End of the Tiger Read Online Free PDF Page A

chair. He waited the proper time until the line straightened and then hit, much too hard. But it didn’t do any harm because he wasn’t hitting against the fish. The sail was waiting longer than usual.
    Instinctively I reached down over Wolta’s shoulder and released the drag so the spool would run free, allowing the bait to remain dead on the water.
    Wolta pushed my hand away hard, saying in a tight voice, “Catch your own fish, Doc.”
    It was a comedy of errors. The fish took the bait, and then Wolta tried to hit it with the drag off and without his thumb on the spool. The spool whined and the line snarled. Pedro came running and grasped the line ahead of the rod and yanked hard three times, setting the hook. The fish went high. It was one fine sail. I guessed it as close to ninety pounds. The world’s record is 106 pounds off Miami in 1929. Pedro managed to click the drag back on and ripped at the snarled line while the sail jumped wildly, lashing, fighting.
    With the snarl gone, the fish hit the end of the slack with a jar that made Wolta grunt and yanked his arms straight, yanked the rod tip down. When the fish jumped again, Wolta horsed it so hard that he spun the sail in the air.
    I yelled at him, “You’ll bust the line!”
    He worked with a tight hard grin on his face. The sail took line on him, but took it with the full drag and withWolta’s hard thumb on the spool. I don’t know why the line didn’t break. It would test at 96 pounds.
    I’ll say this for Wolta. He was a powerful man. Cords like cables stood out on his brown forearms as he horsed the fish toward the boat. Pedro began to look worried. Even boating a tired fish is rugged work. Last year, just as a man reached for the bill, the fish took one more leap, freeing himself of the gaff. The bill entered the brain of the sailor through his left eye. And Pedro saw himself trying to boat a fish that still had a lot of fight left.
    Pedro worked the boat, turning it perfectly, keeping it so that Wolta had free play of the fish. The fish made short hard savage lunges close to the boat. Pedro left the wheel, handled the gaff himself, sunk it neatly. The fish gave a convulsive heave that nearly lifted Pedro over the side. The sailor went half over the rail, grasped the bill with his gloved hand, and slammed the fish twice behind the eyes. Pedro heaved it aboard.
    The fish lay there. Reflex muscles made it quiver. Wolta grabbed the club from the sailor and hit it again. It was an understandable thing to do. But the way he did it, the way the club smashed against the hard flesh, revealed something savage and soul-naked about the man. Pedro looked disgusted.
    Wolta turned to me and said, “I got it in spite of you. Next time keep your damn hands off my rod and reel, mister.”
    I said, “Wake up, Wolta. If I hadn’t thrown off the drag, you wouldn’t even have a fish. He didn’t have the bait when you hit him. I let the bait free so that it stayed back there. You kept me from putting the drag back on. That’s why your line snarled.”
    He smiled at me. His pale eyes still held anger. “If you say so, expert. Anyway, this one will outweigh yours.” He kicked the dead fish. I didn’t like that, and neither did Pedro. A sail is an honorable opponent, a brave fish, a gentleman of the sea. Even dead he isn’t to be kicked.
    “It probably will,” I said.
    We had the two flags up for the two sails. I took Wolta’s place while he went inside to have another beer. I had noticed that his thumb was raw where he had pressed it against the escaping line.
    Jimmy Gerran dropped his bait back into the water. Wolta hollered out, “Both the
men
have got a fish, kid. Now let’s see if you can lose another one.” He laughed hugely. Jimmy smiled weakly. I smiled not at all.
    We fished without result for over an hour and then we ate. Even without another strike, it would have been a good day. But I was pulling for Jimmy to latch onto one. And I had a hunch that