It has been my good luck to be a party to some interesting sea fights with various kinds of game in the Atlantic, Gulf of Mexico, and around the waters of the Pacific coast; indeed, I believe I have been a witness to contests more than remarkable, and of a character to be doubted by the layman who was not present, but of all these, this fight of Gifford Pinchot with a swordfish, as I saw it, always in his wake, sometimes too near for his patience, comfort, and the safety of his line, impressed me as the pluckiest and most sensational angling experience I had ever seen, or even heard of. Later Pinchot was inclined to laugh at my enthusiasm, but he was playing the fish, and I was the cool and damp spectator. In the excitement he forgot all about the danger, while it was my business to know it, and if possible to avert it.

The sea was rising and the swordfish was constantly edging out into rougher water, holding the skiff down by the stern, and I fully expected the thing to happen to them, that did to me.

A tuna was hauling me, stern first, against a heavy sea, when along came one of the peculiar big waves which are often seen. The tuna rushed at just the right time, and the stern of the boat smashed into the crest of the wave and nearly half filled her. But this was in daylight, and I was being followed by a number of boats, so we paid little attention to it, and my boatman

shortly bailed out the boat. But it was different here, and I had Joaquin break out two life preservers and had them ready to fling at the anglers as I thought they might need them if the sea picked up as it generally did.

There are various stories current at Avalon about the dangers of the sport (the Smithsonian has a record of many attacks of swordfish on boats and ships), and a number of anglers have broken the line, and retreated before the menacing attitude of the fish. But this did not worry Pinchot; what really worried him, was Mexican Joe's eighteen-foot, snorting launch, under my guidance. I was a sort of a wild marine toro, coming at him from all directions out of the darkness; now nearly aboard on the top of a roller, now too much ahead, threatening the line, as the fish was constantly changing its direction several points, and I was always losing sight of them. Now I would stop twenty feet from the flying skiff, and in backing off get caught, broadside on to the sea, and nearly be thrown out of the boat as she rolled. Then losing them, I would slam back the lever, and put the launch ahead at full speed, until Joaquin in the bow would scream, "There they are!" and heading around to port I would stop her, missing them by a few feet.

It was wild sport, chasing Pinchot that dark night in the San Clemente Channel.

Every once in a while he would shout, "I've got him up again!" then I would creep up, throw off the clutch, and try to watch them. Presently the scream of the reel would come down the wind, telling that the fish was away again. Fifteen or sixteen times this fish was brought alongside, and as many times Mexican Joe handled his gaff and dropped it again, to seize the oars and back the skiff after it.

No angler ever took greater chances, or played a big fish better than did Pinchot that night, as the channel is a treacherous one, and the conditions not all that one would wish. Sudden fogs, high winds, heavy seas, extraordinary currents, are some of the conditions, and a breakdown of my launch more than possible, as what I do not know about gasolene engines would make a large and comfortable volume, due to a certain disinterestedness on my part, for machinery, or mechanics. And when I was helmsman and engineer of the Lionore that night, I knew how to throw off the clutch, and stop her, how to back, and how to start, and I confined myself to this exclusively; kept my right hand on the wheel, where I was at home, my left on the lever where I was very much at sea, and that I continually backed when I intended to go ahead, was but an incident in the game.

I had it all to myself, as I had stationed the boy Joaquin in the bow to aid me in keeping

the angler in sight. That I did not jerk individual horse-powers out of that engine is one of the mysterious dispensations of Providence, as it bucked, talked back, coughed, growled, bellowed, and hissed oil at me from every pore and point, while I jerked the lever out and slammed it back, in the wild ride after Pinchot. Now I could see him dimly bracing to it, pumping with all his strength, gaining a foot to lose two, literally hauling the skiff up over the flying swordfish, and standing all the strain on the tip of his rod and arms. That it was a good and hard fight only those really know who have tried swordfish or tuna. The fish never rests; he fights until he is dead, until the end. When you rest, he rests twice as fast, and to rest is to lose.

Pinchot, apparently, never let up on his reeling and pumping, but, ever and anon, the fish would start and dash away, towing the skiff at a rate that forced me to put on full speed. Then, all at once, I would hear a shout out of the darkness. "Keep off, you 're on top of us!" and then I would jerk a few horse-powers out of that long-suffering, patient, growling engine, and slow down, hanging on in the seaway, to catch a glimpse of Pinchot and Joe on the top of a wave, shooting along behind that wild racing steed. The sea was flying, the spume filling the air as they fell on a wave. I could hear the

rhythmic motion of Joe's sure strike, see the glint of the rod in the faint glare of the lantern which I had put aboard, and now and then the dim outline of Pinchot's back as he bent over the rod and made the good fight.

As the night grew apace, and when darkness had fully set in, the phosphorescence of the sea began to assert itself, and every crest and bit of broken water became a flash and gleam of silvery light.

The skiff seemed to be resting in a cauldron of fiery gleaming metal. Occasionally in turning I would get caught in the trough of the sea, and fiery flames would leap all about and a mellifluous "Gee!" would come from my small lookout, clinging to the mast lest he be tossed bodily over into the blazing sea, as the launch rolled and yawned.

The moon in the early quarter was gradually dropping over the mountains of San Clemente, standing over to the west, and the stars glistened with a steely intensity. It was a great night to be at sea, as by some fortunate circumstance the wind did not blow as hard as usual, or there would have been another end to this veracious tale. How far the swordfish towed the skiff, I do not know, but I should say at least five miles. I picked them up about three miles to the southeast, offshore, and to reach them went directly away from Mosquito Bay