The bluefish just wouldn't strike. Vacationer Dwight Eisenhower, ensconced in a deck chair on the low stern of the Navy crash boat Queen Six, trolled for eight hours one day last week southwest of Newport. R.I. A novice in the sedentary sport of deep-sea fishing, he obviously missed the dry-fly casting in the frowned-upon (because of his heart) altitudes of Colorado's Rocky Mountain brooks. Restlessly, he watched sunlight sparkle on fish hauled into nearby boats, then cracked orders by radiotelephone for his escort craft, full of ever-hovering Secret Service, to find out...
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