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Title: Tales of the Angler's Eldorado: New Zealand
Author: Zane Grey
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0608281h.html
Language: English
Date first posted: Nov 2006
Most recent update: Dec 2014
This eBook was produced by Colin Choat and updated by Roy Glashan.
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<p align="center"><b>GO TO <a href="http://gutenberg.net.au"
target="_blank">Project Gutenberg Australia</a> HOME PAGE</b></p>
<hr>
<h1><small>Tales of</small><br>
The Angler's Eldorado,<br>
New Zealand</h1>
<h4>by</h4>
<h2>Zane Grey</h2>
<div align="center">
<img src="0608281h-images/TheAnglersEldorado-PGA.jpg"
title="The Angler's Eldorado, PGA Edition, 2014"
alt="Cover">
<p class="caption">RGL e-Book Cover 2014<sup>©</sup></p>
</div>
<h3>Published by Harper & Brothers, New York, 1926<br>
This e-book edition: Project Gutenberg Australia, 2014</h3>
<hr>
<br>
<div align="center">
<img src="0608281h-images/TheAnglersEldorado-C2.jpg"
title="Tales Of The Angler's El Dorado"
alt="Cover">
<p class="caption">"Tales of the Angler's El Dorado," Harper &
Brothers, New York, 1926</p>
</div>
<hr>
<br>
<h3 style="page-break-before:always">TABLE OF CONTENTS</h3>
<div class="smcap">
<ul style="margin-left:25%; font-size:1em">
<li><a href="#ch1">Chapter I.</a> The Voyage to New Zealand, 1925</li>
<li><a href="#ch2">Chapter II.</a> Island Stopover</li>
<li><a href="#ch3">Chapter III.</a> Destination: Bay of Islands—the
Angler's Eldorado</li>
<li><a href="#ch4">Chapter IV.</a> Hunting the Big Game Fish</li>
<li><a href="#ch5">Chapter V.</a> Bounty from the Sea</li>
<li><a href="#ch6">Chapter VI.</a> The Lure of the Great Striped
Marlin</li>
<li><a href="#ch7">Chapter VII.</a> A World-Record Fish and the Fight
with a Broadbill</li>
<li><a href="#ch8">Chapter VIII.</a> Monster from the Deep</li>
<li><a href="#ch9">Chapter IX.</a> Good Luck After Bad</li>
<li><a href="#ch10">Chapter X.</a> The Poor Knights and Sunken Reef</li>
</ul>
</div>
<hr>
<br>
<div align="center">
<img src="0608281h-images/TheAnglersEldorado-C3.jpg"
title="Tales Of The Angler's El Dorado"
alt="Cover">
<p class="caption">"Tales of the Angler's El Dorado," Wilson & Horton,
Auckland, undated facimile reprint</p>
</div>
<hr>
<br>
<h2><a id="ch1"
name="ch1"></a>I. — THE VOYAGE TO NEW ZEALAND, 1925</h2>
<p class="first">THERE is always something wonderful about a new fishing
adventure trip—for a single day, or for a week, or for months. The
enchantment never palls. For years on end I have been trying to tell why, but
that has been futile. Fishing is like Jason's quest for the Golden
Fleece.</p>
<p>The most humble fisherman has this in common with fishermen of all
degrees. Whatever it is that haunts and enchants surely grows with
experience. Even the thousandth trip to the same old familiar fished-out
stream begins with renewed hope, with unfailing faith. Quien sabe? as the
Spaniards say. You cannot tell what you might catch. And even if you do not
catch anything the joy somehow is there. The child is father to the man.
Saturdays and vacation times call everlastingly to the boy. The pond, the
stream, the river, the lake and the sea. Something evermore is about to
happen. Every fishing trip is a composite of all other trips, and it holds
irresistible promise for the future. That cup cannot be drained. There are
always greater fish than you have caught; always the lure of greater task and
achievement; always the inspiration to seek, to endure, to find always the
beauty of the lonely stream and open sea; always he glory and dream of
nature.</p>
<p>When I fished under the stark lava slopes of the Galapagos and in the
amethyst waters around Cocos Island and around the White Friars I imagined
each was the epitome of angling, that I could never adventure higher and
farther. But in this same year, 1925, when we shot the wild rapids of the
Rogue River and cast our flies where none save Indians had ever fished, the
same elusive and beautiful thing beckoned like a will-o'-the-wisp. It is in
the heart.</p>
<p>On December thirtieth, when Captain Laurie Mitchell and I stood on the
deck of the Royal Mail S.S. Makura, steaming out through the Golden Gate
bound for the Antipodes to seek new waters, the same potent charm pervaded my
being. There was a Lorelei calling from the South Seas; there was a siren
bell ringing from the abysmal deep.</p>
<p>San Francisco Bay at that hour was a far cry from the turquoise-blue water
of the tropics. A steely sun made pale bright light upon the ruffled bay;
gray fog shrouded the dome of Mt. Tamalpais; from the northwest a cold wind
drove down on the bare brown hills to whip the muddy water into a choppy sea.
The broken horizon line of the beautiful city of hills shone dark against the
sky. A flock of screaming gulls sailed and swooped about the stern of the
vessel.</p>
<p>A big French freighter kept abreast of the Makura through the Golden Gate,
then turned north, while we headed to the southwest. The Royal Mail ship
Makura was no leviathan, but she certainly was a greyhound of the sea. In
less than an hour I saw the mountains fade into the fog. That last glimpse of
California had to suffice me for a long time. We ran into a heavy-ridged sea,
cold and dark, with sullen whitecaps breaking. I walked the decks, watching
as always, until the sky became overspread with dark clouds, and a chill wind
drove me inside.</p>
<p>That night after dinner I went out again. The sky was dark, the sea black,
except for the pale upheavals of billows which gleamed through the obscurity.
The ship was rushing on, now with a graceful, slow forward dip and then with
a long rise. She was very steady. Great swells crashed against her bows and
heaved back into the black gulfs. There was a continuous roar of chafing
waters. An old familiar dread of the ocean mounted in me again. What a mighty
force! It was a cold, wintry almost invisible sea, not conducive to the
thrill and joy of the angler. It was a northern sea, gusty, turbulent, with
rough swells. I leaned over the rail in the darkness, trying to understand
its meaning, its mood, trying to be true to the love I bore it in tranquil
moments.</p>
<p>Next morning when I went out the decks were wet, the sky gray, except low
down in the east where rays of sunlight slipped through to brighten the cold
gray buffeting sea.</p>
<p>I noted several sea birds following in the wake of the ship. They were new
to me. Dark in color, marvelously built, with small compact bodies, sharp as
a bullet, and with long narrow wings, they appeared to have been created for
perfect control of the air. They sailed aloft and swooped down, skimmed the
foamy crests, rode abreast of the rough seas, and dipped into the hollows,
all apparently without slightest effort of wing. I did not see them flap a
wing once. This is a common habit of many sea birds, especially the
shearwaters, but I had never before seen it performed so swiftly and
wonderfully. These birds had a wing spread of three feet, and must have
belonged to the shearwater family. Lonely wanderers of the barren waste of
waters!</p>
<p>Morning and afternoon swiftly passed, the hours flying with the speed of
the Makura over the waves. Toward sunset, which was only a dim ruddy glow
behind the fog banks, the chill wind, the darkening sea, the black somber
fading light all predicted storm. The last daylight hours of the last day of
1925 were melancholy and drear. I was reminded of November back in
Lackawaxen, Pennsylvania, where so often I heard the autumn winds wail under
the eaves, and the rain pelt the roof—mournful prelude to winter.</p>
<p>This rough sea was like that of the north, where off the rugged shores of
Puget Sound the contending tides are raw and bold. The winter twilight
quickly merged into the blanket of night. Then out there in the opaque
blackness the sea roared by the ship, tremendous and inscrutable, with
nothing to inspire love, with everything to confound the soul of man. What
was the old year to the sea, or the new year soon to dawn with its imagined
promise, its bright face, its unquenchable hope? Nevertheless, the thought
that overbalanced this depression was of the magic isles of the South Seas,
set like mosaics in the eternal summer blue, and the haunting Antipodes,
seven thousand miles down the lanes of the Pacific.</p>
<p>All morning of the the third day out the Makura sped on over a lumpy
leaden sea, mirroring the gray of the sky. How tenaciously the drab shadow of
winter clung to us! Yet there had come some degree of warmth, and on the
afternoon of this day the cold wind departed. When the sunlight strayed
through the fog, it gave the sea its first tinge of blue; but the sun shone
only fitfully. There was no life on the sea, and apparently none in it.
Neither bird nor fish showed to long-practised eyes. I wondered about this.
We were hundreds of miles offshore, out of the track of the schools of
sardines and anchovies that birds and fish prey upon. Still there should have
been some manifestation of life. How vast the ocean! Were its spaces and
depths utterly barren? That was hard to believe.</p>
<p>Sunset that night was rose and gold, a gorgeous color thrown upon a thin
webbed mass of mackerel cloud that for long held its radiance. It seemed to
be a promise of summer weather. Sunrise next morning likewise was a blazing
belt of gold. But these rich colorings were ephemeral and deceiving. The sky
grew dark and gray. From all points masses of cumulous clouds rose above the
horizon, at last to unite in a canopy of leaden tones. A wind arose and the
sea with it. The air still had an edge.</p>
<p>All day the Makura raced over a magnificent sea of long swells rising to
white breaking crests. The ship had a slow careen, to and fro, from side to
side, making it difficult to walk erect and steadily. The turbulent mass of
water was almost black. Its loneliness was as manifest as when calm. No sail!
No smoke from steamer down beyond the horizon! No sign of fish or bird! I
seemed to have been long on board. The immensity of the sea began to be
oppressive. That day and the next we drove on over a gray squally expanse of
waters.</p>
<p>The time came when I saw my first flying fish of the trip. It was an
event. He appeared to be a tiny little fellow, steely in color, scarcely
larger than a humming bird. But for me he meant life on the ocean. Thereafter
while on deck I kept watch. We had sunshine for a few hours and then the
warmth became evident. The sea was a raging buffeting rolling plain of dark
blue and seething white. We were a thousand miles and more off the coast,
where I felt sure the wind always blew. We were in the track of the trade
winds.</p>
<p>On the sixth day the air became humid. We had reached the zone of summer.
Every mile now would carry us toward the tropics.</p>
<p>I saw some porpoises, small yellow ones, active in flight. They were a
proof of fish, for porpoises seldom roam far away from their food supply. I
wondered if they preyed upon the tiny flying fish. Swift as the porpoise is,
I doubt that he could catch them. As we sped south I noted more and more
schools of flying fish, rising in a cloud, like silvery swallows. Presently I
espied one that appeared larger, with reddish wings. This was a surprise, and
I thought I had made a mistake as I had not a really good look at it. Not
long afterward, however, I saw another, quite close, and made certain of the
red wings. Then soon following I espied three more of the same species. They
certainly could sail and glide and dart over the rough water.</p>
<p>We ran into a squall. Rain and spray wet my face as I paced the deck. Out
ahead the gray pall was like a bank of fog. The sea became rougher. Our
wireless brought news of a hurricane raging over the South Seas, centering
around the Samoan Islands, where tidal waves had caused much damage. What had
become of the tranquil Pacific? Late that afternoon we ran out of the squalls
into a less-disturbed sea.</p>
<p>Captain Mitchell met two widely-traveled Englishmen on board, brothers, by
name Radmore. They came from the same part of England where Captain Mitchell
was born; and it must have been pleasant, as well as poignant, for him to
talk with them. He introduced them to me, and I found them exceedingly
interesting, as I have found so many Englishmen. I did not need to be told
that they had been in the war.</p>
<p>I was particularly interested in their voyage to New Zealand, which was
for the same purpose as ours—the wonderful possibilities of adventure,
especially fishing, to be had in the Antipodes. The elder Radmore had been
often to New Zealand, and in fact he knew Australasia, and island seas to the
north. He was a big-game hunter, having had some extensive hunts in Burma,
India, the Malay Peninsula and British East Africa. He said game of all kinds
had increased enormously during and since the war, especially in Africa.
Tigers were abundant in Burma and seldom hunted. What the fishing
possibilities might be in the waters adjacent to these places he had no idea.
No sportsman had ever tried them. I conceived an impression of magnificent
unknown virgin seas, so far as fish was concerned. What a splendid thrill
that gave me!</p>
<p>Radmore told me many things, two of which I must chronicle here. The pearl
fishing off the New Guinea coast: it was new pearl country, comparatively. In
fact, New Guinea is still one of the little-known islands. Next to Australia
it is the largest in the world, and it has many leagues of unexplored coast
line. Radmore told me that at one time rare pearls could be cheaply procured
from the natives, who had not yet become aware of their value. A can of
peaches bought a $16,000 pearl! The Radmores, coming into San Pedro on the
S.S. Manchuria, had their attention called to my schooner Fisherman anchored
in the bay. They said if they had that ship they would surely go to New
Guinea.</p>
<p>On a voyage from New Zealand to England, round the Horn, Radmore had seen
a remarkable battle between a sperm whale, or cachalot, and two great orcas.
This conflict had taken place in smooth water close to a reef along which the
ship was skirting. The whale was on the surface, apparently unable to sound,
and he beat the water terrifically with his enormous flukes. The sound was
exceedingly loud and continuous, almost resembling thunder. The orcas threw
their huge white-and-black bodies high into the air, and plunged down upon
the back of the whale. They hit with a sudden crash. The cachalot threshed
with his mighty tail, trying to strike them, but they eluded it. The
commotion in the water seemed incredible. This battle continued as long as
the watchers could see with the naked eye, and then with glasses. The
captain, who had sailed that route for forty years, said that was the third
fight of the kind he had seen.</p>
<p>Radmore was certain the whale was a cachalot, or sperm. Personally, I
incline to the opinion that it was some other kind of whale. Andrews and
other authorities on whales claim that the whale-killers and orcas let the
cachalot severely alone. He is more than a match for them. Armed with a
terrible set of teeth and a head one-third the length of his ninety-foot
body, the cachalot would appear to be impervious to attacks from sea
creatures. On the other hand, other whales are helpless before the onslaught
of these wolves of the sea. They become almost paralyzed with fright, and
make little attempt to escape their foes. This is the naturalistic opinion on
the subject, and I incline to it, although I admit a possibility of unusual
cases. The wonderful thing about the narrative for me was to think of seeing
such a battle and photographing it.</p>
<p>On the morning of January sixth before daybreak we crossed the equator. I
went out on deck before sunrise. Sea and sky were radiant with a pearly
effulgence. There were no reds, purples or golds. White and silver, gray and
pearl predominated, which colors intensified as the sun came up, giving a
beautiful effect. All around the horizon the trade-wind clouds rode like
sails. They had the same ship-like shape, the same level bottoms and round
windblown feathery margins as the trade-wind clouds above the Gulf Stream
between Cuba and the Keys but not the color! Sunrise off the Keys of Florida
is a glorious burst of crimson and gold that flames sky and sea.</p>
<p>We were now in the southern hemisphere, and I felt that it would be
interesting for me to note the slow march of the sun to the north. On the
equator the sun always sets at six o'clock. So far the voyage had been
remarkably free of glaring white sunlight. This day when we crossed the
equator we had alternately bright sunlight and soft gray-shaded sky.</p>
<p>Sometimes the ships of the Union Line pass within sight of the high peaks
of the Marquesan Islands. I could not but feel what marvelous good fortune
for me that it should be my lot. As it turned out, however, we did not pass
close enough to the Marquesans to see them. I had to satisfy myself with the
thrilling fact that somewhere short of a hundred miles beyond the horizon lay
these gem-isles of the Pacific, alone amid the splendid solitude of this
purple sea.</p>
<p>The night we entered the Tuamotu Archipelago, or Low Islands, I had a
striking sight of the planet Venus, so extraordinarily beautiful and
incredibly bright in that latitude. The great star was exceedingly brilliant,
yet not white; it had color, almost a gold or red, and left a shining track
over the waters almost like that of the moon. Sometimes it seemed like a huge
lantern hung close to the ship; again it retreated to the very rim of the
world. Then how swiftly it went down into the sea! Another phenomenon I had
noted lately was the singularly swift sunset, and the extreme brevity of
light afterward.</p>
<p>There are two kinds of islands in the South Pacific, the low and the high.
The former consist of atolls with their circular ridge of white sand above
the coral, fringed with cocoanut palms; and the latter, mountains of volcanic
origin, are characterized by high peaks densely overgrown with tropical
verdure. The Paumotus are a vast aggregation of low islands, or atolls,
sprinkled all over a great range of water. Yachts are forbidden to adventure
in this perilous archipelago. The charts cannot be trusted, the currents are
treacherous, the winds more contrary than anywhere else on the globe. Yet the
course of the S.S. Makura ran straight through the archipelago. Probably many
atolls were passed close at hand, wholly invisible from the deck; and it was
only at the latter part of the long run through, that the course came
anywhere near the clustered islands that gave the place its name.</p>
<hr>
<h2><a id="ch2"
name="ch2"></a>II. — ISLAND STOPOVER</h2>
<p class="first">MY first and long-yearned-for sight of an atoll came about
midafternoon on January eighth. I saw with naked eyes what most passengers
were using marine glasses to distinguish. It was a low fringe of
cocoanut-palm trees rising out of the blue sea. What a singular first
impression I had! Instantly it seemed I was fishing off the Florida Keys,
along the edge of the Gulf Stream, and that I knew my location exactly
because I could still see the cocoanut palms of Long Key. I found myself
saying, "They are about six miles in, unless these Pacific cocoanuts are much
higher trees than those of the Atlantic."</p>
<p>This islet, or atoll, was the first of many of the Tuamotu Archipelago
that were soon to rise gradually out of the heaving blue floor of the ocean.
They appeared like green growths on a Hindu magician's carpet. Most were
small with just a few trees fringing the sky line; but some were long and
large, with thick groves of cocoanut palms. It was impossible, of course, to
distinguish these atolls from the Keys of the Florida Peninsula or the islets
of the Caribbean Sea. The great beauty of an atoll cannot be seen from afar.
The ring of coral sand rising just above the sea, the ring of cocoanuts round
it, the ring of turquoise-blue water inside, the ever-framed lagoon, blue as
the sky, serene and tranquil, with its sands of gold and pearl, its myriads
of colored fish, the tremendous thundering of the surf outside—these
wonderful features could not be appreciated from the ship.</p>
<p>I went up on the third deck where I could see the strips of white beach
and the bright-green band of palms. These Paumotus surely called with all the
mystery and glory of the South Pacific; but our ship passed swiftly on her
way and soon night blotted out sight of the fascinating atolls.</p>
<p>Next morning I was up before dawn. The ship was moving very slowly. I
could scarcely hear any sound of swirling waters. I went out on deck in the
dim opaque gloom of a South Pacific dawn. The air was fresh, cool, balmy,
laden with a scent of land. On the starboard side I saw a black mountain,
rising sharp with ragged peaks. This island was Moorea, the first of the
Society group.</p>
<p>Soon dead ahead appeared the strange irregular form of Tahiti. It made a
marvelous spectacle, with the rose of the east kindling low down in a notch
between two peaks. Tahiti was high. I watched the day come and the sun rise
over this famous island, and it was indescribable. We went through a gateway
in the barrier reef, where the swells curled and roared, and on into the
harbor to the French port, Papeete.</p>
<p>Seen from the deck of a vessel Papeete was beautiful, green and luxurious,
with its colored roofs, its blossoming trees, its schooners and other South
Sea craft moored along the shore. The rise of the island, however, its ridged
slopes of emerald green and amber red, its patches of palms, its purple
canyons streaked with white waterfalls, its ragged, notched, bold peaks
crowned with snowy clouds—these made a spectator forget that Papeete
nestled at its base.</p>
<p>I spent a full day in this world-famed South Sea Island port, the French
Papeete. It was long enough for me! Despite all I had read I had arrived
there free of impressions, with eager receptive mind. I did not wonder that
Robert Louis Stevenson went to the South Seas a romancer and became a
militant moralist. It was not fair, however, to judge other places through
contact with Papeete.</p>
<p>The French have long been noted for the careless and slovenly way in which
they govern provinces. Papeete is a good example. There is no restriction
against the Chinese, who appeared to predominate in business. Papeete is also
the eddying point for all the riffraff of the South Seas. The beach comber,
always a romantic if pathetic figure in my memory, through the South Sea
stories I have read, became by actual contact somewhat disconcerting to me,
and wholly disgusting. Perhaps I did not see any of the noble ruins.</p>
<p>Every store I entered in Papeete was run by a crafty-eyed little Chinaman.
I heard that the Chinese merchants had all the money. It was no wonder. I saw
very few French people. I met one kindly-looking priest. All the whites who
fell under my gaze seemed to me to be sadly out of place there. They were
thin, in most cases pale and unhealthy-looking. It was plain to me that the
Creator did not intend white men to live on South Sea Islands. If he had he
would have made the pigment of their skins capable of resisting the sun.</p>
<p>This was the early summer for Tahiti. It was hot. New York at 99 degrees
in the shade, or Needles, California, at 115 degrees, would give some idea of
heat at Papeete. It was a moist, sticky, oppressive, enervating heat that
soon prostrated. I always could stand hot weather, and I managed to get
around under this. But many of the ship passengers suffered, and by five
o'clock that evening were absolutely exhausted.</p>
<p>What amazed me was the fact that this heat did not prevent the drinking of
liquor. Champagne and other beverages were exceedingly cheap at Papeete. I
found out long ago that a great many people who think they travel to see and
learn really travel to eat and drink, and the close of this day on shore at
Papeete provided a melancholy example of the fact. If I saw one bottle of
liquor come aboard the S.S. Makura I saw a hundred. Besides such openly
avowed bottles, there were cases and cases packed up in the companionway for
delivery.</p>
<p>Captain Mitchell, Mr. Radmore and I visited the hotel or resort made
famous mostly through Mr. O'Briens book, White Shadows of the South Seas.
Luxurious growths of green and wonderfully fragrant flowers surrounded this
little low house of many verandas; but that was about all I could see
attractive there. It appeared different classes of drinkers had different
rooms in which to imbibe. Of those I passed, some approached what in America
we would call a dive. It is all in the way people look at a thing. The
licentiousness of women and the availability of wine rank high in the
properties of renown.</p>
<p>The Tahitian women presented an agreeable surprise to me. From all the
exotic photographs I had seen I had not been favorably impressed. But
photographs do not do justice to Tahitian women. I saw hundreds of them, and
except in a few cases, noticeably the dancers, who in fact were faked to
impress the tourists, they were modestly dressed and graceful in appearance.
They were strong, well built though not voluptuous, rather light-skinned and
not at all suggesting negroid blood. They presented a new race to me. They
had large melting melancholy eyes. They wore their hair in braids down their
backs, like American schoolgirls of long ago when something of America still
survived in our girls. These Tahitians had light-brown, sometimes nut-brown
and chestnut hair, rich and thick and beautiful. What a delight to see! What
pleasure to walk behind one of these barefooted and free-stepping maidens
just for the innocent happiness of gazing at her wonderful braid! No scrawny
shaved bristled necks, such as the flappers exhibit now, to man's bewildered
disgust; no erotic and abnormal signs of wanting to resemble a male! Goodness
only knows why so-called civilized white women of modern times want to look
like men, but so it seems they do. If they could see the backs of the heads
of these Tahitian girls and their long graceful braids of hair, that even a
fool of a man could tell made very little trouble, and was so exquisitely
feminine and beautiful, they might have a moment of illumined mind.</p>
<p>The scene at the dock as the S.S. Makura swung off was one I shall not
soon forget. Much of Papeete was there, except, most significantly, the
Chinese. No doubt they were busily counting the enormous number of French
francs they had amassed during the day. The watchers in the background were
quiet and orderly, and among these were French ladies who were bidding
friends farewell, and other white people whose presence made me divine they
were there merely to watch a ship depart for far shores. A ship they longed
to be aboard. I could read it in their eyes.</p>
<p>In the foreground, however, were many Tahitian women and some half caste,
with the loud-mouthed roustabouts who were raving at the drunken louts on
board the ship. It was not a pretty sight. Near me on the rail sat an
inebriated youth, decorated with flowers, waving a champagne bottle at those
below. I did not see any friendliness in the uplifted dark eyes. This was
only another ship going on down to the sea; and I thought most of those on
board were held in contempt by those on land.</p>
<p>I did not leave Papeete, however, without most agreeable and beautiful
impressions. Outside of the town there were the simplicity and beauty of the
native habitations and the sweetness of the naked little Tahitians disporting
on the beach. There were the magnificence of the verdure, foliage and flowers
and the heavy atmosphere languorous with fragrance. There were the splendour
of the surf breaking on the reef seen through the stately cocoanut palms, the
burn of the sun and the delicious cool of the shade. There were the utter and
ever-growing strangeness of the island and the unknown perceptions that were
gradually building up an impression of the vastness of the South Sea. There
were the splendor of Nature in her most lavish moods and the unsolvable
mystery of human life.</p>
<p>I saw many old Tahitian men who I imagined had eaten human flesh, "long
pig", as they called it in their day. The record seemed written in their
great strange eyes.</p>
<p>Birds and fish were almost negligible at Tahiti. For all the gazing that I
put in I saw only a few small needle fish. Not a shark, not a line, not a
break or swirl on the surface! There were no gulls, no sea birds of any kind,
and I missed them very much. I saw several small birds about the size of
robins, rather drab-colored with white on their wings, black heads and yellow
beaks. They were tame and had a musical note.</p>
<p>On the next day out from Papeete we saw steamship smoke on the horizon. It
grew into the funnel of a ship, then the hull, and at last the bulk of the
sister ship of the Makura, the Tahiti. She passed us perhaps five miles away,
a noble sight, and especially fascinating because she was the only traveling
craft on our horizon throughout the voyage.</p>
<p>A little after daybreak on the following morning I was awakened by the
steward, who said Rarotonga was in sight. From a distance this island
appeared to be a cone-shaped green mass rising to several high sharp-toothed
peaks. Near at hand, in the glory of the sunrise, it looked like a beautiful
mountain, verdant and colorful, rising out of a violet sea. I noted the
extremely sharp serrated ridges rising to the peaks, all thickly covered with
tropic verdure. The island appeared to be surrounded by a barrier reef,
against which the heaving sea burst into white breakers.</p>
<p>Schools of flying fish, darting like swarms of silver bees, flew from
before our bows. That was a promising sight, for usually where there are
schools of small fish the great game fish will be found. Here, as at Tahiti,
there was a marked absence of birds.</p>
<p>After Papeete, the weather was delightfully cool. The Makura anchored
outside the reef, half a mile from shore, and small launches with
canoe-shaped lighters carried cargo and passengers through a narrow gate in
the reef to the docks.</p>
<p>Rarotonga was under English control, and certainly presented an inspiring
contrast to the decadent and vitiated Papeete. At once we were struck with
the cleanliness of streets and wharfs, and the happy, care-free demeanor of
the natives. They looked prosperous, and we were to learn that they all owned
their bit of cocoanut grove and were independent. We drove around the island,
a matter of twenty miles more or less. The road was level and shady all the
way, with the violet white-wreathed sea showing through the cocoanut trees on
one side and the wonderful sharp peaks rising above the forest on the
other.</p>
<p>There were places as near paradise as it has been my good fortune to see.
Flowers were as abundant as in a conservatory, with red and white blossoms
prevailing. Children ran from every quarter to meet us, decorated with
wreaths and crowns of flowers, and waving great bunches of the glorious
bloom. They were bright-eyed merry children, sincere in their welcome to the
visitors. Some of the native houses were set in open glades, where
wide-spreading, fern-leaved trees blazing with crimson blossoms were grouped
about the green shady lawns. The glamour of the beautiful colors was
irresistible. The rich thick amber light of June in some parts of the United
States had always seemed to me to be unsurpassable; but compared with the
gold-white and rose-pink lights of Rarotonga it grew pale and dull in memory.
The air was warm, fragrant, languorous. It seemed to come from eternal
summer. Everywhere sounded the wash of the surf of the reef. You could never
forget the haunting presence of the ocean.</p>
<p>After our trip round the island we spent a couple of hours on the beach
with the natives. This was in the center of the town. A continual stream of
natives strolled and rode by. Their colored garments added to the picturesque
attraction of the place. On the reef just outside could be seen the bones of
a schooner sticking from the surface; and farther out the ironwork of a huge
ship that had been wrecked there years ago. They seemed grim reminders of the
remorselessness of the azure sea. The atmosphere of the hour was one of
sylvan summer, the gentle and pleasant warmth of the South Seas, the idle,
happy tranquillity of a place favored by the gods; but only a step out showed
the naked white teeth of the coral reef, and beyond that the inscrutable and
changeful sea.</p>
<p>We bought from the natives until our limited stock of English money ran
out. Then we were at the pains of seeing the very best of the pearls,
baskets, bead necklaces and hatbands, fans and feathers, exhibited for our
edification. These natives found their tongues after a while and talked in
English very well indeed. What a happy contrast from the melancholy
shadow-faced Tahitians!</p>
<p>It was interesting to learn that liquor is prohibited at Rarotonga. If any
evidence were needed in favor of prohibition, here it was in the beautiful
healthy wholesome life on Rarotonga. Indeed, everyone appeared charmed with
the beauty, color, simplicity and happiness of this island. "By Jove!
Rarotonga is just what I wanted a South Sea Island to be!" was the felicitous
way Mr. Radmore put it. Absolutely this charm would grow on one. It might not
do to spend a long time at Rarotonga. But I decided that some day I would
risk coming for a month or two. We learned that at certain seasons fish were
plentiful, especially the giant swordfish. Among the other islands of the
Cook group was one over a hundred miles from Rarotonga, rarely visited by
whites, and said to be exquisitely beautiful and wonderful.</p>
<p>One of the passengers who boarded the Makura at Rarotonga was Dr. Lambert,
head of the Rockefeller Foundation in the South seas. He was an exceedingly
interesting man to meet. He had been eight years in the islands, and knew the
native life as well as anyone living. He called Papeete an uncovered brothel;
and indeed had no good word for any of the French islands. It was of no use,
he claimed, to try to interest the French in improvements; and therefore he
had not been able to let the Tahitians and Marquesans benefit by the splendid
work being done by the foundation.</p>
<p>Dr. Lambert clarified many obscure points in my mind. He was a keen close
student, and he had been everywhere. Those writers who had recorded the havoc
done by syphilis had simply been wrong. There is little or no syphilis in the
South Seas. The disease, haws by name, has been mistaken for syphilis, but it
is not a venereal disease.</p>
<p>Drink introduced by the traders has always been the curse. In those
islands like Rarotonga where the sale and trading of drink have been
prohibited the natives have recovered their former happy and prosperous
estate. Immorality among the young people remains about the same as it always
has been, but the natives do not regard such relation as anything to be
ashamed of. It is simple, natural, and has ever been so. The married woman,
however, is usually virtuous.</p>
<p>On Tuesday, January thirteenth, we crossed the 180th meridian, and
somewhere along there we were to drop a day, lose it entirely out of the
week! I imagine that day should have been Tuesday, but the steamship company,
no doubt for reasons of its own, made Saturday the day. How queer to go to
bed Friday night and wake up Sunday morning! Where would the Saturday have
flown? I resolved to put it down to the mysteries of latitude and
longitude.</p>
<p>There was another thing quite as strange, yet wholly visible, and that was
the retreat of the sun toward the north; imperceptibly at first, but surely.
I saw the sun rise north of east and set north of west. As the Makura rushed
tirelessly on her way, this northward trend of the sun became more
noticeable. It quite changed my world; turned me upside down. How infinitely
vast and appalling seem the earth and the sea! Yet they are but dots in the
universe. Verily a traveler sees much to make him think.</p>
<hr>
<h2><a id="ch3"
name="ch3"></a>III. — DESTINATION: BAY OF ISLANDS—<br>
THE ANGLER'S ELDORADO</h2>
<p class="first">THERE were two pearl traders on the Makura who had boarded
the ship at Rarotonga. One of them, Drury Low, had not been off his
particular island for fifteen years. He was a strange low-voiced new type of
man to me. I think he was Scotch. He lived at Aitutaki Island, one of the
Cook group, said to be the loveliest island in the South Seas. His
companion's name was McCloud. They gave me information concerning a great
game fish around Aitutaki Island. They excited my curiosity to such extent
that I got out photographs of yellow-fin tuna, broadbill swordfish, Marlin
swordfish, and sailfish. To my amazement these men identified each, and
assured me positively that these species were common in the Cook Islands.
They also described to me what must be a sawfish, native to these waters. The
yellow-fin tuna was called varu in the Cook Islands, walu in the Fijis, and
grew to large size. Low saw one caught recently weighing one hundred and six
pounds, and knew of others over a hundred. These were caught on hand-lines,
trolling outside the reef. Recently a large one was hooked, and bitten in two
by a shark. The smaller part that was hauled in weighed over two hundred.</p>
<p>The traders told of a Marlin being caught on a hand-line. It was a leaping
fish, and over nine feet in length. McCloud then told of the capture of a
sixteen-foot sail-fish, on a heavy hand-line. It took half a day to subdue
this fish. A sixteen-foot sailfish, if at all heavy-bodied, would weigh at
least five hundred, most likely more. I saw a picture of a fish that closely
resembled the wahoo. They called it a kingfish.</p>
<p>To establish the fact of these great game fish in the South Seas was
something of paramount importance to me, and the cause of much speculation.
What might it not lead to? How incalculably are our lives influenced by
apparently little things!</p>
<p>Never shall I forget my first absolutely certain sight of an albatross. it
was on the afternoon of January fifteenth about two o'clock. I heard some one
speaking of a wonderful bird following the ship, so I at once ran out.
Wonderful bird? How futile are words! When I saw this sea bird of Ancient
Mariner fame I just gasped, "Oh! Grand!" But then I have an unusual love for
birds.</p>
<p>The albatross had a white body and brown wings that spread ten feet from
tip to tip. They were a lighter color underneath. The breast, back and head
were pure white; the body appeared to be as large as that of a goose; the
head had something of an eagle shape, seen at such a distance. From head to
tail there was a slight bow, sometimes seen in sea gulls. But it was the wing
spread, the vast bow-shaped, marvelous wings that so fascinated me. I had
watched condors, eagles, vultures, falcons, hawks, kites, frigate birds,
terns, boobies, all the great performers of the air, but I doubted that I had
ever seen the equal of the albatross. What sailing! What a swoop! What
splendid poise and ease, and then incredible speed! The albatross would drop
back a mile from the ship, and then all in a moment, it seemed, he had caught
up again. I watched him through my glass. I devoured him. I yearned to see
him close. How free, how glorious! I wondered if that bird had a soul such as
Coleridge would endow him with. If dogs were almost human in their
understanding of men, why could not wild birds have something as unusual? The
albatross had always haunted me, inspired me, filled me with awe,
reverence.</p>
<p>Late in the afternoon I espied another albatross, or at least one that on
nearer view looked different. I climbed to the top deck and went aft to the
stern rail, where I had an hour of delight in watching him from an
unobstructed vantage point. The markings differed enough to convince me it
might be another albatross. The body was flecked with brown, the neck ringed
with the same color; the head like that of a frigate bird, only very much
larger; the bill yellow, long and hooked. There was a dark marking on the
white tail; the backs of the wings were dark brown, almost black, and the
under side cream white except for black tips. He surely was a beautiful and
majestic bird, lord of the sea. Where he swooped down from a height, he
turned on his side so that one wing tip skimmed the waves and the other stood
straight up. He sailed perpendicularly. He was ponderous, graceful, swift. A
few motions of the wide wings sent him sailing, careening, swooping. He
appeared tireless, as if the air was his native element, as no doubt it is,
more than the sea. Once he alighted like a feather, keeping his large wings
up, as if not to wet them. When he launched himself again it was to run on
the water, like a shearwater, until he had acquired momentum enough to keep
him up. Then he lifted himself clear.</p>
<p>Sunday morning at ten, January seventeenth, I sighted land. New Zealand!
High pale cliffs rising to dark mountain ranges in the background swept along
the western horizon as far as I could see.</p>
<p>While watching an albatross I was tremendously thrilled by the sight of an
amazingly large broadbill swordfish. He was not over three hundred yards from
the ship. His sickle fins stood up strikingly high, with the old rakish saber
shape so wonderful to the sea angler. Tail and dorsal fins were fully ten
feet apart. He was a monster. I yelled in my enthusiasm, and then ran for
Captain Mitchell. But on my return I could not locate the fins. The fish had
sounded or gone out of sight.</p>
<p>This was about fifteen miles offshore; and it was an event of importance.
Swordfish do not travel alone.</p>
<p>Wellington, our port of debarkation, was a red-roofed city on hills
surrounding a splendid bay. It had for me a distinctly foreign look,
different from any city I had ever seen before; a clean, cold, tidy look,
severe and substantial. From Wellington to Auckland was a long ride of
fifteen hours, twelve of which were daylight. The country we traversed had
been cut and burned over, and reminded me of the lumbered districts of
Washington and Oregon. One snow-capped mountain, Tongariro, surrounded at the
base by thick, green forests, was really superb; and the active cone-shaped
volcano, Ngauruhoe, held my gaze as long as I could see it. A thick column of
white and yellow steam or smoke rose from the crater and rolled away with the
clouds.</p>
<p>Auckland appeared to be a more pretentious city than the capital; and it
likewise was built upon hills. It is New Zealand's hub of industry. From
Auckland to Russell was another long day's ride, over partly devastated
country and part sylvan, which sustains well the sheep and cattle of the
stations thereabout. Farms and villages were numerous. The names of the
latter were for me unpronounceable and unrememberable. They were all Maori
names. At Opua, the terminus of the railroad, we took a boat for Russell. We
were soon among picturesque islands above which the green mountains showed
against the sky.</p>
<p>Russell turned out to be a beautiful little hamlet, the oldest in the
island, and one with which were connected many historical events. The bay
resembled that of Avalon, having a crescent-shaped beach and a line of quaint
white houses. It is a summer resort, and children and bobbed-haired girls
were much in evidence. The advent of the Z.G. outfit was apparently one of
moment, to judge from the youngsters. They were disappointed in me, however,
for they frankly confessed they had expected to see me in sombrero, chaps,
spurs and guns. Young ladies of the village, too, were disappointed, for they
had shared with people all over the world the illusion that the author Zane
Grey was a woman. I found there in the stores, as at Wellington and Auckland,
the English editions of my books.</p>
<p>Alma Baker, the English sportsman, arrived that night with his family,
from Sydney, Australia. There were a number of Auckland anglers at the hotel.
We were pleased to hear that several Marlin swordfish and two mako had
already been taken at Cape Brett. The paramount interest in my trip, of
course, was in the fishing; and I exhausted both anglers and boatmen with my
curiosity and enthusiasm. Tackle, fish, methods, boats—everything was
entirely new in all my experience. Salt-water angling was a development of
only a few years there, and had not progressed far. It was plain that their
rods, reels, etc., had been an evolution from the English salmon tackle. The
rods were either a native wood called tanekaha or split cane with a steel
center, and from seven to eight feet in length. The reels were mostly the
large single-action Nottingham style from England, and were mounted on the
under side of the rods. Guides and tips were huge affairs, and few and far
between. Leaders, or "traces", as they were called, were heavy braided wire,
twenty or thirty feet long, and the hooks were huge gangs, or three hooks in
a triangle. The swivels were disproportionately small. Up to the year 1925
the anglers had used rod belts, but lately had developed swivel chairs, with
a fixed rod seat. They used a short heavy gaff, which was hooked round the
tail of the fish, and if it was a shark he was harpooned in addition. The
harpoon was really a crude heavy tozzle, mounted on a four-foot club. One of
the New Zealand anglers brought out his tackle for our edification. Captain
Mitchell and I surely handled it with thoughtful curiosity. We had to admit
that these New Zealand anglers had performed some mighty achievements landing
three-, four- and five-hundred-pound fish on such rigs. It looked like most
of the energy exerted would be wasted.</p>
<p>Both anglers and boatmen explained their methods of fishing. They used
dead and live bait. Trolling had been attempted at times, and persistently by
some anglers, but it was never successful. Their best method appeared to be
drifting with tide or wind, with live bait sunk ten or fifteen fathoms. One
boatman told me he had caught twenty-four Marlin, three mako shark, and one
thresher shark, most of which had been foul hooked, during the season of
1925. It was my opinion that this circumstance could be laid to the
three-hook gang, and the drifting method. I was especially curious about this
drifting with bait down deep, which was something I had always wanted to try
on broadbill swordfish.</p>
<p>We were two days at Russell, part of which time was taken up by a severe
storm. When it cleared off the weather left nothing to be desired. Some one
showed me a picture of New Bedford whaling ships at anchor in the bay. In the
early days of whaling this place had been a favorite station for whalers,
sometimes as many as thirty ships being anchored in the bay. What fishing
days those must have been! Whaling had not entirely played out, and during
our stay at Russell there was a small whaling steamer there. The captain had
fished with the New Bedford and Nantucket whalers in those early days. He was
most interesting. The season of 1925, just ended, had netted him some
fifty-odd whales, mostly finbacks. What was of vastly more interest to me, he
told of seeing schools of large round bullet-shaped fish lying on the surface
offshore some fifteen or twenty miles. He said they had mackerel tails and
silver bellies. That sounded decidedly like tuna. We were keen to learn more,
but that was all the information available. The boatmen told of small tunny
taken off Cape Brett. One of the scientific booklets on New Zealand fish
mentioned long-fin albacore up to two hundred pounds caught by market
fishermen. These were undoubtedly the Allison tuna. We listened to numerous
stories about the hooking of great fish that never showed, and either broke
away or had to be cut off after hours of fighting. Altogether the experiences
and impressions of these anglers and boatmen proved the remarkable
possibilities of a new and undeveloped fishing resort. The boats reserved for
Captain Mitchell and me were quite different from any we had ever used. They
were close to forty feet in length, and eleven or twelve feet in beam. The
cockpits were deep; so deep that we had to build platforms upon which to
mount the fishing chairs we had brought from Avalon. It looked to us then
that we would have our troubles fighting fish from these wide cockpits. On
the other hand, the boats promised to be very seaworthy and comfortable. The
Marlin was the widest boat, with rather high deck, and I decided it would be
best for the motion-picture man and his equipment. The launch I was to use
had the name Alma G.</p>
<p>We had to get permission from the New Zealand government to take these
boats out of their district adjacent to Russell. The marine laws, and all
laws, for that matter, were very rigid. Colonel Allan Bell and the Minister
of Marine came to Russell to do all in their power to help make my visit to
New Zealand waters a success. The Minister, at the earnest solicitation of
Colonel Bell, finally agreed to allow us the privilege of taking our boats
anywhere, but declared he would not grant that permission again. We were
fortunate indeed.</p>
<p>Deep Water Cove Camp, about fifteen miles from Russell, was the rendezvous
where anglers stayed while fishing the waters adjacent to Cape Brett. It
accommodated ten or twelve anglers. I decided to follow my usual plan of
being independent of everyone and having a camp of my own. We had brought our
own tents, and we bought blankets. What wonderful blankets they were, and
cheap! I never saw their equal. We outfitted at Russell, and soon were ready
to start for Urupukapuka, an island belonging to Mr. Charles F. Baker, one of
the leading citizens of the town, and said to be the most beautiful of all
the hundred and more in the Bay of Islands.</p>
<p>As we ran down the bay, which afforded views of many of the islands, I
decided that if Urupukapuka turned out to be any more striking than some we
passed, it was indeed rarely beautiful. Such proved to be the case. It was
large, irregular, with a range of golden grassy hills fringed by dark-green
thickets and copses, indented by many coves, and surrounded by channels of
aquamarine water, so clear that the white sand shone through. We entered the
largest bay, one with a narrow opening protected by another island so that it
was almost completely landlocked. The beach of golden sand and colored sea
shells stretched in graceful crescent shape. A soft rippling surge washed the
strand, and multitudes of fish, some of them mullet, splashed and darkened
the shallow waters. The hills came down to enclose a level valley green with
grass and rushes, colorful with flags and reeds. A stream meandered across
the wide space. On the right side were groves of crimson-flowering trees, the
pohutukawa, in Maori. This tree was indeed magnificent, being thick, tall,
widespreading, with massy clumps of dark-green foliage tipped by crimson
blossoms. Beautiful as was this side of the bay, I decided to pitch camp on
the other.</p>
<p>The hillside there was covered with a wonderful growth of the tree ferns,
which plant has given New Zealand the name Fernland; a tall palmetto-like
tree which the men called cabbage trees; and lastly tall marvelous titrees.
These stood up above close-woven thickets of the same flora. The foliage was
very fine, lacy, dark green, somewhat resembling hemlock, and having a
fragrance that I can describe only as being somewhat like cedar and pine
mingled. How exquisitely strange and sweet! Trees and their beauty and
fragrance have always been dear to me. The hills back of the bay were mostly
bare, graceful, high, covered with long golden grass that waved in the
wind.</p>
<p>These were my first impressions of our camp site on Urupukapuka. How
inadequate they were! But first impressions always are lasting. These of mine
I gathered were to grow.</p>
<p>When Mr. Alma Baker arrived, he pitched his camp under the
crimson-flowered pohutukawas across from our place at the edge of the
titrees. We worked all day at this pleasant and never-wearying task of making
a habitation in wilderness. Never am I any happier than when so engaged. This
nomad life is in the blood of all of us, though many comfort-loving people do
not know it.</p>
<p>After dinner we climbed the high hill on our side. Fine-looking woolly
sheep baa-ed at us and trotted away. The summit was a grassy ridge, and
afforded a most extraordinary view of islands and channels and bays, the
mainland with its distant purple ranges, and the far blue band of the sea. It
was all wonderful, and its striking feature was the difference from any other
place I had ever seen. Seven thousand miles from California! What a long way
to come, to camp out and to fish, and to invite my soul in strange
environment! But it was worth the twenty-six days of continuous travel to get
there. I gathered that I would not at once be able to grasp the details which
made Urupukapuka such a contrast from other places I had seen. The very
strangeness eluded me. The low sound of surf had a different note. The sun
set in the wrong direction for me, because I could not grasp the points of
the compass. Nevertheless, I was not slow to appreciate the beauty of the
silver-edged clouds and the glory of golden blaze behind the purple ranges.
Faint streaks or rays of blue, fan-shaped spread to the zenith. Channels of
green water meandered everywhere, and islands on all sides took on the hues
of the changing sunset.</p>
<p>I was too tired to walk farther, so I sat down on the grassy hill, and
watched and listened and felt. I saw several sailing hawks, some white gulls,