(2 of 2)
In sunny San Pedro, one of the U.S. fish capitals, the harbor was hectic with production. The white-hulled tuna clipper Long Island warped in with the season's first catch of bluefin tuna—a whopping 90 tons, worth about $20,000. Grizzled fishermen, speeding their net mending, talked about the biggest tuna run ever, wondered if prices would go above the present $200 a ton (1940: "$120).
One who sailed to get his share was short, swarthy Captain Andrew Vilicich, master of the sleek, 77-ft. Gallant. Like most West Coast fishermen, Captain Vilicich is a year-round worker, goes after tuna from April to July, sardines from August to March. On his boat he took in $112,000 last year. His crew collected $61,000; he got all the rest. This kind of money has made Fisherman Vilicich the next thing to an economic royalist: he owns his ship (value: $30,000), a share in a San Francisco sardine plant, a comfortable, two-story house, sends his son to Santa Clara University.
The fishing industry was making money galore. But the 125,000 U.S. fishermen had something else that was new—prestige. For the first time since Plymouth Rock, the fisherman was absolutely vital to the nation's food supply, as needed and respected as the rancher, the farmer.