Stalking the Broadbill

Off Miami, the bold pursue giant swordfish by night

Summertime, and the fishing is easy. Unless the quarry is the broadbill swordfish, one of the strongest, most aggressive and highly prized trophies in the sea. New discoveries about the swordfish's feeding and fighting habits have resulted in record catches in the Gulf Stream, off the Florida coast. TIME Miami Bureau Chief Richard Woodbury joined a group of swordfishermen in pursuit of the broadbill. His report:

Precisely at 7 o'clock on a muggy, mosquito-filled evening, we pushed off from a south Miami marina and sped east into the open Atlantic, heading for the deepest reaches of the Gulf Stream. Our skipper was Pete Peacock, 41, a contractor by trade but a fisherman by avocation, one of the best in the Miami area. If anyone could find the big broadbill, it was Peacock. Two other fishing boats tagged along in convoy as we tore out of the Cape Florida Channel at 30 m.p.h. The CB radio crackled with reports of battles near by: a 300-pounder landed off Fort Lauderdale ... a three-hour fight in progress with a gargantuan swordfish off Key Largo.

After nearly an hour, Peacock cut the twin Mercuries. "This is the spot!" he called. We floated noiselessly on a dusky patch of sea. The jagged line on the Fathometer confirmed that we were in the swordfish's favorite haunt, a 1,100-ft.-deep stretch of the bathtub-warm Gulf Stream. Broadbills normally stay hundreds of feet down--one reason they are so hard to catch--but in the early '70s, Cuban refugee fishermen discovered that these fish rose from the depths at night, apparently to feed on squid that in turn were feeding on microscopic plankton drifting in the cooling sea. In the past two years some 400 swordfish have been landed off lower Florida, including several world-record broadbills weighing more than 600 lbs. Top fishermen from around the country now fly down to Miami to try their luck and the new techniques.

The swordfish remains a tough fish to catch. The broadbill has a surprisingly soft mouth, for all his size, which makes setting a hook firmly as much a matter of luck as skill. Many a fisherman has struggled for hours with a swordfish, only to have its tender mouth give way and the line come in empty. Still, when conditions are right--a full moon and a fast, nimble boat--swordfishing can pay off. Unlike his billfish cousins, the marlin and sailfish, the swordfish is edible, and a sale at dockside can more than compensate for the expense of a night's sportfishing.

As night closed in, we set out our lines, staggered at depths ranging from 50 ft. to 250 ft. On the leaders near the squid used for bait we attached Cyalumes, plastic cylinders containing a glowing green chemical. The deep-dwelling swordfish has evolved eyes as big as silver dollars, and the Cyalume lights up the squid to attract the foraging broadbill.

We hooked the lines to towering outriggers and began a slow drift that would take us 30 miles north before dawn. The once deserted sea suddenly seemed like a freeway at rush hour. Huge tankers glided out of the night, quiet as cats. Flickering orange lights marked the miles-long strands of line set by commercial fishermen. A minicity blossomed around us --the lights of other fishing boats, and perhaps a marijuana smuggler or two.

The night lengthened, and still we waited for the big strike. It was time for fish stories. In that genre of hyperbole and pride, swordfish stories are unique: most of them are true. The broadbill is an aggressive fish, to put it mildly. Swordfish have punched holes in boats, Jaws-style, and have even been known to charge in packs when one of them was hooked. As half a dozen fish bore down for the second time on one Miami angler, he called it quits, cut his line and sped away. Another fisherman lost his broadbill when, after a three-hour battle, it turned and rammed the boat three times. A less fortunate angler broke his ankle in a struggle with a swordfish that charged his boat 14 times.

At 1 a.m., we settled down for a snack of ham sandwiches. Suddenly the No. 2 starboard rod bent crazily in its stanchion, and the whine of racing line pierced the stillness. Strike! "He's here! He's with us!" Peacock screamed. Donn Mann, 48, an experienced sport fisherman, ran to the fighting chair, strapping his canvas harness to the fiber-glass rod. Some swordfish like to tease the bait. Not this one. He had hit with the wallop of a freight train. Mann released the ratchet on the reel to let the fish run. Then, without warning, the line slackened. The broadbill was streaking to the surface. He rose out of the water and fell back with a splash we could hear but not see. The glow of the Cyalume marked him 100 yds. to starboard. We could detect only the eerie green light, which now began tearing across the inky water and around our stern. The swordfish was encircling the boat with line. Mann cranked furiously on the reel, trying to take up slack while Peacock revved the engines, and the boat leaped forward.

In a flash, the fish reversed directions. To our amazement, he was coming straight at our stern. Now he was faintly visible in our lights--400 lbs. of fury, rapier bill pointed dead at us, slapping the water to a froth. Peacock and I crouched at the gunwale with gaffs, ready to do battle.

Then, 50 yds. out, the drama ended as quickly as it had begun. With a magnificent snap of his head, the fish flung the 3-in. hook out of his mouth. And then, with an ecstatic dive, he plummeted free into the deep. We were beaten, but there were no regrets on board. The one that got away had put up a furious fight. The memory would last. There would be other nights to float on the black and silent sea and wait for the electrifying moment when a broadbill would nose up from the depths, ready to duel with anyone who waited to challenge him.

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