Out in the bay there is a deep, rich, guttural growl, as a Marlin boat nudges up to the pier, snuggling in beside a pair of charter boats where cabin lights are glowing as the guides relieve the pressure of another relentless day of sun, by drinking too much beer.

" That’s sports fishing here now," says Richard Shrubsall, a jovial young man whose passion for Marlin is surpassed only by his love for the sport of fishing. He nods towards the power yacht that is tying up on the tranquil waters below us, where wharf perch can be seen skipping in the reflection of the Milky Way.

"That’s a $2-million boat. You can have ten of them here at a time now. It’s really something." In the bar of the Swordfish Club anglers are drinking beer and comparing stories of the day, gathered as they prowled the Pacific Ocean off New Zealand’s northeast coast in a growing fleet of phenomenally sophisticated, and shockingly expensive, sports boats.

"You have multi-millionaires from New York and people who have hardly anything, drinking elbow to elbow here," says Shrubsall as he scans his domain. "The thing I like about it is that when you come through the door, nobody cares who you are. When you walk in here at the end of the day - you’re a fisherman. That’s all."

You are equals before the bar of the Swordfish Club - just as you are in the great black eyes of the Marlin, to whom all pay homage.

Sports anglers began keeping records in the Bay of Islands in 1924. They called their first formal organization the Kingfish Club, after a beautiful, yellow and silver, mid-water fish that is famed for its brutish refusal to give in to the pressures of rod and line. Later it was named after the Mako shark, which has been known to attack lures from the sky, leaping into the air and performing a somersault, before falling head first onto a startled angler’s offering.

In 1954 - 16 years after the first Marlin was caught on a rod and line in … New Zealand - it became known as the Swordfish Club. It is believed to be the second oldest sports fishing club in the world.

It is certainly one of the most prestigious - and one of the hardest to be honored by.

Joining is easy. In the laid back style of New Zealand, all you have to do to become a member of the Swordfish Club, is ask, and pay your modest dues. The club has 3,000 members at the moment, worldwide, and it is growing by hundreds of new members each month.

Come cruising into the small town of Russell some January of February, look up the Swordfish Club on the waterfront, find your way to the bar, which, if you are a fisherman, you could do blind, and they will grant you a membership on the spot. It costs $28 to join for the week . Need a guide or some advice on how to catch a Marlin? You need go no farther than the bar.

"Just ask. We’ll help you," says Shrubsall. "That’s our business. We know who’s running hot. We know what boats are performing."

This week it’s the Striker, a hardball boat skippered by a guy who’s as brown as a Brazil nut from the wind and the sun, and the Te Ariki Nui, a serious piece of business that’s painted combat gray. She comes in high on an inshore blow, with seven flags flying, signaling a mixed catch of Black and Striped Marlin - all released.

You cannot guess the worth of a boat like this, but as it backs up to the wharf, with skipper Bill Hall shouting down from the bridge - "We’re getting the crap kicked out of us! Put the damn line over there!" - you can be sure of one thing: this boat is fueled by pure testosterone.

A charter boat out of Russell or Paihai will cost $800 to $2000 a day. And if you are serious about catching a Marlin, you will have to book for a five day cruise that will take you out to North Cape, and beyond.

But to get a taste, you can book for a day. The cheapest deal, which can be put together at the bar of the Swordfish Club, is to buy a quarter share in a trip. For $200 to $250, you’ll get a shot.

"If you really want to go Marlin fishing, we can put together a group, share the costs. You don’t have to be a millionaire," says Shrubsall.

Gumboot, a grizzled, weather-beaten guy who looks like a character actor in a pirate movie, agrees with that assessment.

"Money doesn’t hurt," he says, a broad smile cracking his ruddy face, "but anybody can go Marlin fishing around here."

He should know. Shoe horned into a small space on Cass Street, just around the corner from THE CLUB, Gumboot (aka Ian Stapley) is busy stripping down a Penn big game reel that’s worth about $1,000.

On cluttered shelves behind him are dozens of similar reels. Overhead are racks of rods. There might be $500,000 worth of inventory in his Bay Rod & Reel Services store. But you don’t have to own this stuff to go fishing and you certainly don’t have to own a boat.

"Waste of bloody money," he says of the expensive boats that dot the harbor. "I get offers to go out all the time, from people who want help running their boats or who want to learn how to set the gear. Get more bloody offers than I can handle."

Gumboot (he earned his handle as a water taxi driver who always wore rubber boots so he could carry the women ashore) is about as plugged in to the New Zealand Marlin scene as anybody can get.

He says if you really want to get out on a boat, come see him. He’ll find you a deal.

And if money isn’t a problem, if you’ve got say $1,000 to $5,000 spend, call on him anyway.

"I know where the boys are," he says. "I know where they’re catching them. And I’ll talk to anybody, anytime. I’ll put you on to a good boat."

The 45-foot, gleaming white hull of the Sapphire pulled away from the dock in front of the Swordfish Club at 8 a.m. It’s engines throbbed as it nosed up to about 6 knots, pushing Dolphin jumping waves off its bow.

Andy Light was up on the flying bridge, steering the classic old Marlin boat out towards Tikitiki, a blunt arrowhead of rock that juts out of the green sea on the northern curl of the Bay of Islands.

Busy on the deck below was his partner, Adam Evers, whose job it was to sort the gear and rig up six heavy Marlin rods.

The rods are short, about six feet long, with rollers instead of eyes, and big, golden Penn International reels, which have enough gears and braking systems to stop a small, runaway car. Chances are, in the past 12 months Gumboot has stripped down and refurbished everyone of them. When you are fishing for Marlin you are lucky if you get one shot a day, and the last thing you want to do is break off on a giant fish because the drum plate hadn’t been polished.

On the ends of the lines Evers ties a variety of different lures with blunt, clear plastic heads and gigantic black eyes. Behind them trail skirts of blue, black, purple, pink, brown or silver plastic . Sometimes they are flecked with spangles of silver, so that they look like cheap disco outfits. They measure in length form 8 to 16 inches, and have names like B52 Bonito, MS17 Hooker or, my favorite, Tropic Lightning.

Evers sets the rods in stainless steel holding tubes, strips out 30 to 50 feet of line, and lets the dancers shake their bright skirts in the deep blue sea. As the boat surges through the wave troughs, the lures skip out on the surface, throwing up a spray of white water. It is never dull on a Marlin boat, because every time you look back you think you are being chased by a school of frantic bait fish wearing hula dresses.

"The Marlin aren’t afraid of the boat," explains Evers as he rigs up a fighting jacket. "They’re attracted to all the white water we throw out. They think it’s a school of bait fish. When they come in for a look they see the lures, and hook up in the gear. That’s the plan, anyway," he says with a laugh.

Evers has a row of perfect white teeth, a deep brown tan, and a tattoo on his left shoulder that shows Wily Coyote strangling the Road Runner.

"When a Marlin hits," he says cheerfully, as if this blessed event is assured, "you need to get into the fighting chair as quickly as possible."

At the stern of the boat, bolted to the deck as if it’s a canon mount, is a Cyril Jordan game chair that wouldn’t look out of place in a dentist’s office, except for the broad, wooden foot brace, where the varnish has been worn away by the desperate efforts of countless terrified fishermen.

"When you’re in, you either pick up the rod yourself, or I hand it to you. Which would you prefer?" asks Evers. Eying the heavy rod I imagine a 1500 lb Marlin trying to yank it out of my hands. "You better hand it to me," I say. "And don’t let go until I say."Evers laughs.

When I have the rod he shows me how he’ll slip the fighting jacket over my shoulders, buckling the rod to it, so that I and the gear and the wild fish, which does not want to hang above the pool table, will become inexorably bound together. The two young skippers, with their bulging biceps, will not be helping in the battle.

"According to the rules, the crew can’t help," says Evers. "There was a record Marlin taken recently....well, it would’ve been a record, except for a slight mistake. The skipper put his hand on the reel to help set the hook. Because of that, the fish didn’t count."

Didn’t count? "It couldn’t be recorded," he said. Which meant that to the Swordfish Club it didn’t exist. It was vapor. And in this part of the world, for a fisherman, few things could be worse. Except maybe, catching nothing.

This is the tricky part for charter boat operators. Dropping the news that getting burned, getting blanked, getting zero, no matter how much you’ve paid for the boat, is all part of the game.

"You gotta tell people," says Light, "just what their chances are. Which is that one fish for three days fishing is about average. You’re in there if your boat’s hitting a fish every three days or so. "

Apparently nobody has figured out yet just what the odds are of booking a boat, going out for a one day shot, once in a lifetime, and actually catching a fish. It must be a bit like throwing the dice once at Vegas. Which is to say, don’t expect a jackpot. Just enjoy what’s happening.

"A lot of people come out here and, I guess it’s the motion of the boat or the fact they were out partying the night before, but pretty soon they fall asleep," says Light as the Sapphire starts to cut a searching pattern across the great, blank sea. "They miss so much of the experience. It’s a shame. They don’t see a lot of the stuff we see - which is amazing."

From high up on the flying bridge, his eyes shielded by Polaroid sunglasses, Light scans from horizon to horizon, constantly swinging his head to take in the whole sweep of ocean before him. "My job is to find the fish," he explains, looking at the sea, not at me. "I’m looking for tide lines. Any sign of life. Splashes on the water. Birds, bait fish on the surface, dolphins. Sometimes you’ll see an oil slick where a billfish has been up, raking through bait. "

He is also looking at a computer screen that gives him fixes from a global positioning satellite. Whenever the Sapphire encounters a Marlin the event is programmed into the GPS, so that they have a record - it’s like mapping lightning strikes and hoping to get hit again.

"The fish can be almost anywhere. But we’ll work these strike areas," says Light.

Birds are high on Light’s list of Marlin early warning signals. When big fish chase little fish, the prey often rises to the surface, leaping frantically in an effort to escape. That attracts the birds, which soon gather in swirling, screaming flocks, as they dive on the game fish balls .

When the birds flock together, every Marlin boat within range turns for the action, sweeping along the edge of the bait ball, hoping that the wild dance of lures like the B52 will draw a billfish up from the deep blue beneath.

"The things I’ve seen out here are amazing," repeats Light as we motor on, the Sapphire gently lifting and plunging with the swell. "A killer whale came up once and offered me a sting ray. When I reached for it, it sank from sight. And the whale picked it up again and brought it back - then ran his whole body under my hand. Incredible."

Sometimes there are Marlin. Often there are not.

But always, on the rich sea off New Zealand’s Bay of Islands, there is something.

Light calls out and points to starboard, as two huge manta rays pass just under the bow of the boat, like ghosts in the water.

There is a huge pod of 30 bottle nose dolphins, surging past , their gray backs rolling endlessly out of the water.

A mass live basking shark slips languidly beneath us; a submarine of a fish.,

But there are no Marlin. "Last time we were out a Marlin came out of nowhere, right behind the boat and lit up (flaring its fins to show off its neon colors). It followed one lure, then went over to inspect another, then the third. Then it just sank away."

After a few hours at sea you can only imagine how exciting that would be. To see a Marlin in this vast, empty blueness, turning on its lights in the wake of your boat.

Suddenly, far off the bow, a huge fish leaps, falling back to the surface like a guided missile. "A free jumper!" shouts Light.

The boat spins in pursuit. But the sea grows calm, and the ladies in the neon skirts dance alone.

The sun rises far above, passes overhead, and begins to fall back to the sea. The mainland is covered with a long white cloud. On the distant horizon are more clouds, dark with rain. But we sail on, going from bait swarm, to tide line, to bird flock to GPS markings. And still no Marlin.

We lounge on the flying bridge, trading stories.

Light is asked what he likes about being a Marlin guide. He tries a couple of answers, stalls, then sums it up this way: "It’s just being able to do what I love to do. To see the ocean alive."

If someone asked why you wanted to go Marlin fishing, you couldn’t come up with a better answer than that.

When the Sapphire pulls back up to the wharf, we can see the lights on in the bar at the Swordfish Club. We climb up the stairs, find the bar, get a cold beer and look up at the huge Marlin on the wall above the pool table. All I can think is that the bastard would have yanked me right out of the fighting chair, rod and all.