to observe that he had just hooked a fish and was pumping away in his usual energetic manner. “Good!” I soliloquized: “I can’t start back without the Cap!...Wonder what the lucky lobster has got fast to now...Looks slow and heavy to me.”

  I watched to see if the fish broke water, but it did not. Gradually the Captain’s boat worked out. “Humph!” I said. “I’ll have to follow him if that keeps up.”

  During the next hour I was pretty strenuously engaged myself, mostly on a fine Marlin that I caught, and for a short while on something heavy that I lost. Both my boatmen were keen on records, and wanted me, and incidentally their boat, the Alma G., to beat the best day’s record for Cape Brett boats, and for that matter any of the fishing-resort boats. I had then already succeeded; yet it was not a difficult matter to induce me to keep fishing; not at that wonderful place!

  When, however, the Captain’s boat got several miles out I decided we must follow him. This we did, and in short order slowed down within shouting distance.

  “Hey, Cap,” I yelled, “don’t you know we must start back?”

  “Can’t help it,” he returned; “I’ve hung on to a wolloper.”

  “So I see. Well, hand it to him. I’ll go back and keep an eye on you. If you don’t come in soon, we’ll hunt you up.”

  Returning to the vicinity of the rocks, where the surge boomed and the gulls screamed and the kahawai lashed the water white, I was soon engaged upon another swordfish. He did not appear obliging, for he took us in the opposite direction from the Captain’s boat; and he fought me to a standstill for one hour.

  The time was four o’clock. We could just catch sight of the Captain’s boat; and when I had fished awhile longer all we could see was the mast. Both boatmen averred the boat was returning. I did not think so, but I waited until the mast disappeared.

  “Mitchell is tangled up with another big fish,” I said to the men. “Hook her up and let’s find him.”

  We ran northeast four miles before I sighted the other boat, just a speck on the horizon. It was fully ten miles from the rock where Captain Mitchell had hooked the fish. This, of course, argued in favor of something unusual.

  We sped on, and soon I sighted a big blue fin cutting the swells. It belonged to a swordfish of uncertain species and size. We threw out teasers and bait, and tore at full speed in his direction. The sharp tail showed only at the tops of swells. From that way of riding the waves I knew him to be a Marlin. Soon I espied his long, dark shape. We were fully three hundred feet distant; yet as Frank slowed down the engine that swordfish saw our shining teasers, and he vanished.

  “Boys, he’s coming!” I yelled. “Look sharp!”

  The position of the boat was such that astern the water was dazzling bright with sunlight, making it impossible to catch a glimpse of either teasers or bait. But suddenly the line by which I was dragging the bait was ripped out of my hands.

  “Wow! He’s got it.”

  So incredibly swift was this swordfish that I had just time to grasp my rod when the line whipped taut. Like lightning in his swiftness the fish shot forward. I shut down on the drag, at the same moment telling Frank to go full speed ahead. Seldom, if ever, did I see or hear a reel whiz so fast. Almost like a rifle bullet the swordfish sped, never showing once on the surface. At four hundred and fifty yards, which he took in a few seconds while we were running at top speed after him, the hook pulled out.

  Slowly I wound in my line. Both boatmen were downcast. They had never known a fish to take line like that. “Some swordfish!” I said, ponderingly. “And I’m inclined to think it was a black Marlin.”

  Half an hour later we ran up to the other boat, which for most of this time I had watched with great interest. But not until we arrived close did I find out anything.

  First I saw an enormous fish tail sticking up out of the water and roped to the boat. The breadth of those black flukes, the huge thickness of the tail, sort of stunned me. I could not look. It appeared there were four very much exhausted and excited men on that boat, particularly Captain Mitchell. He was haggard, wet, dishevelled.

  “Just gaffed him,” he called thickly. “Had an awful fight. When he came up so I could see how big he was, it scared me out of my wits...Good Heavens! Take a look at that swordfish!”

  I was looking with all my might, though all I could make out was the huge tail and the long shadowy shape hanging down. For a few moments, everyone except me talked at once, and nobody knew what was said.

  Presently the four men, using a block and tackle, began to haul the black Marlin aboard the wide stern. As slowly the glistening opal monster was hoisted out of the water I was further amazed, staggered; and finally, when they got his shoulders and head clear, I was overwhelmed.

  This Marlin was as large round as a hogshead, and so enormously long that tail and head projected far over each side of the eleven-foot beam stern.

  Hoarsely shouting some rattled encomium of wonder and admiration, I subsided into my chair, suddenly weak. In my fishing day I had seen some great fish carried aboard or towed back to camp; but this one made comparison cheap. For twelve years, ever since I first knew about Marlin, I had dreamed of such a fish. Of course I was glad Captain Mitchell had caught it, just as I knew he was glad when I beat his tuna record with my seven-hundredand-fifty-eight pounder; nevertheless, the sight and realization of this black Marlin was a jolt. I knew it would weigh one thousand pounds.

  We were twenty-five miles from camp. The sun was setting, the sea and wind were rising, and the moon showed pale in the eastern sky. Dusk mantled the waste of waters, the afterglow faded, the moon soared, making a brilliant track over the billows, and the dew fell heavily, almost as thick as rain. By eight o’clock we picked up the Ninepin rock, then Redhead, and lastly the lighthouse flash on Cape Brett. By nine we were in camp, wet, tired out, hungry as bears, and quite insane over the day. The stories of Captain Mitchell’s boatmen, Bill and Warne, were interesting as phenomena of wild precipitant speech, but scarcely rational at that moment. The Captain, usually so cool and practical, like most Englishmen, was more wrought up than I had ever known him.

  “We saw some bait close to that rock,” he said. “We ran over close, and I threw my yellowtail over. It was dead, but I though I’d try it anyway. By gad! Something took it right off, slow and easy. I let that fish run off two hundred yards of line. When I struck he felt as solid as Gibraltar. I couldn’t do anything with him. We followed him, but I fought for all I was worth. When you came out the first time I hadn’t seen the fish, didn’t know it was a swordfish, and had no idea it was so big. After you left it jumped half out. He looked mighty thick, even far away; but I didn’t see him well. Later he jumped twice, and I thought the boatmen were crazy. Next thing another black Marlin came up, fully as large as the one on my hook. He shot by the boat and back again under my line. I was sure he’d cut it. No doubt this was the mate to the one I’d hooked. He seemed wild and mad. Oh! If you had only stayed with us! You might have caught him.

  “Well, I worked harder than ever before, on any fish, even my big tuna, yet I couldn’t stop the beggar. He was game, fast, incredibly strong. He would take short, quick runs, down deep and high up. Once he had off almost all my line; all except thirty yards. I had been fighting him nearly four hours when he took a last short run and stopped! After that I found I could hold him, lead him, drag him. Soon I brought him up. He looked so tremendous that I was scared weak. I had not dreamed of such a fish. I nearly fell out of my chair. Bill hauled on the leader, and Warne gaffed him. Then Bill reached over with a rope and got it round the fish’s tail, but not in a loop or knot. Bill fell down in the cockpit, yelling for help. Crack went the gaff! Bang! Bang! Bang! The huge swordfish tail jarred the whole boat and half filled it with water. We were deluged. Warne got another rope and got that on the banging tail, same as Bill’s. He was lifted off his feet and slammed to the floor of the cockpit. I left my rod and jumped to their aid. Then the three of us lay flat on our backs, feet braced on the gunwale, and strained every nerve and muscle to hold that fish. Morton had wit enough to grab another rope; making a noose, he threw it tight around the tail and then to one of the posts. Only when we had his tail in a noose did I recover...By gad! It was an awful fight!”

  Not until next morning did I have a good look at this great Marlin, and though I had prepared myself for something extraordinary, I had not done it justice.

  It was considerably larger than Captain Mitchell’s six-hundredand-eighty-five pound swordfish, but of different shape and color; and not anything like the other for symmetry and beauty. In fact, this one hardly seemed beautiful at all. It was almost round, very fat and full clear down to the tail and solid as a rock. Faint dark stripes showed through the black opal hue. The bill was short and as thick as a spade handle at the point. The hook of the lower maxillary had been blunted or cut off in battle. Huge scars indented the broad sides — many of them. The length was twelve feet, eight inches; the girth six feet, two inches; the spread of tail, four feet; and the weight nine hundred and seventy-six pounds. It had to be taken to Russell and cut into three pieces in order to weigh it at all. What an unbelievable monster of the deep! What a fish! I, who had loved fish from earliest boyhood, hung round that Marlin absorbed, obsessed, entranced and sick with the deferred possibility of catching one like it for myself. How silly such hope! Could I ever expect such marvelous good luck? Yet I knew as I gazed down upon it that I would keep on trying as long as strength enough was left me. That ought to be a good many years, I figured. Oh, the madness of a fisherman! The strange something that is born, not made!

  The stomach of the leviathan contained two kahawai and nine red snapper, all of large size. This old swordfish must have had to cruise round most of the day and part of the night to satisfy his enormous appetite. But how did he ever catch those swift little fish? He had to be faster than they. Considering his bulk and the displacement of water necessary when he moved, such swiftness seemed inconceivable. Perhaps he united cunning with speed, and maneuvered under a school of fish, suddenly to shoot upward and whack right and left with his bill. That was only a conjecture. We found many snapper in the stomachs of Marlin, and most of them had been speared. Nature knows how to endow her fish, as well as all other creatures, with the instincts and powers necessary to their self-preservation and reproduction.

  Naturally the capturing of the first true swordfish in New Zealand waters, and the two enormous black Marlin, created a sensation all over the island. Some of my former remarks in Wellington, Auckland and Russell, that had been received rather skeptically, were recalled with sincerity; and New Zealand anglers began to wake up.

  Peter Gardiner, one of the pioneers of sea angling in New Zealand, called on me at my camp, bringing his homemade tackle for my inspection. The reel was a ponderous affair, with levers and brakes that might have served for automobile clutches. The rod was of native wood, long, thick, clumsy; and the guides were huge rings, wrapped underneath. The line was a 36 Cuttyhunk, wholly unsuitable to the rest of the tackle. Mr. Gardiner, who had written to me in California about New Zealand fishing, proved to be a frank, intelligent and practical angler, anxious to learn all he could. I explained the faults of his tackle, and then showed him my own and how it worked. He was amazed and keen; but he could not quite see why the triple-gang hook was not better than the single hook. Only time and personal experience can prove this fact to anglers who have started wrong. The English are slow to change. Yet Captain Mitchell and Alma Baker, both conservative British sportsmen, had been quick to see the advantage of American method and tackle and to adopt them.

  Following Mr. Gardiner’s visit there were two more anglers who called on us from their camp at Deep Water Cove. They were from Sydney and had been fishing off Cape Brett for a couple of weeks.

  One of them, Mr. Lamb, had a tale of woe to unfold. The day before he had hooked an exceedingly large fish, which upon breaking water proved to be a black Marlin of giant dimensions; but he could not do anything with it. His boat followed it out to sea for miles, while he labored all he could with his tackle. At last the fish slowed up and quit fighting; but it could not be lifted. The tackle was not equal to it. So the boatman cut the line!

  “But, Mr. Lamb, did you expect to catch such a heavy fish with your kind of tackle?” I inquired. “If so, you attempted the impossible.”

  “I’m convinced of that, and have come over to find out where we can get such tackle as you and Captain Mitchell and Mr. Baker use,” he replied.

  Whereupon we had the pleasure of showing the great Coxe reels, the Murphy hickory rods, and the Hardy Bros. English tackle.

  We had other news that day, quite pleasing in a way, though it concerned an angler’s bad luck. Some men were returning from a trip out to Hen and Chickens Islands, south of Cape Brett, when one of them had a terrific strike. The fish came up, showing the long, sharp blade of a broadbill swordfish, and with one long rush it took all the angler’s line. How familiar that sounded to my ears!

  We had been so misled and enchanted by the perfect weather that we forgot there could be any other kind. To our dismay one sunset darkened sinisterly into storm. Next day the hard gale returned, reminding us of that past ten-day period we had found so irksome. We had wind and more wind. On the second night the gale abated, the clouds vanished over the hills, the full moon soared white and beautiful over the Bay of Islands.

  We planned to take a three-day trip to the Cavallis, and were most eager and enthusiastic. Several times during the night I awoke, to be thrilled by the almost absolute stillness. With the tide far at ebb, there was not a ripple on the beach. The gulls did not, as usual, stir me at dawn. It was a roar of rain on the tent; I was flabbergasted, and thought I was dreaming. I arose to a dark-gray sky and beating rain. The wind came hard from the southeast, directly from the sea; and the boatmen said, “Dirty weather!”

  Toward noon it cleared somewhat. The clouds broke, the sun shone, the wind lulled and our hopes revived. How strange that Captain Mitchell and I could not be happy except in the act of fishing! Alma Baker rather welcomed a windy day, so that he could attend to his correspondence.

  After lunch Captain Mitchell and I started out. Once round the corner of the island bay we ran into a good stiff breeze. A big white-crested swell was running. The rents in the gray scud, showing the blue sky, closed ominously. Out at Bird Rock the sea swelled tumultuously. We saw four fishing boats from Deep Water Cove, all drifting. Each boat had a Marlin swordfish lashed to the stern. About the same time Frank espied a big blue fin cutting the waves. That surely belonged to a large Marlin. He disappeared, however, before we could get a bait in front of him.

  We found trolling about in that heavy sea about as uncomfortable a procedure as imaginable for fishing. Still we persisted for an hour, while the other boats drifted, and the scud thickened, the gray mists gathered over Cape Brett, and dull rainbows flashed in the spray toward the sun track on the water. Finally we tried drifting with a live bait. Promptly I got fast to a small but hard-fighting mako. While we were loading it on the boat, Captain Mitchell passed and yelled that he had just had a strike.

  “Had a bunch of piper on for bait,” he shouted, hands to his mouth. “Good hard strike!”

  Piper are small, slim fish that frequent the shoal waters of the bay. They are very good to eat. The Captain, however, had to try them out as bait.

  It struck me again, even more significantly and forcibly, what a wonderful place for big game fish! The weather scarcely mattered. Probably if we had been out during the middle of the day we would have caught several swordfish. The rain set in again, and soon the Deep Water Cove boats left for camp.