The international photographer (Jan-Dec 1941)

water pump. The nets are thrown back on the bank top and the men bait the hooks and fish again. The first eight days on the banks were ' overcast, but hot or cold, we shot the ; scenes, hoping that when and if it cleared up we could reshoot. The men said that when it did clear, it would be windy and that meant rough seas. It cleared up the : day of the full moon which brought more wind. Huge combers came over the bow and rails, but that didn't keep the men from fishing. They caught seventeen tons, working sometimes shoulder high in the swells. That day, we had to shoot from the bridge deck, camera lashed and tied down, and used the hand camera, wrapping myself around a stanchion to keep from going overboard. The fish kept coming aboard, huge oneand two-polers, some of them weighing as much as a hundred and fifty pounds. No wonder these men looked like the "after" part of a physical culture ad. Ten-twelvefourteen hours at a stretch, constantly pulling in huge tuna, almost as big as they are, poles bent almost double, every muscle straining, a foot braced against the rack then the water broken by a whopper, not high in the air th;s time, but pulled in over his chest, lying almost on his back. Even then, he gives the hook a flick and it slithers in among the rest of the fish on deck, free. To vary the monotony, they sometimes swing in the smaller fish (thirty pounders), grasp them against their ribs, release the hook, and throw it in board by the gills. We had been going hard at it all day. I noticed an increasing list. The racks are on the port side and the stern, so fish pile up on one side. A big swell came by and almost washed a couple of men overboard. They saved themselves by dropping their poles and grabbing the rail. They shouted to the old man to release the water in the forward bait tank to compensate for the added weight of the fish. In the excitement he had forgotten to. He yelled at me: "Mike, you open the valve!" "Where is it?" said I. "Down in the corner! " The corner was five feet deep in fish. Carl and I threw fish to the starboard side till I thought they had grown legs and walked back to haunt us. There the valve was — nine inches from the deck. I gave it a twirl, and as the twenty tons of water left the tank, the boat rose. Have I mentioned that on these boats, everyone works? At intervals, I'd see Pete, the engineer, leave the racks and go below to squirt some oil on the engine or ice machine, then Carlo, the cook, would lay off fishing long enough to go into the galley and throw something together. Then, munching a Dagwood sandwich, climb back into the racks. Carlo was an individualist. You liked what he cooked, or else. Fortunately, he was an excellent one, and took a great deal of pride in it. He had just returned from his honeymoon and there was a lot of horseplay. He'd drop a skillet or half-pared potato to chase someone around the deck. One day, sitting on the hatch in deep thought playing mumble-peg with a huge bread knife, one of the other boys came by and cautioned him that the knife might slip and go overboard. Carlo looked at the fellow, looked at the knife, then heaved it over-side into the ocean. When he ran out of bait, we would head for Magdalena Bay, eleven hours sailing. While on the way in, the fish had to be iced, this after a twelve-hour day in the racks fishing. The men would change into dry clothes, then go below to chop the ice, and begin stacking the day's catch. Every fish had to be placed belly down, head to tail, then when a layer was completed, covered with six inches of crushed ice. Four or five hours of this and the boys would come out all blue around the edges. At whatever hour the boat arrived in the bay, the search for bait would begin, all lights doused, cruising at half speed, back and forth. Suddenly, a huge phosphorescence would bloom on the surface, sardines chasing anchovies, mackerel chasing sardines and sharks chasing the mackerel — a vicious circle — us, chasing the whole works. The net would go out over the stern, the circling back to the dory, then the haul in, all done in the dark. Luminous blobs falling from the net and the hands of the men. Then, the sack in, the flood lights turned on and one could see the catch, churning, and not just bait, but skates, small poisonous water snakes, sharks, and small squid, the last a delicacy which the men enjoyed — bv immediately flicking the heads off and swallowing them. The surplus after the net is cleaned, is thrown into a bucket and later French-fried. I at last found something I couldn't eat. I looked down at those squid on the galley table and they looked back at me. Bait tanks full again, we started out past Man-O-War Cove, past Sail Rock and headed southeast. The men climbed into their bunks. Another twenty-two hour day. For three days, we were lost, knowing only that we were off the Mexican coast. The fathometer, as we cruised back and forth, showed bottom only at 1800 to 2000 fathoms. The banks have a depth of from 65 to 150 fathoms and are the peaks of undersea mountains. The morning of the third day, up as usual at five, trying to figure out some closeups or inserts. I got bored and went into the pilot house to talk to the man at the wheel. Sitting on the piled gear, I took a photometer out of my pocket to make myself more comfortable, and put it next to the compass and waited hopefully for the boat to find the bank. Back and forth, up and down, for hours on the lookout for signs of tuna, or at least, signs of the rest of the fleet. The monotony unbroken; looks in everyone's eyes that you see on a set when poor actors are delivering poor lines. The old man would go to the chart rack, pull out a chart, measure it with the parallel ruler and a piece of scratched piano wire. All sailing was by dead reckoning. The Captain would put away the chart, look out the window, go up on the bridge, mutter to himself, talk to the helmsman and wave his arms and point overside. All in Italian. This went on all morning, and part of the afternoon. Around three, the Captain called to me. I went over to the pilot house door. The old man pointed at the compass, then picked up my photometer. The compass card promptly swung over forty-five degrees. The meter had acted like a magnet. The Captain had been going nuts. The Northwest wind had been coming from the west. The sun was setting in the southwest instead of the west. On a hunch, the fathometer was started. As it warmed up with the needle circling the face, it started to repeat the buzz of the returning echo: "90 — 90 — 90". We were directly over the bank. By steering a wrong course, we had located it after three days trying. An hour later, we saw tuna and fished until dark. Not taking chance on losing the bank again, we anchored all night. The next day, the sea was covered with schools of fish. We had just completed a background shot and had reloaded and were about to cover the camera, when one of the men hooked a swordfish. What a fight! No letting it run as we would with a reel. . . . The length of leader was the limit of play. It was either hold on or let the pole go. The huge fish would leap out of the water, then dive, almost pulling the fisherman overboard. The other men in the racks stopped fishing to help. One would help hold onto the pole — another would grab a belt as the was about to be pulled over. Finally the monster, seeing it wasn't going to get away, charged at the racks. The men leaped back over the rail, the swordfisher having presence of mind to hold onto the pole. A fellow ran forward, got a shotgun and returning, took a bead on the fish. The fish, half into the racks, was lashing side to side with its sword. When it stopped for a second, the fellow shot it behind the eye. It shivered all over, then was hauled aboard. All this time, the camera was grinding away and we got what is probably the only clo^eup shots of a swordfish attacking men in the fishing racks. Not to be satisfied, about ten minutes later another swordfish was hooked. That one fought for almost a minute and a half, but this time, the man with the gun, trying to shoot it, neatly severad the leader with the charge. And away it went. These shots, and all the others, appear in the current Wallace Beery picture, "Barnacle Bill." That evening, after icing the fish, we started homeward with a capacity load. Four days into the wind and heavy seas. Past Cape San Lazaro, on past Point San Eugenio and Cedros Islands, across Sebastian, Viscaino Bay. And finally, at dawn, into the harbor of San Diego. International Photographer for October, 1941