Old Indians and the Sea

(A Tale from Southern California)

The old Fisherman sat in the bow of the boat and looked at the sea. The fish was quiet now, running smoothly straight out. The Fisherman knew he was getting tired. It had been 7,364 hours since the fish had taken his hook.

The water was flat and glassy in the early morning. The Fisherman looked back at the light wake the boat made. The fish was truly great and he was very happy. He had been living for many years and now, when his hands were softening, when his breath came shorter, this great fish should come.

He remembered Dartmouth in 1905, his last year. Another paisan upperclassman, Carlos Palmer '23, had been the champion fisherman of the College. Each night at sundown, Palmer's loud practice blasts on his trombone had killed hundreds of fish in the Connecticut River. In the morning Harry Lill and other ambitious young outdoorsmen would scurry to the banks of the river and scoop the dead fish from its surface. The beginning of Harry's dream had started one night as he lay the night's catch reverently before Palmer's jazz-tapping feet. Now, 47 years later, came the culmination. Another 3000 hours should turn the trick.

"Pancho," called the Fisherman. He was climbing ashore on the boat dock at San Pedro. "Pancho, look at the fish I have caught."

Pancho (Shorty Hitchcock '16) rose from the edge of the dock, where he was butchering sardines. "Si," he answered and trotted over, dripping sardine blood. His eyes widened. "Oh," he cried, "George!"

"There is not another fish like this in the sea, hey?" The old Fisherman squeezed Pancho tightly. Pancho oozed sardine blood. "No!" shouted Pancho gleefully.

"Not in the whole world." He danced around the boat dock. "Toro!" he cried. "Toro!"

The old Fisherman watched proudly.

At that moment a tousle-headed yankee leapt ashore from the boat. In his left hand was clutched the latest $100 marlin rig. In his right hand was a succulent one- pound bass. This was Roberto Williams '26, champion Dartmouth fisherman, coming in with his usual prize catch.

"Man," cried Pancho (Shorty), "Look at that crazy fish!"

"Yeh," said Williams, shaking the fish, "some beauty, eh?"

A younger man stood up in the boat. He wore a sweat-faded Dartmouth "T" shirt. Its front was embroidered with the name "Ken Schaefer" in mauve script. Young Schaefer '48 had been drinking tequila. He was crying. "Twelve men we lost," he sobbed. "Ros Guyot '27, Reg Gresley '26, Dick Perry '22, the others ..."

Harry Lill stepped back, horrified,"Hurricane!" he breathed.

Tearfully, Schaefer shook his head, drenching the men around him and making Harry's fish flop wildly on the pier. "Bait," he murmured. "Williams needed bait."

Roberto Williams sat down on the edge of the pier and, laughing softly, sheepishly munched on his raw fish.