Off Bermuda the chum line is a sparkling, wavering path in the dark-blue water, streaming astern of the anchored cruiser, appearing more like a trail of sequins than simply handfuls of tiny baitfish scattered from the transom.
Farther down and invisible to the anglers is another line of chum, released from a weighted chum basket in the depths, and all moving with the tide, carefully appraised by the captain, who has chosen his spot with care and fathometer.
Bermuda is a low mound on the horizon, its buildings visible as white specks when the light is right. At early morning the sportfisherman had left the harbor where the white sand bottom made the water green and where the channels showed plainly as darker strips. Bright flowers splotched the hills that hemmed the anchorage and the sputter of Bermuda's little motorbikes was finally drowned by the diesel's mutter. On the way out there were rock cliffs and the cruiser slid confidently between underwent boulders, some of them almost awash in the troughs of inshore swells. The hazards were brown and ominous by day and in some of those areas the boats would not move at night.
The offshore chum is a sort of party line of the depths and almost anything can appear in it. There may be small fish to flash at the slowly sinking particles that extend steadily from their apex, and there may be larger fish who seek not so much the chum itself as the fish that come to take it, and just how far the sight and odors of his offering may extend, not even the captain knows. He probes a great swatch of ocean.
There is almost a picket fence of rods in the cockpit--light spinning tackle, fly rods, and heavier stuff to match anything that appears, for the chum fisherman is an opportunist.
The robins arrive, small hurrying fish that dart into view as a compact school and then become scattered as each fish takes its own direction for a particular tidbit, and fishermen cast small lures, flies, or baits at them, each angler jokingly proclaiming his skills as a fish catcher. The robins leave except for half a dozen that have been caught and will be turned into chum for something bigger.
Then someone's rod dips more urgently and the first blackfin tuna is on although he has not been visible in the chum. Staring hard down into the sea a visiting fisherman is more than ever aware of what swims unseen below the glittering baitfish, and while the tuna fighter calls for a rod belt someone else has hooked something heavy and slow moving down there.
Not all of the visitors are welcome. There is the barracuda which appears well astern, an ominous, cigar-shaped shadow several feet long and moving in and out of the line to disappear with an apprehensive promise by the mate that he would be back. When he does come back it is with a rush and someone's yellowtail snapper is reduced to nothing more than a hooked head, but there is special tackle rigged for the "barrie" and when he finally loses all caution to chase a huge bait along the transom he is impaled on a big gaff before he has so much as touched his objective. Then the fishing goes on.
Yellowfin tuna are prizes of this fishing--hard-charging fish which sometimes hang hungrily in groups and are hooked on both bait and artificials, their colorful beauty enhanced by the sea's dark-blue background and the flowing distortion of the ever-moving surface.
And I have to admire the wahoo especially. Perhaps it is the knowledge that he is a traveler, that he goes at great speed and crosses more ocean than any sedentary bottom dweller. Partly it is his appearance, streamlined and striped, and undoubtedly it is his habit of appearing in a sweep of inspection to disappear for some time and to come by again with the impression that he has gone a long way and seen many things in the few minutes since his last visit.
There was one that appeared, first as a suspicious shopper sliding effortlessly through the chum far back, and then as a businesslike feeder, fairly deep but easily seen, turning swiftly in constant motion and then disappearing completely for several minutes.
Then he came back, barely beneath the surface, this time ignoring the boat and the ogling fishermen to cross and recross the chum, and I somehow put a bait where he wanted it and heard the line hiss as he made his circling run, suddenly much farther out than I could believe. Then I stumbled toward the bow with the rod clutched awkwardly as I climbed past the outriggers and reached for handholds to keep him from fouling the anchor line, which he did anyway, although we somehow landed him despite my inept fumbling.
But the part I remember best is the little mound of Bermuda on the horizon, the glittering jewels of chum in the gentle blue-black swells, and the lean wahoo appearing from nowhere, tiger-striped and seeming to have slowed only briefly from his endless travels of the Atlantic.
This story originally appeared in The Part I Remember by Charles F. Waterman.
Copyright (c) 1974 by Charles F. Waterman. All rights reserved.
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