“They lie south of San Clemente, don’t they?” said Candon.
“They do not, you’re thinking of albacore. The tuna grounds are east of Santa Catalina mostly, close to Avalon. Why, I know all that place’s well as I know my own office. I’ve got a hellnation memory for facts and I could reel off to you the lie of the fishing grounds most all along the coast. Right from Rocky Point on the mainland the fish begin running in shoals. Benito you get mostly at Rocky Point, then albacore; but if you strike out for the Islands you’ll begin to get big things.”
“Whales?” asked George.
“Whales mostly stick to the Santa Barbara channel, there aren’t many now, but you get killers and sulphur bottoms and gray whales—sharks, too.”
Hank lit a cigarette and leaning on the port rail looked across the water to the east. Then he came forward a bit and looked ahead.
Away ahead and a bit to westward something showed. It was San Nicolas, San Nicolas no longer sharply defined like a flame of spar, but with its head in a turban of new-formed cloud. This island, eight or nine miles long, forms the western outpost of the Channel Islands. Unprotected, like them, by Port Concepcion, it receives the full force of wind and weather.
The others came close to Hank.
“That’s her,” said Hank, “that’s San Nicolas. Ever been ashore there, B. C.?”
“Not such a fool,” said Candon. “I’ve cruised about these waters a good bit, but I’ve never met a man who wanted to put his foot there. It’s all wind and sand for one thing.”