Amagansett

‘No problem,’ he replied, tearing his eyes away from her feet.

They could just as well have been Lillian’s.

The only experienced fisherman among the party was the gentleman who proved to be the father of the brunette. The older men called him Marshal; Manfred Wallace and Justin Penrose addressed him as ‘Senator’; to his daughter he was just plain ‘Pappy’.

The Senator had come armed with his own rod, its reel as big as a dinner plate, and he had every intention of telling the others how things were done. Depositing himself in one of the fighting chairs, his instructions were clearly secondary to the real purpose of the exercise: that of discussing his past exploits. For him, ‘the one that got away’ was a six-hundred-pound bluefin he’d hooked off the Outer Banks of North Carolina, an excellent winter tuna fishery known to few, he claimed.

‘I was in the chair for an hour before the first mate took over. When he folded, I put in another half-hour. That monster never tired, not once, kept running back and forth beneath the boat. We could have been there till nightfall and still not brought it to gaff. Yes, she earned her freedom, that one,’ he conceded magnanimously, through gritted teeth.

As the stories ran on, the others hanging on his every word, it was becoming increasingly clear that the trip had been organized primarily for the Senator’s benefit.

And that, thought Conrad, presented an opportunity for a bit of sport.

They were five miles south of Block Island when the order came down from the flying bridge to start trolling. Rollo took a couple of menhaden from the live well. They hooked the fish up to the lines and trailed them over the teakwood transom into the wake.

Chase slowed the Zephyr to six or seven knots. At this speed, the tuna would take the live baits for the real thing. Not that getting bluefin to strike was the problem. What you did with them once they had was the name of the game.

It had already been decided that Justin Penrose’s father should take the first turn in the other chair beside the Senator.

Conrad adjusted the drag on Penrose’s reel.

‘If you get a hit, don’t do anything. The skipper will throttle up to set the hook. I’ll talk you through it from there.’ He started strapping him into the harness.

‘Is that necessary?’ asked Penrose senior.

‘Never know what’s out there.’

‘You wouldn’t be the first to go over the side, Everett,’ chuckled the Senator.

‘That’s the truth,’ called Chase from the bridge. ‘Ask old Eric Doucette, he’ll tell you. If you can find him. No one’s seen him since.’

Penrose shifted nervously in his chair. ‘What happened?’

‘Worked a commercial boat out of Old Harbor on Block Island. Experienced bluefin man. Been fishing ‘em since ever, them Nova Scotians. Hooked a large giant out there in the mud hole, just last year it was. Anyhow, he fights it to the boat and it’s laying there in the water, dead as mutton, or so he thinks. He’s wiring it up when that fish comes to life, takes off straight down. Only thing is, Doucette’s got the wire looped round his arm. Gone in a flash. Straight over the side. Still down there probably, cruising around. Who knows, maybe it dropped him off back in Nova Scotia.’

‘That’s terrible,’ said Gayle Wallace.

‘That’s bluefin for you, don’t want to mess with ‘em.’

Chase was right. For sheer brutish power and endurance the bluefin had no equals among the big-game fish. For all their leaps and fancy acrobatics, marlin and sailfish tired quickly, and it was often said that once you’d hooked a giant bluefin nothing else would do.

Conrad rested a reassuring hand on Penrose’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be okay. Just keep the rod butt in the gimbal and your hands away from the reel.’

He turned his attention to the Senator, whose eyes were fixed on his bait some thirty yards astern of the boat.

‘What line are you carrying?’ asked Conrad.

‘Hundred pound.’

‘Won’t be much fun if we hit some thirty-pound schoolies.’

‘A fish is a fish,’ said the Senator.

Asshole, thought Conrad.

‘What’s the record this year in these waters?’ asked the Senator.

‘Cap, what’s the record this year?’ called Conrad to the bridge.

‘Seven hundred and thirty-six pounds,’ came back the reply.

‘Sweet Jesus.’

‘Pappy!’

‘A third of a ton,’ muttered the Senator. More than enough to put the demon of that giant North Carolina bluefin to rest. He adjusted himself in his chair and waited.

And waited.

Half an hour later they were still trolling back and forth on the offshore grounds, the only consolation being that none of the other boats they could see appeared to be hooked up.

The girls had lost interest by now and had retreated to the shade where they were chatting and flipping through magazines. The men, all five of them, were smoking cigars and talking about Yale. Rollo had climbed to the