and food chains as any man living but when it came to catching them,
Nick observed drily, he could probably do a better job as a blacksmith.
Tom Parker was no fisherman either. He ran down the shoal, charging
Tricky Dicky through the centre of it, scattering birds and fish in
panic - but by sheer chance one of the gang in the stern hooked in, and
after a great deal of heaving and huffing and shouted encouragement from
his peers, dragged a single luckless baby blue-fill tuna over the rail.
It skittered and jumped around the deck, its tail hammering against the
planking, pursued by a shrieking band of scientists who slid and slipped
in the fish slime, knocked each other down and finally cornered the fish
against the rail. The first three attempts to affix the plastic tag
were unsuccessful, Hank's lunges with the dart pole becoming wilder as
his frustration mounted. He almost succeeded in tagging Samantha's
raised backside as she knelt on the deck trying to cradle the fish in
both arms.
You do this often? Nicholas asked mildly.
First time with this gang/ Tom Parker admitted sheepishly. 'Thought
you'd never guess. By now the triumphant band was solicitously
returning the fish to the sea, the barbed dart of the plastic tag
embedded dangerously near its vitals; and if that didn't eventually kill
it, the rough handling probably would. It had pounded its head on the
deck so heavily that blood oozed from the gill covers, It floated away,
belly up on the stream oblivious of Samantha's anguished cries of: Swim,
fish, get in there and swim! Mind if we try it my way? Nick asked, and
Tom relinquished command without a struggle.
Nicholas picked the four strongest and best coordinated of the young
men, and gave them a quick demonstration and lecture on how to handle
the heavy handlines with the Japanese feather lures, showing them how to
throw the bait, and the recovery with an underhand flick that recoiled
the line between the feet. Then he gave each a station along the
starboard rail, with the second remember of each team ready with a
tagging pole and Hank Petersen on the roof of the wheel-house to record
the fish taken and the numbers of the tags.
They found another shoal within the hour and Nicholas circled up on it,
closing steadily at good trolling speed, helping the feeding tuna bunch
the shoal of frenzied anchovy on the surface, until he could lock Tricky
Dicky's wheel hard down starboard and leave her to describe her own
sedate circles around the shoal. Then he hurried out on to the deck.
The trapped and surrounded fish thrashed the surface until it boiled
like a porridge of molten, flashing silver; through it drove the fast
dark torpedoes of the hungry tuna.
Within minutes Nick had his four fishermen working to the steady rhythm
of throwing the lures into the frothing water, almost instantly striking
back on the line as a tuna snatched the feathers, and then swinging hand
over head, recovering and coiling line fast with minimum effort,
swinging the fish out and up with both hands and then catching its
streamlined body under the left armpit like a quarter back picking up a
long pass, clamping it there firmly, although the cold firm silver
bullet shape juddered and quivered and the tail beat in a blur of
