Chub Mackerel; Tinker Mackerel — Part 2

Scomber japonicus Houttuyn

Images coming soon.

On our Atlantic Coast this fish, there called the horse mackerel, has never attained any reputation as a game-fish, but on the coast of southern California it is one of the monsters much sought by the daring anglers who frequent the famous Santa Catalina resort. Professor Charles F. Holder, who has written so much and so entertainingly concerning the game-fishes of southern California, says "The most sensational fish of these waters is the leaping tuna, which well compares with the tarpon, and personally I prefer it to its Florida and Texas rival, and in my experience, the average large tuna is a match for two tarpons of the same size. The tuna is the tiger of the California seas, a living meteor which strikes like a whirlwind, and when played with a rod that is not a billiard cue or a club in stiffness, will give the average man the contest of his life. My idea of a rod is a 7 or 8 1/2 foot greenheart or split bamboo, with a good cork grip above the reel, the latter of Edward von Hoff make, with a leather pad, break and click. The line should not be larger than a 21-strand, and 600 or 700 feet is enough. The hook either a Van Vleck or a number 9-0 O'Shaughnessy, should have a piano-wire leader 5 or 6 feet in length. The bait, a flying-fish, and you are ready for the game. Your boatman is ready for you at six, the lunch is stowed and you pull out into Avalon Bay over the glass-like sea. The east is a blaze of red, and the placid waters reflect it and the rocks of the precipitous shore. Behind the town that climbs the slopes the mountains reach upward until lost in vagrant fog-masses of burnished silver. The air is soft, like velvet on the cheek, and there is a crispness in the morning strangely at variance with the palms and bananas which top the neighbouring knoll. As your boatman shoves off and clears the beach, he fastens on the big 3 pound flying-fish, the natural food of the tuna, and you gradually pay out until 60, or perhaps 80 feet of line have gone, then fitting the butt of your rod into the leather cap fastened to the seat, rest your thumb upon the leather brake and begin the waiting, which is a part of fishing the world over.

"But it happens, as it often does, that there is no waiting. 'Jim' whispers 'Look out, sir,' and you turn your head to see 3 or 4 flying-fish coming through the air, flushed by the unseen tuna. The blood starts through your veins; your companion, who perchance has never caught a tuna, turns pale and trembles and thinks of the buck fever, recognizing the symptoms; one flying-fish passes over the boat, you duck your head to avoid it, and then soars directly over your bait, and then a mass of white, silvery foam leaps upward. There is a blaze of silver, then loud musical notes, z-e-e-e, z-e-e-e, z-e-e-e, rise on the air as the splendid reel gives tongue, and the fight is on. The tuna turns and rushes seaward, tearing at the line, taking feet, yards, and has 500 feet of line, perhaps, before the boatman has his boat under sternway, and then begins the contest, ranging, according to the individuals, from ten minutes to fourteen hours. At times the game rushes down into the deep channel; again it plays entirely on the surface, varying the performance by repeated rushes at the boat, to turn and dart away again to the melodious clicking of the reel.

"It is big game in every sense of the word, and those who enjoy it are the man and woman who like to face the big game of the forest and mountains. I have seen a fish weighing but 125 pounds fight an angler five hours. At that time the fish had towed the boat ten miles off shore, or twenty miles perhaps in all. The angler gave out, the boatman took the rod, and I took the oars and pulled against the fish for two hours, whirling it about in vain efforts to keep the stern to the fish. Then in a heavy and dangerous sea, out of sight of port, a council of war was held. If we continued the contest into the night we should have to make for the mainland, ten miles off, and as a result we surrendered, and the noble fish was ignominiously hauled in by hand, and at the gaffing nearly swamped the boat, being as full of vigour and fight as when it was hooked hours before.