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Updated: August 21, 2024
At least I had a remarkably keen appreciation of the defeats in store for any man who aspired to experience with that marvel of the sea Xiphius gladius, the broadbill swordsman. On the first morning of my fourth summer, 1917, I was up at five. Fine, cool, fresh, soft dawn with a pale pink sunrise. Sea rippling with an easterly breeze. As the sun rose it grew bright and warm.
One of those inexplicably blank days that are inevitable in sea angling. When we got to the dock we made a discovery. There was a kink in my leader about one inch above the hook. Nothing but the sword of old Xiphius gladius could have made that kink! Then I remembered a strange, quick, hard jerk that had taken my bait, and which I thought had been done by a shark.
The "swordfish" of our own tongue, the "zwardfis" of the Hollander, the Italian "sofia" and "pesce-spada," the Spanish "espada" and "espadarte," varied by "pez do spada" in Cuba, and the French "espadon," "dard," and "epee de mer," are simply variations of one theme, repetitions of the "gladius" of ancient Italy and "xiphius," the name by which Aristotle, the father of zoology, called the same fish twenty-three hundred years ago.
They are a warm-water fish, and probably head off the Japan current into some warm, intersecting branch that leads to spawning-banks. This was happy knowledge for me, because it will be good to know that when old Xiphius gladius is driven from Catalina waters he will be roaming some other place of the Seven Seas, his great sickle fins shining dark against the blue.
He had shaken the hook. I reeled in. Bait gone! He had doubled on me and run as swiftly toward the boat as he had at first run from it. The hook had not caught well. Probably he had just held the bait between his jaws. The disappointment was exceedingly bitter and poignant. My respect for Xiphius increased in proportion to my sense of lost opportunity. This great fish thinks!
But by seamen in the Pacific, he is more commonly known as the Bill fish; while for those who love science and hard names, be it known, that among the erudite naturalists he goeth by the outlandish appellation of "Xiphius Platypterus." But I waive for my hero all these his cognomens, and substitute a much better one of my own: namely, the Chevalier. And a Chevalier he is, by good right and title.
It was handed to him and he plunged that into the fish. Then I let down my rod and dove for the short rope to lasso the sweeping tail. Fortunately he kept quiet a moment in which I got the loop fast. It was then Xiphius gladius really woke up. He began a tremendous beating with his tail. Both gaff ropes began to loosen, and the rope on his tail flew out of my hands. Dan got it in time.
I found the hook just in the corner of his mouth, which fact accounted for the long battle. Doctor Riggin, the University of Pennsylvania anatomist, and classmate of mine, dissected this fish for me. Two of the most remarkable features about Xiphius gladius were his heart and eye. The heart was situated deep in just back of the gills.
We circled old Xiphius, and when about fifty yards distant he lifted himself clear out a most terrifying and magnificent fish. He would have weighed four hundred. His colors shone blazed purple blue, pale green, iridescent copper, and flaming silver. Then he made a long, low lunge away from us. I bade him good-by, but let the barracuda drift back.
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