Free American Angler in Australia (1937) by Zane Grey Page A

seized him and leaped clear of the water with him, before making off.
    Such incidents should make a shark-killer out of any angler.
    Before I reached Sydney I had caught a number of man-eaters, notably som e whalers, an unknown white shark, and some of those sleek, treacherou s devils, the gray nurse, believed by many to be Australia's most deadl y shark. I had had enough experience to awaken in me all the primitiv e savagery to kill which lay hidden in me, and I fear it was a very grea t deal. The justification, however, inhibits any possible thought of mercy.
    Nevertheless, despite all the above, I think gaffing sharks is the mos t thrilling method, and the one that gives the man-eater, terrible as h e is, a chance for his life. If you shoot a shark or throw a Norway whal e harpoon through him, the battle is ended. On the other hand, if by toi l and endurance, by pain and skill, you drag a great shark up to the boat , so that your boatman can reach the wire leader and pull him close to tr y and gaff him, the battle by no means is ended. You may have to repea t this performance time and again; and sometimes your fish gets away, afte r all. Because of that climax I contend that all anglers should graduat e to the use of the gaff. Perhaps really the very keenest, fiercest thril l is to let your boatman haul in on the leader and you gaff the monster.
    Thoreau wrote that the most satisfying thing was to strangle and kill a wild beast with your naked hands!
    It was only a short run by boat round the South Head to the line of clif f along which we trolled for bait. The water was deep and blue. Slow swell s heaved against the rocks and burst into white spray and flowed back int o the sea like waterfalls. A remarkable feature was the huge flat ledges o r aprons that jutted out at the base of the walls, over which the swell s poured in roaring torrent, to spend their force on the stone face an d slide back in glistening maelstrom. Dr. Stead assures me this apron is a n indication of very recent elevation of the coast. The Gap was pointed ou t to me where a ship struck years ago on a black stormy night, to go dow n with all of the hundreds on board, except one man who was lifted to a rock and, crawling up, clung there to be rescued. Suicide Leap wa s another interesting point where scores of people had gone to their doom , for reasons no one can ever fathom. The wooden ladders fastene d precariously on the cliff, down to the ledges where fishing was good , these that had been the death of so many fishermen, held a singula r gloomy fascination for me.
    Trolling for bait was so good that I did not have so much time fo r sight-seeing. Bonito and kingfish bit voraciously and we soon had plent y of bait. We ran out to sea dragging teasers and bonito in the wake of th e Avalon, and I settled down to that peculiar happiness of watching the se a for signs of fish. Hours just fade away unnoticeably at such pastime. I n the afternoon we ran in to the reefs and drifted for sharks.
    I derived a great deal of pleasure from watching the ships that passe d through the harbor gate and those which came out to spread in al l directions, according to their destinations, all over the world, and soo n grow hull down on the horizon and vanish. Airplanes zoomed overhead.
    Small craft dotted the green waters outside and white sails skimmed th e inner harbor. Through the wide gate I could see shores and slopes covere d with red-roofed houses, and beyond them the skyscrapers of the city , and dominating all this scene the grand Sydney bridge, with its fretwor k span high above the horizon.
    It was a grand background for a fishing setting. At once I conceived a n idea of photographing a leaping swordfish with Sydney Heads and th e gateway to the harbor, and that marvelous bridge all lined against th e sky behind that leaping fish. That day was futile, however, much to Mr.
    Bullen's disappointment. The next day was rough. A hard wind ripped ou t of the northeast;