I’d Been Fighting a Tuna for 3 Hours When a 16-Foot Shark Showed Up

This story, “My Own Bermuda Triangle,” appeared in the January 1977 issue of Outdoor Life.

On a clear, calm day, the water on Challenger Bank off Bermuda is so clear it looks like air. It is another atmosphere, separated from the one above it only by the thin silvery film of its surface. But if you look down into it, the water assumes substance and turns a solid, deep blue. You can only appreciate the clarity of the water if you are swimming below the surface or if some object appears in it to fill your eye. Something did appear, and it did so with unnerving suddenness.

It happened almost three hours to the minute after I first hooked into a big yellowfin tuna. The tuna fought deep, and the tussle had been hard enough to strain my back and make my arms ache and quiver, but the fish was finally coming up. I wanted him very badly, mostly to prove that I could take him on the 18-pound-test line I was using, but also because I thought there was a wild chance he was big enough to break the 20-pound test line-class record.

Then I saw the movement in the water and made out a shark coming toward the boat. He swam as large reef sharks often do — with slow deliberation and ponderous side-to-side sweeps of his massive tail.

As he came toward us, he grew in apparent size, and the details of his huge body became more distinct. The tuna was solidly hooked, and for the moment, I was neither gaining nor losing line, but the appearance of the big shark made it unlikely that I would ever boat the yellowfin.

“OhmygodlookatthatSHARK!” shouted my host, Pete Perinchief, his British reserve shattered by the shock of what he saw. The shark loomed in the water marine, and it began to circle with one eye the size of a tennis ball focused on us. The circles tightened until the shark was barely my rod’s length away from the boat.

I didn’t want the shark; I wanted the yellowfin tuna. I had spent three gut-busting hours bathed in sweat fighting that fish, and no shark was going to take it away from me if there was any way to prevent it. The tuna’s dogged fight and its weight on the line made me believe that it weighed 150 pounds.

The 20-pound line-class record for yellowfins was 153 pounds. If the fish had just ingested a few extra baitfish or some of the chum we had been ladling overboard, I thought it might top that mark by a good margin.

The confrontation between the shark, the tuna, and myself began with an invitation from Pete Perinchief, an expert angler and head of Bermuda’s Fishing Information Bureau. Pete had invited me to sample the fishing available off the islands, which lie in the Atlantic just over 1,000 miles and $265 of round-trip flying time from my home in Miami, Florida. We agreed on a week in mid-June, a time when the fishing is usually good. I had heard much about Bermuda’s yellowfin and blackfin tuna, wahoos, amberjacks, groupers, marlin, and other gamefish.

But the big attraction for fish and fishermen lies a few miles off-shore, on the slopes of the two deep-water banks known as Challenger and Argus. We fished Challenger, 18 miles from Bermuda.

The banks are submerged mountains that rise nearly two miles from the ocean’s floor. The mountains come to within 100 feet of the surface in some areas, and ocean gamefish concentrate on these banks.

The technique is to anchor on the edge of one of these banks so that the boat drifts back over the dropoff. A constant stream of chum — sardines, ground fish, and fish entrails — attracts gamefish and baitfish in profusion.

On the first morning of my visit, the chum tossed out by Teddy Gibbons, skipper of Coral Sea, raised a dense school of baitfish that Bermuda anglers call robins (probably frigate mackerel), and some small bonito. These fish are caught as needed for bait and chum throughout the day.

The robins weigh about a pound, the bonito two to five. On light tackle, these baitfish are so scrappy that it’s easy to forget that the prime targets are much larger.

Frequently the first big gamefish to appear is a wahoo. One or more may materialize from the depths below the schooling baitfish. The striped torpedoes run big, often topping  80  pounds,  occasionally 100. I’ve found that a chummed-up wahoo is much harder to tease into striking than the same fish at­ attracted to a rapidly trolled lure. Their eyesight is phenomenal. Wa­hoos readily spot a wire leader, and they seldom hit when wire is used. Since their barracuda-like choppers clip mono instantly, putting wahoos in the boat is often a tough deal.

Next come blackfin tuna. Look­ ing like huge footballs with fins, these fish average a bit more than 20 pounds, and occasionally they top 30. They take lures readily, especially noisy surface plugs.

There is no doubt when the yel­lowfin tuna appear. They make as much of an impression on the other fish as they do on the fisherman. One second there is a big swirl of baitfish behind the boat. The next, nothing. 

For a time the water seems empty; then you gradually become aware of a presence you can’t see. Suddenly, there they are. One of the premier gamefish of the Bermuda banks, they often weigh up to 200 pounds. The yellowfins parade up the chumline as if they owned the ocean.

In more than 18 years of fishing for yellowfins in three oceans and on both sides of the equator, I’ve never seen yellowfins behave the way they do in a Bermuda chum­ line. Usually they’re racing, always in a hurry to get to wherever it is that tuna go. They take a bait only in high gear. But when they are working a chumline they’re entirely different. They slow down and don’t hurry until they’re hooked.

The yellowfins don’t always show up near the boat. At times they hang back out of sight, letting the current bring the chum to them, or sometimes they stay deep under the boat. Even then, you’re likely to get indications that the big tuna are near. Baitfish in the chum may start to act nervous. Or you might see an unusually heavy boil back in the slick, too far away for posi­tive identification but obviously too big for the average blackfin. Drop­ ping a lure deep or drifting a float­ ing plug or bait back with the cur­ rent often tells the story. That was how I came to grips with the fish that attracted the tiger shark.

Though we had been having outstanding action with blackfin tuna during the morning and early after­ noon, no yellowfins had shown. By midafternoon I had caught so many blackfins on various types of tackle that I was looking for a different kind of fishing and switched to deep jigging.

The technique involves dropping a heavy leadhead jig (a three­ ouncer painted white and dressed with white bucktail) to the bottom, or at least as deep as the angler feels is necessary to get action. The Coral Sea’s depthfinder indicated 300 feet under the hull, so I tried dropping two thirds of the way down before starting the retrieve.

I jigged my way slowly upward for about 20 minutes without get­ ting a hit. Then I decided to add a bit of extra enticement. I threaded a silver curly-tail worm ( the type designed for bass) onto my hook. The jig was on its way past the 100-foot level when my reel spool be­ gan to turn rapidly. Something had

taken the lure as it fell.

I was using my heavy jigging stick, a stiff seven-foot rod and a large-capacity baitcasting reel load­ ed with 18-pound-test monofila­ ment. Quickly putting the reel in gear, I struck as hard as I dared, cranking up the line-stretch and jabbing as rapidly as possible. For an instant, nothing happened. Then I felt a heavy weight and line start­ ed rushing from the reel.

“Probably a big amberjack,” Pete Perinchief said and Teddy Gibbons seconded him. “They grow big here,” Pete added with a chuckle. He was referring to the fact that the two largest amber­ jacks ever taken on sporting tackle and recognized by the International Game Fish Association — 142 pounds 14 ounces and 149 pounds — came from these waters.

Since I had caught amberjacks that weighed close to 100 pounds on tackle lighter than I was using then, I thought I could land the fish unless something happened.

The fish was boring away on a downhill run. Almost 100 yards of line had melted from the reel when he began a sweeping turn toward the bank and the anchor line. We were reluctant to cast off from the anchor buoy and leave the chum slick, so I began working my way forward toward the bow.

Instead of straightening out and heading farther up the bank, the fish continued its wide turn and went under the anchor line. That forced me to lie down on the deck and pass the rod under the rope. It was obvious that the fish was not headed up the bank at all, but out toward the ocean.

“That’s no amberjack. It’s got to  be a  yellowfin  tuna,” Teddy said. “An amberjack would have stayed near the bottom up on the bank. Only a yellowfin would head for open water like that.”

My fish was headed for the depths all right. Line continued to pour from the reel. More than three quarters of the 325 yards of mono I had started with were gone, and I was beginning to feel that the fish was unstoppable. But just as I was sure he would take all my line and break off, the reel spool slowed and then came to a stop.

I began pumping and reeling, pressuring the fish as much as I dared. It felt as though I were try­ ing to drag a stalled truck uphill, but gradually began to recover a little line-inches at first, then a foot, two feet, a yard, 10 yards.

Then the line went slack. I began to reel so fast my right hand was a blur, hoping that the tuna was swimming toward me. I must have reeled more than 100 yards in near panic when the line suddenly came taut. He was still on.

Again I started pressuring the fish, pumping and reeling for all I was worth. Gradually the spool began to refill. But it seemed to take 1,000 hard pumps to gain the next 100, and  still the tuna was more than 125 yards out. My arms began to ache, and sweat ran down into my eyes. Pete calmly informed me that I had been on the fish for better than an hour.

“Maybe he’s done,” I said. “I’ve been putting a lot of pressure on him.”

I never even got past that 125- yard mark during the next two long hours. Sweating and straining, I tried to break the 125-yard road­ block. But each time I brought him near it, the fish surged away.

By the end of  the  second  hour my arms were like lead. I started moving my hands on the rod, reel, and butt grip, desperately trying for any combination that would off er some relief to my muscles and the sore spot in my stomach area where I had been constantly jabbed by the rod butt. I had to fight the fish standing up because the line went almost straight down into the water. I couldn’t use the fighting chair.

Just as I was beginning to won­der how things could possibly get any tougher, the drag’s antireverse failed. To utilize the drag and maintain pressure on the fish, I had to hold onto the reel handle to prevent it from turning back­ ward. Whenever I lost control for an instant, the reel handle rapped me on the knuckles. Suddenly the fish headed away again in a strong run.

“He’s  headed  for  Bermuda,” Teddy said. “Let’s cast off from the buoy and follow him. At least we’ll be headed toward home.”

During the third hour, we follow­ed the hooked fish where ever he wanted to go. The tuna continued more or less along a course toward the islands, hazy in the distance.

Related: Charter Captains Say Sharks Are Out of Control and They’re Losing More Fish to the ‘Taxman’

But then I sensed that the tuna was weakening. His rushes slowed, and he was taking less line each time. Just before the third hour ended, I pressured him past the 125-yard barrier.

The third hour ended with the fish straight down beneath the boat and only 50 yards deep. I thought he was mine. It was then that I caught the flicker of motion that turned into the huge tiger shark.

With the tiger circling the boat so close, I had to move my line out of his way to prevent him from cutting it on his rough hide. Each time he passed the stern, we were awed by his size. The Coral Sea’s transom spans 12 feet, and the shark was more than four feet longer than that. His girth remind­ed me of a compact car. His tiger stripes had faded with age. The vertical markings on young tiger sharks are distinct; on old-timers they fade and almost vanish into the brown of the sides and back. The panic vibrations of my hooked tuna had called the huge spoiler up for an easy meal.

The world-record tiger shark rec­ognized by the International Game Fish Association was 13 feet 4½ inches long and weighed 1,780 pounds. The tiger that circled our boat was more than four feet longer and weighed more than a ton. Everybody aboard knew that a world record tiger was at hand, but we tried to drive him away even though we had gear heavy enough to take him. It was too late in the day to start a contest with that monster, and besides, we wanted the tuna. Pete, the skipper, and Ron, the mate, stomped the deck to frighten him off. Someone beat the water white with a long­ handled gaff. Captain Gibbons rev­ved the engine. But nothing worked. If there had been a rifle on board, I’m sure shots would have been fired, but we had none be­ cause Bermuda forbids civilian pos­ session of firearms.

“Maybe we can feed him a couple of bonito to take his mind off your tuna,” Teddy said. He tossed sever­al five-pounders over the side.

Elephants may eat peanuts, but a 16-foot tiger shark with larger prey on his mind doesn’t eat small bonito. The fish were ignored, and the tiger suddenly nosed down into the depths toward my tuna.

Several minutes passed in sick anticipation, but nothing happened. Surprisingly, the shark popped through the surface 50 yards out and headed away. To our relief, he disappeared. We could scarcely be­lieve it.

We were congratulating our­selves and getting ready for the final struggle with the yellowfin when the shark showed up only 30 yards away and headed directly toward us. He was obviously wait­ing for an easy kill when we brought the exhausted tuna to the surface.

“If a bonito isn’t big enough, maybe a blackfin will interest the beast,” Pete suggested.

A 25-pound blackfin went over the side. Sure enough, a set of jaws wide enough to swallow a 55-gallon drum opened to admit it. Teddy impaled the next blackfin on a shark hook, secured the chain leader to a piece of heavy line, and tossed the fish overboard.

The offer was readily accepted. The heavy handline came taut with Pete, Teddy, and Ron on one end and the shark on the other. All three were instantly dragged against the gunwale. They braced themselves and heaved. The heavy line parted like a piece of rotten string. Not that anyone minded. We did not want to catch the mon­ster. We wanted to annoy him enough to drive him away. Some­times it works.

But not this time. The shark gave no indication that he felt the hook.

Teddy dived into the rope locker and came up with a heavier line, three-eights of an inch thick. Out came another shark hook, a chain leader, and another blackfin tuna. This time, Teddy made the line fast to a stout cleat on the gunwale. The third tuna went down the shark’s maw as quickly as the other two. The line came taut, but in­ stead of reacting violently and snapping it — that would have been easy — the shark followed the path of least resistance. He began to circle the boat like a big dog on a leash. The outcome of the maneu­ver was only too clear.

“Cut the rope or it will break my line!” I yelled.

Teddy’s sharp cleaning knife flashed in the late afternoon sun as he severed the handline. But my breath of relief caught in my throat when Pete yelled that the line trail­ ing the shark had caught in the rud­der.

The end was coming, but there was nothing we could do about it. The tiger circled all the way around, and the taut rope made contact with my mono. It parted instantly. The fight was over, and my shot at a record yellowfin tuna was gone.

Seconds later, the shark lunged full-weight against the tangled handline. It broke as easily as had my 18-pound-monofilament, and the shark angled downward, per­haps in pursuit of the tuna.

Read Next: The Legendary Shark Fishing Record That’s Never Been Broken

Fishing was fantastic for the rest of my week-long Bermuda visit, but I was never able to get my mind off the fight with the big yellowfin. The irony of it all hit me after I returned to Florida. I fished in June. In April, a visiting English angler had caught a 177-pound 12-ounce yellowfin tuna northwest of St. George’s in the West Indies. In due course, the IGFA recognized the catch as the new 20-pound-test record. Even if I had boated my fish, there was no chance for me to hang up a new line-class record. But I didn’t know that until it was all over. Strangely, the knowledge doesn’t spoil the memory of my first day on the fabulous Challen­ger Bank.