ZANE GREY : THE BONEFISH
BRIGADE
On February,
1922, I returned to my old haunts at Long Key, Florida,
to find that absence had only endeared the coral islet to
me, and that the interval of study, writing, and the
charm of new places had brought me only greater
appreciation of old associations.
It is now ten
or twelve years since R. C. and I accidentally dropped
into Long Key Fishing Camp. We had been en route for
Tampico to fish for tarpon, and when the captain of the
Ward Liner told us of yellow, fever in Mexico, we
disembarked at Nassau and eventually wound up at Long
Key.
How well I
remember being puzzled by a number of anglers quite out
of my ken! They were bonefishermen. At that time this
vague classification did not mean anything in my young
angling life. I really did not give them credit for
rationality. Somebody designated them as "bonefish bugs."
It is not my intention to dwell upon the years required
to inoculate R. C. and me with this peculiar and
irresistible mania.
It will suffice
to give a few impressions of what I nicknamed the
Bonefish Brigade. Even at that early day they had been
coming to Florida every winter in pursuit of their
strange and illusive game. They generally appeared along
in February, six or eight or even ten in number; and they
fell at once into what seemed to me most unproductive and
mysterious ways.
First they
would convene on the porch of their cottage facing the
sea, and there they would loll and lounge, with their
pale, tired and pleasant faces up to the sun. They always
had an interest in other anglers and their luck, but they
were strangely reticent about their own pursuits. Indeed
I can see now how they dwelt upon the heights of angling
bliss, down from which they condescended to look upon
less fortunate mortals.
Usually after a
day or two of rest three or four of these gentlemen would
don the most disreputable clothes, and armed with an old
bag and a bucket they would sally forth on some errand
most strikingly and obviously important. It puzzled me. I
used to watch them wonderingly and half with pity and
amusement. But the ragged old clothes bothered me. I had
to respect that circumstance. R. C. and I had imagined
the prerogative of wearing comfortable old togs as ours
alone. And the bag and bucket made me suspicious. Could
it be possible that this gang, among whose number were
Standard Oil magnates and other kinds of millionaires,
was going to catch bait? The idea was preposterous. I
dismissed it from mind. But when they came back wet,
tired, dirty and happy, with the bag and bucket full of
something manifestly precious, I had a shock. Actually
these men had been after bait! R. C. shared my amaze and
discomfiture; and thereafter we spied upon these men who
had our secret of harking back to boyhood.
Fishermanz, the
chief of this brigade, would carry a camp chair out on
the beach, and a rod big enough to catch tarpon, and a
tin can and a hammer, and a mysterious article about the
size of a pancake, only much thicker and heavier. This he
would hold on his knees and crack something on it with
his hammer. Then, as a small boy throws an apple from a
pointed springy stick, Fishermanz would swing his big rod
and cast bait and sinker far out into a foot of shallow
water. That done, he would recline in the camp chair, the
rod over his knees, the line between his fingers, and
there he would stay. I repeat the word stay! I used to
wonder if he was watching the incoming tide. Much as I
studied him that first visit of mine at Long Key, I never
saw him get even a bite. He seemed to dream and that made
me jealous. I can stand a man to be a better angler than
I am-which is not hard to be-but as for the dreamer end
of it I claim distinction. Fishermanz did this thing
every day, getting a little later each day, until my
dense brain began to associate his vigil somehow with the
maneuvers of the tide.
Bumfellar was
Fishermanz's constant companion, except when they fished.
R. C. and I thought this the queerest thing. Manifestly
when they fished along the beach they got as far apart as
possible. I believe each of them was afraid the other
might catch a bonefish. Bumfellar's way was to anchor a
skiff some fifty feet offshore and sit in it all day,
motionless as an Indian fisherman, which is to be as
motionless as a rock.
Loosfish was
the most interesting one of this remarkable group. He was
the eldest, a slight, serious-faced man, quite frail, and
a very courteous and friendly and fine old gentleman,
except upon his return from fishing. Then he was
energetic, violent, and exceedingly profane. I gathered
that, according to his own statements, he could not do
anything but lose fish.
He would don a
big sun hat, and armed with considerable paraphernalia,
he would walk up the beach to a secluded spot, and there
act very much like a big dog that turns round and round,
finally to settle down for a sleep. Loosfish, however,
was certainly wide awake. To my dismay I passed near him
twice, once on the beach, where naturally I had to walk,
as there was only the narrow strip of coral; and again in
a canoe. With the canoe I imagined it much more
considerate of me to paddle quite close to the beach, so
as not to scare any bonefish. But on the first occasion
Loosfish glared so savagely at me that I feared I had
done something terrible; and upon the second he spoke in
cold cutting language, the content of which I dare not
give to the printed page. Really I was ashamed of myself
for spying upon these estimable gentlemen, and meekly
went upon my way. Nevertheless I did not cease my
industry as to what and why and when and
where.
One of the
brigade was a very short, stout, red-faced man, most
wonderfully cheerful, who singularly enough went by the
name Rounddelay, for at lying around he had all the
others of the brigade beaten to a frazzle.
I always felt
sorry for Rounddelay. His gang led him the life of a dog.
All because he did not, or could not, or would not fish,
yet insisted on going with them! He was the most cheerful
man I ever met. When after a day on the sea you
encountered him it was to find him most inquisitive,
eager as a boy to hear of your luck, and if that had been
good he was glad. A most unusual type round a fishing
camp! A man to console you! An individual immeasurably
above these poor boobs of fishermen who imagine they had
the best of you!
It would never
do for me to forget Rushenwait, the funniest member of
the brigade. He was a great talker, and that was one
reason why the brigade made him fish by himself. I took
advantage of his weakness and asked him how to catch
bonefish. He told me. And I was soon in a state of mental
aberration. But I always believed I profited by his
concluding remarks: "Den you set dere an' waid for a bide
which when it comes you doon know only by de feel an' you
must jerg ver queeck."
Crownshanks was
scarcely a member of this historic aggregation, yet it is
necessary to mention him because he was always there,
always on the beach, omnipresent. His forte was walking
along the beach. He had very long legs and he could use
them; and as a walker along the shore and a collector of
trash cast up by the sea he had only one peer, and that
was myself.
The tragedy of
Crownshanks was that he would assuredly have been a great
bonefisherman but for an unfortunate accident upon his
very first trial at this tremendous game. Unwittingly he
put on two hooks and two baits and hooked two bonefish.
At the same time on the one line! Now one bonefish is
quite master of most any situation. But two husky
bonefish at once! I hesitate to express myself. The two
that Crownshanks hooked ran off, as is the unkind
disposition of this species, and they split round a snag
of mangrove. That is to say one bonefish went one way and
the other went another way. Yet, but, nevertheless, and
marvelously, Crownshanks caught those two bonefish. It
ruined his career. As I stated, he might have been great.
But this was too much. He never went bonefishing again.
He would listen to the woes and exultings of the brigade,
but he could never again see that any of them had hopes
of mastering the intricacies of bonefishing. Crownshanks
might have had a career, but he became only the best
tarpon and sailfish catcher of his day-always releasing
his fish alive. To be sure, this is no distinction as
compared to what he might have become in the bonefish
world, but it will serve to show that he was not
altogether an utter failure.
In passing I
must mention one of Crownshanks' gifts. It amounted to
genius. It was a most fascinating thing to watch. He
always had a cigarette in his mouth-no, not exactly that,
for the end of the cigarette was pasted on the under edge
of his left central incisor tooth.
It hung there.
It performed miraculous feats. It never fell. That was
the mystery to me. Crownshanks never smoked it, that was
sure. I do not know whether he ever had more than one
cigarette or not, but he did not need more. Now this
genial and intellectual gentleman would discourse with
you for hours on any subject, though he preferred
fishology, and he was equally well versed in business,
politics, religion, literature, socialism, metaphysics,
psychology, psychoanalysis, altruism and prizefighting.
But I was always so bewitched and bewildered by the sight
of his everlasting cigarette-by my irresistible gamble on
whether it would stick there longer or not-that I could
never concentrate on what he was talking
about.
Well, the years
went by, and R. C. and I, by dint of dogged persistence
and boyish enthusiasm, and development of skill, at
length mastered the mystery of bonefishing.
I have never
been able to tell why it seems the fullest, the most
difficult, the strangest and most thrilling, the
lonesomest and most all-satisfying of all kinds of
angling. Many salmon fishermen claim that to take the
silver king of the Restigouche on the fly is the highest
type and greatest of all fishing. Many make this claim
for the wonderful steelhead of Oregon and Washington. But
bonefishing has all the finesse, the delicacy, the skill,
the incomprehensible vagaries, the test of endurance that
salmon fishing has. And more! For in bonefishing there is
more of a return to boyish emotions than in salmon
fishing. Perhaps that is the secret.
Every winter R.
C. and I went back to Long Key, to grow more and more
like members of the Bonefish Brigade; which I think was a
happy and profitable development for us.
Then, owing to
outdoor interests in California, we missed going to Long
Key for several years. In February, 1922, I went back to
renew the unforgotten associations that had haunted me,
and I took my friend Lone Angler Wilborn with me. He was
famous for a good deal more than his feat of taking tuna
and marlin swordfish without the help of boatman or
engineer. Wilborn was an expert with fly, and all kinds
of light tackle. Needless to say I had lauded bonefish to
the skies, and I anticipated more fun and sport than I
had ever had before. I had them, but not quite as
anticipated.
The Bonefish
Brigade appeared on schedule, and I was reminded of the
passing of years. They were the same in spirit, but the
wear of labor and the pallor of the city were upon them.
So imperceptibly we pass on through life. It is a
blessing that lonely places and sunshine and fishing can
restore some semblance of our earlier and more youthful
selves.
Fishermanz lay
all that first day in his camp chair, his pale face up to
the sun, with a slow smile of contentment stealing away
the shadows. Bumfellar had grown thinner and Rounddelay
had grown thicker. Both had been ill. Long Key was a
haven of rest. Rushenwait rushed around to show his new
tackle to everybody and to talk. He fished out a
photograph of me taken ten years before, posed
ridiculously with a queer fish called African pompano.
Crownshanks started out at once to walk with the same old
inevitable cigarette pasted to his tooth. Then there were
new members of the brigade, one of whom was a little
spider-shaped man with the look of a fish-hawk, known as
Thompsonias. I knew he would catch fish, and I could not
see why they had to fetch him along.
We began to
fish, and things happened. I cannot chronicle in this
story the extraordinary exhibitions given by my friend
Lone Angler. I must reserve them for separate treatment
and more space. And I will leave to him and R. C. the
pleasant task of retaliating.
There appeared
to be an unusual number of bonefish on the shoals and
some larger than we had ever caught. I caught several
running up to eight pounds, which was an unprecedented
performance for me and made me exultant. What it did to
Fishermanz and his crew I am too generous to state. Then
that dark horse Thompsonias appeared in a one-piece
bathing suit. He looked like a California bathing girl
minus the shape. He was a long-legged spider wearing an
abbreviated union suit and a pair of sneakers. Every
morning Thompsonias appeared in this rig, and carrying
tackle and bag he would disappear up the beach, to return
at sunset with at least two bonefish. Sometimes
more!
This fellow got
on my nerves. I could not fish for worrying about him. I
think he had a seine hidden up the beach. He was
Fishermanz's bosom friend and I expected Fishermanz to
murder him. The way he brought bonefish back to camp was
uncanny. I think he never took off that bathing suit. His
spider shape changed from white to red and from red to
brown. I tried to keep track of him, but as we didn't
have any hydroplanes, I had to give that up. As a
pedestrian he was in a class by himself. We did not mind
that or how long he absented himself from camp. What hurt
us was the inconsiderate way he packed bonefish back
until in two weeks he had thirty-four. This was
heartrending. But unfortunately they were all small, and
we knew he was slaving to catch one to beat our record of
nine pounds.
Next, to our
dismay, there appeared on the scene a newcomer by the
name of Lucky Stickem. He had been felicitously named. Of
all the lucky fishermen I ever had the bad luck to meet,
Stickem was the luckiest. He frankly said that he only
fished for exercise, as the fact of fish crawling out and
lying down at his feet made it needless for him to work
hard. As a matter of fact I never saw him even exercise.
By profession he was a fine artist and by disposition a
splendid fellow. But I could only appreciate his sterling
qualities by approaching him when he was not
fishing.
For tackle he
had a dinky little bass rod and reel, and a few hundred
feet of long-used number six line. When I saw this outfit
I felt relieved, because it would be funny what a
bonefish would do to that.
I got back one
night to be almost overwhelmed by the stunning fact that
Stickem had caught two bonefish weighing respectively 9
1/4 and 8 3/4 pounds. He had been seen fighting
them-running around in the shallow water, tearing here
and there as a fish took line-in a most undignified
manner. But he caught them! I knew Fishermanz was ill
that night.
Stickem wore
his honors easily, as if he had not done much. And he had
the effrontery and the unmitigated audacity and the
magnificent sportsmanship to tell us he had used a new
bait. There was none of our kind of bait, and so he had
caught common blue crabs, cut them in half, torn off one
side of the shell, and stuck a half on his hook. All we
had considered blue crabs good for was to pinch. Stickem
revolutionized our bait problem and utterly ruined a
perfectly good illusion. Next day everybody except myself
took to hunting for blue crabs.
Three days
later Lone Angler and I were in my canoe anchored on the
coral shoal at the upper end of Long Key-my favorite
place for bonefishing. It was a lonely spot, gray shoal
near at hand, green sea leading out to blue water, long
lines of cocoanut palms leaning with the wind, white
strip of coral beach, and the dense wall of
mangroves.
The restfulness
and peacefulness coincident with bonefishing are much of
its charms. Of course there is no rest or peace if you
hook a bonefish-rather toil and torture-but as these
incidents are infrequent an angler can be
happy.
Lone Angler had
not yet caught a bonefish. He had performed miraculously
at casting, and he said he had imagined he had a bite.
When his hook came in minus the bait, he always assured
me the crabs had eaten it off.
I was sinking
into what may be termed bonefish oblivion - a combination
of suspense, dream, and sleep-when I had a tremendous
strike. It sort of paralyzed me.
"Hey! Didn't
your rod jerk?" yelled Lone Angler.
"Quiet!" I
hissed, tensely.
I waited until
I could not wait anymore, perhaps a matter of a couple of
endless seconds. The second tug is the one I wait for and
strike on. But as this second tug did not come I was
unable to refrain from jerking.
Sharp and hard
I came up on a live weight. There was a quivering of my
tight line. My rod bent double. The old thrill went over
me, deep and wonderful sensation. Then the shallow water
opened with a sodden thump and mud colored the spray. I
had hooked a heavy bonefish.
His opening run
was not electrifying for its speed, but the very slowness
and heaviness of it made me shake. I stood up while Lone
Angler balanced the canoe.
This fish ran
off five hundred feet and stayed out there. If he had not
splashed and thumped on the surface I would have been
certain I had fouled my line-an accident that causes loss
of so many bonefish. But this fellow hung out there and
jerked his head. I could not move him an inch. I pulled
until I heard the rod crack and the line sing. If he
started another run I knew it would be
good-by.
By dint of
risky and hard pulling, I got his head turned and he
began the famous circle performed by this gamefish. As he
swam round the boat I pumped and reeled as hard as I
dared, gradually working him closer, so that on the first
circle I had him within a hundred feet. I strained my
eyes to see him, but could not. But I began to be afraid
I had a larger bonefish than I had ever hooked before.
This meant nothing but disaster.
Lone Angler's
amazement and enthusiasm inspired me, and gave me as many
thrills as the fish. I had a good bamboo rod and
ninethread line, yet I could not do much with this
bonefish. Suddenly he boiled the water and started off
again, inshore. I saw a blackish checkered form. He hit
the little mounds of coral marl, making muddy patches in
the water. Then finding it too shallow, he sheered off
for the open sea. His run grew harder and longer than the
first, though no swifter. I gave him up. I had a sinking
sensation in my stomach. Would I never stop one of these
big fellows?
"Stop him or
lose him!" shouted Wilborn, excitedly. "You can't risk
all that line."
"I'm not
risking line. He's taking it," I retorted. Yet I did shut
down on the reel and burned a blister on my thumb. The
line held and he turned at right angles, beginning a
wide, sweeping circle that slowly narrowed its radius. I
got him perhaps seventy feet from the canoe, and from
that point he began a tugging, sullen fight to tear loose
the hook. He did not make any more long runs.
Still not sure
of the size of this fish, I handled him with more hurry
and force than I should have used. But I was a long time
in whipping him, and when at last I caught a glimpse of
him I nearly fell out of the canoe. From that instant I
handled him with ridiculous delicacy, much to Lone
Angler's amusement.
I could not
keep the bonefish from circling in close to the canoe and
the anchors. He was too heavy to lead. I had to hold
tight and let him swim. He came to within ten feet of us
and then circled. In two feet of crystal clear water he
looked as long as the canoe to me. And he was thick,
round, heavy. He was covered with mud. His black eyes
appeared sharp, staring, wild. I stood in the center of
the canoe and moved my rod round with him. Wilborn had
pulled up one anchor. But there was the other and I could
not risk reaching for it or letting him pass me in the
canoe. I should have stepped out into the water and led
the bonefish ashore, but I never thought of
that.
He must have
circled us at least twenty times before he showed signs
of weariness. I lifted him carefully, but every time
Wilborn leaned out with the net he plunged and went
down.
This part of
the battle, with the fish in plain sight, and the risks
so great, made me as weak as if I had been fighting a
swordfish. I knew he was the biggest one I had ever
gotten close to capture. It would not have been such a
strain if I had not been able to see him so clearly. He
rolled over. He stuck his big head out of the water and
gaped. He gave the line sullen heavy jerks. But he grew
slower and slower, and after what seemed an interminable
time of stress, I lifted him high enough for Wilborn to
slip the net under him.
When he lay in
the canoe, gasping, a gleaming silver and opal, with
lavender tinted fins and tail, a most beautiful creature
of the sea, and so long and thick that I could scarcely
believe my eyes, I almost succumbed and let him go
free.
But that night
at the camp he weighed ten pounds, two ounces, and was
the Long Key record. The way I condescended to tell Lucky
Stickem how to catch bonefish, and the way I tortured
poor Fishermanz, who had been yearning to catch such a
bonefish for 25 years, was a shameful thing. But such
fun! After all, anglers are the most simple-minded of
men. I could scarcely realize my good fortune, and I was
scared stiff for fear someone would beat my record, yet I
strutted around nonchalantly and sympathized with the
fellows who did not know how to fish.
One day I
fished alone, and had both good and bad luck, as I caught
three small bonefish and lost several large
ones.
As I was going
down the walk toward the lodge, Mrs. Wilborn appeared
suddenly from behind a thick clump of palms. She looked
vastly important. My heart began to sink. But her smile
saved one from awful conclusions.
"They've put up
a job on you," she whispered. "Play up to it
now!"
Then she
vanished. I plodded along pondering this subtle hint.
Job! What could it be? Play up to it now! That meant
clearly I must be game to meet some situation.
When I turned
the corner of the walk to face the gang on the lodge
porch, I was greeted by a lusty yell and many calls, from
which I gathered that catastrophe had befallen
me.
Wilborn came
off the porch to meet me. He wore his old bright smile
and his eyes were keen. Too keen! I caught a twinkle that
I might have missed but for his good wife's bidding me be
prepared. I was reminded of his tricks when we played on
the varsity in college.
The sly fox!
But I gave no sign. I was as innocent as he affected to
be.
"Hard luck,
Chief," he said, with his hand going to my shoulder.
"Your record's broken. Fishermanz has trimmed you! Go in
and see!"
Right there I
blessed Mrs. Wilborn for having intuition to understand
my sensitive feelings. For even with the assurance of a
monstrous deceit to be perpetrated upon me I experienced
an inward quaking.
"Is that so?"
And I stepped into the lodge.
Upon a large
platter lay what seemed the most wonderful bonefish I had
ever seen. I got up on a chair so to see the better. And
I looked down. It took all my willpower to concentrate
upon Mrs. Wilborn's hint. She must have meant that this
bonefish did not truly beat my record though the brigade
had made it appear so.
