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"Tighten up," said Kilian, "or he'll take all your line."
The bank manager locked the muscles of his biceps and tightened the clutch
still further. The tip of the rod went down and down until it was level with
his eyes. The running line slowed, recovered, and went on running. Kilian bent
to look at the clutch. The marks on the inner and outer ring were almost
opposite each other.
"That buggers pulling eighty pounds," he said. "You'll have to tighten up
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some more."
Murgatroyd's arm was beginning to ache and his fin-
gers were stiffening round the cork grip. He turned the clutch control until
the twin marks were exactly opposite each other.
"No more," said Kilian. "That's a hundred pounds. The imit. Use both hands on
the rod and hang on.'
With relief Murgatroyd brought his other hand to the rod, gripped hard with
both, paced the soles of his plimsoles against the transom, braced his thighs
and calves and leaned back. Nothing happened. The butt of the rod was
vertical between his thighs, the tip pointing straight at the wake. And the
line kept on running out, slowy, steadily. The reserve on the drum was
diminishing before his eyes.
"Christ," said Kilian, "he's big. He's pulling a hundred plus, like tissues
from a box. Hang on, man."
His South African accent was becoming more pro nounced in his excitement.
Murgatroyd braced his legs again, locked his fingers, wrists, forearms and
biceps, hunched his shoulders, bent his head and hung on. No one had ever
asked him to hold a 100-pound pull before. After three minutes the reel finaly
stopped turning. Whatever it was down there, it had taken 600 yards of line.
"We'd better get you in the harness," said Kilian. One arm after the other he
slipped the webbing over Murgatroyd's shoulders. Two more straps went round
the waist and another broader one up from between the thighs. All five locked
into a central socket on the bely. Kilian pulled the harness tight. It gave
some relief to the legs, but the webbing bit through the cotton tennis shirt
in front of the shoulders. For the first time Murgatroyd realized how hot the
sun was out here. The tops of his bare thighs began to prick.
Old Patient had turned round, steering one-handed. He
had watched the line running out from the start. Without warning he just
said, "Marlin."
"You're lucky," said Kilian. "It seems you've hooked into a marlin."
"Is that good?' asked Higgins, who had gone pale.
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"It's the king of all the game fish," said Kilian. "Rich men come down here
year after year and spend thousands on the sport, and never get a marlin. But
he'll fight you, like you've never seen anything fight in your life."
Although the line had stopped running out and the fish was swimming with the
boat, he had not stopped pulling. The rod tip still arched down to the wake.
The fish was still pulling between 70 and 90 pounds.
The four men watched in silence as Murgatroyd hung on. For five minutes he
clung to the rod as the sweat burst from forehead and cheeks, running down in
drops to his chin Slowly the rod tip rose as the fish increased speed to ease
the pull at his mouth. Kilian crouched beside Murgatroyd and began to coach
him like a flying instructor to a pupil before his first solo flight
"Reel in now, he said, "slowly and surely. Reduce the clutch strain to eighty
pounds, for your sake not his. When he makes a break, and he will, let him go
and tighten the clutch back to a hundred. Never try to reel in while hes
fighting; hel break your line like cotton. And if he runs towards the boat,
reel in like mad. Never give him sack line; he'll try to spit out the hook."
Murgatroyd did as he was bid. He managed to reel in
50 yards before the fish made a break. When it did the force nearly tore the
rod from the man's grasp. Murgatroyd just had time to swing his other hand to
the grip and hold on with both arms. The fish took another 100 yards of line
before he stopped his run and began to follow the boat again.
"He's taken six-fifty yards so far," said Kilian. "You've only got eight
hundred."
"So what do I do?" asked Murgatroyd between his teeth. The rod slackened and
he began winding again.
"Pray," said Kilian. "You can't hold him over a hundred-pound pull. So if he
reaches the end of the line on the drum, he'll just break it."
"It's getting very hot" said Murgatroyd.
Kilian looked at his shorts and shirt. "You'll fry out here," he said. "Wait
a minute."
He took off the trousers of his own track suit and slipped them over
Murgatroyd's
legs, one at a time. Then he pulled them up as far as he could. The webbing
harness prevented them reaching Murgatroyd's waist, but at least the thighs
and shins were covered. The relief from the sun was immediate. Kilian took a
spare long-sleeved sweater from the cabin. It smelt of sweat and fish.
"I'm going to slip this over your head," he told Murgatroyd, "but the only
way to get it farther is to undo the harness for a few seconds. Just hope the
marlin doesn't break in those seconds."
They were lucky. Kilian slipped off the two shoulder straps and pulled the
sweater down to Murgatroyd's waist, then reclipped the shoulder straps. The
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