Ever since I first went to sea with my uncle, Capt. Bill Dunn, I’ve been fascinated with swordfish. On a slick, calm August day in 1981, running out of Shinnecock Inlet on Long Island, my uncle calmly proclaimed, “Swordfish, 1 o’clock.”
We were on the bridge of his 38-foot Scopinich sportfisherman, Last Resort, and he physically guided my head in the direction of the fish, whispering the distance and pointing. He made certain I got my first glimpse of the unmistakable silhouette of that basking Atlantic swordfish, its proud, distinct dorsal fin leading the way like a submarine’s periscope, followed by the sickle of its crescent-shaped tail.
What transpired next was both exhilarating and frustrating. We deployed a rigged trolling squid as we made a large, slow, swooping circle. The…