Kings in Silver Armor
This article was originally by Bernard L. Spence and published in 1920.
Modern preface by Fiscian.com: The concrete viaducts referred to in the article should be what is today Old Seven Mile Bridge. Old Seven Mile Bridge, originally known as Knights Key-Pigeon Key-Moser Channel-Pacet Channel Bridge, was constructed from 1909 to 1912. The modern Seven Mile Bridge, which runs parallel to the old one was constructed from 1978 to 1982.
"It's no use, Ted, there isn't a chance in a hundred to get a tarpon tonight. Everything is against us. Cloudy; the wind's blowing like the devil, and the water's milky; to say nothing of the tide.” This was Captain Bill's answer when Ted sounded him out regarding his taking us fishing that night.
“Suppose we call it snapper fishing then, and if we don't have any luck, why we won't be disappointed.” “Well, if that's the way you feel about it, I will go” replied Bill, “but remember that I don't promise you much under these weather conditions.”
This conversation took place on the dock at Pigeon Key, Florida, the day after our arrival. Our party consisted of Uncle Ed (Ted's father), Ted and myself. All three were rank novices when it came to big game fishing, for previous to this trip, not one of us had caught anything larger than a six pound bluefish. However, we were all anxious to try our luck.
During the months of February and March, tarpon are seldom, if ever, taken in the day time in these waters, but one has a fair chance at night trolling along the concrete viaducts which connect the numerous keys. In passing from the ocean to the gulf, or vice versa, the fish swim under the arches, and it is in these swift waters that the tarpon and other large fish lie in wait for their food.
In spite of his discouraging conversation with Ted, Bill was ready for us when we came to the dock on that eventful evening, and after loading our fishing paraphernalia aboard his good ship “Florabell,” we started on our way.
“I guess the three mile viaduct is about as good as any tonight” said Bill, “and besides we will not have to leave for home as early as if we went to Channel No. 2"
After we had gone about half the length of the viaduct, Bill slowed down the engine to trolling speed and we let go our lines, baited with split mullet. When night fishing, it is difficult to tell how much line one has out, and therefore we had marked 75 feet on our lines with a small piece of white thread. This was in order to keep our lines from becoming entangled in the numerous pilings near the viaduct, and against which the strong current, flowing through the arches, would carry a line of greater length.
As only two could fish at a time, it was decided that as soon as one of the parties fishing had a strike, he would give up his rod to the inactive member. The first half hour was very uneventful, for the snappers were thick and stole bait after bait, much to the Captain's disgust. “What did I tell you” said Bill, “there aren't any tarpon 'round, when the snappers are biting like this.” He had hardly uttered these words when Ted yelled “Fish,” and at the same time a resounding splash in the darkness behind us, told plainer than words that this time it was the real thing.
Hold him Ted” yelled Bill, as he put the rudder hard over to get the boat away from the viaduct. “He's gone,” said Ted sadly, as he reeled in his line, “Guess I didn't strike hard enough to set the hook. “As a fisherman, you would make a good aviator,” put in Bill, as he put a new bait on Ted's hook, “but let that go this time, and we will troll past there again, and see if we can't induce another one of those fellows to bite."
Although we trolled back and forth in front of that arch several times, we did not get another strike, so we kept on along the viaduct.
Again Ted was the lucky one, and this time when he struck, he nearly went over backwards in his effort to set the hook. Immediately Bill headed for the deep water, and then the fun began. A small electric searchlight, which was fastened to the side of the boat, was turned in the direction of the fish, which could be located by following up Ted's line. After his first jump, the fish made several violent runs, which made the reel sing, as the line was torn from it. The end of each wild rush terminated in a leap. The first two or three times he came out of the water fully eight feet, shaking his head vigorously in an attempt to dislodge the offending hook. It was a great sight to see this powerful fish propel himself into the air, his whole body a quiver, shaking the water from his silvery sides in a spray.
Once, as he jumped away froin the boat, Ted, by throwing his rod back strenuously, succeeded in making the fish do a complete loop in the air.
After fifteen or twenty minutes of pumping and reeling, Ted patiently worked him alongside the boat, but when Bill put the gaff overboard, the fish made a final bid for freedom, running out about fifty feet of line. He was beaten, however, and the next time he made no effort when Bill slipped the gaff under his gills and pulled him aboard. “Don't stand there admiring that fish all night,” said Bill, “for we ought to get another before we go in."
It wasn't five minutes later that Uncle Ed hooked a small fish and at first we were not sure what kind of a fish it was. Although it had jumped several times we thought it might be a barracuda or a snook. In a very short time he was up near the boat where we could see him, and to our surprise we saw that it was a baby tarpon that would weigh perhaps twenty pounds.
“Too small,” said Uncle Ed, “I'll see if he won't shake the hook himself.” Upon giving the fish a free spool he ran off a short distance, leaped half out of water and with a vigorous shake of his head freed himself.
It was my turn now and luck was with me, for as I was letting out my line, a fish struck not twenty feet behind the boat and the fight was on. This fellow was an aerial performer and spent most of his time leaping. Several times, by throwing my rod back quickly when he jumped, I was able to bring him down on his side with a splash. These above-water fighters seemed to tire more quickly than the fish that take out their energy by making long runs, and I was not surprised to find my fish tiring in a very short time. Bill gaffed him the first time I got him alongside the boat, and pulled him aboard. Then things commenced to happen. He evidently objected strenuously to being pulled from his element, for no sooner had he struck the floor of the boat than he started a series of back jumps, throwing slime and blood all over us. Bill, who was wildly searching for something with which to kill the brute, could only find a mechanic's hammer, and this was about as much use as nothing at all. After throwing some bagging over him, we finally succeeded in dragging him up to the front of the boat, where we placed the anchor on top of him. This had the desired effect.
We had each caught a fish and were willing to let it go as a night's work, but as we were at the far end of the viaduct we decided to troll on the way back to camp. Ted and Uncle Ed were fishing, I was steering the boat, and Bill was doing general housework with the mop, trying to get rid of the slime and blood which covered everything.
“F—, F—, F—, Fish,” sputtered Uncle Ed as the butt of his rod beat a tattoo against his corpulent stomach. We could barely see the line smoke as it was torn from the reel, when the fish started off on a mad rush, headed towards the deep water, and we followed. “Gee, this is some fish,” gasped Uncle Ed, “it feels as though I was fast to a British tank."
One hundred yards, one hundred and fifty yards, and still the line was taken out, in spite of the fact that both drags were on, and the thumb brake was being used as well. Wasn't that fish ever going to stop? Then, leaping into the air, the fish changed its direction and started back towards the boat. It was impossible to keep a taut line on that fish, and although Uncle Ed reeled like the devil, it seemed as though he would certainly get away. But at the critical moment the fish again turned, taking the line out to dangerous limits, in a new direction.
At the end of a half hour, the fish seemed as fresh as ever, although his runs were becoming much shorter, and he had ceased to jump. Once he came close enough so that we could see the seventy-five feet mark on the line, but that was the nearest he would come, and as he kept well down in the water, we could not see him with the searchlight to get an idea of his size.
“Gee, this is work,” groaned Uncle Ed, as he pumped and reeled, “I think this must be a baby whale, by the way he pulls.” At the end of the hour, the fish was weakening rapidly, and was brought up alongside the boat for the first time, but as soon as the gaff went down in the water, away he went in another mad rush. Four times Uncle Ed worked the fish up alongside the boat before Bill was finally able to get the gaff under its gills, and draw it into the boat. According to Ted's watch, the struggle lasted just one hour and ten minutes.
Arriving back on the dock, we found all the other boats were in before us but had had no luck, so when we landed our three fish on the dock we felt pretty happy. Upon hoisting the big fellow onto the scale he tipped the beam at 102 pounds. “That's the biggest one taken so far this season,” said Captain Haynes, “and besides that's the best catch of tarpon taken by one boat."
As we walked up to our bungalow I heard one of the old-timers say, “That's beginners' luck, pure and simple,” and we knew he was right. Ted and I were bunk-mates and we were not long in turning in that night. Ted was soon asleep, while I lay there thinking over the events of the evening. As I rolled over, the moon, which shone in the window, revealed Ted with his left arm extended, and his closed hand indicated that he was: “night fishing.” Reaching up I gave his hand a slight jerk, with the result that he “struck” vigorously, hitting his hand against the head of the bed with a crash. Instantly he was awake and sitting upright. “Did you hook him?” I inquired sleepily. “Aw, go to the devil,” retorted Ted. “IT was just catching a one hundred and fifty pounder.”