Silurid

by Gerry Griffiths

  Brooke, and her sister, Amber, were lying side by side on their beach towels, staring out at the water. Their friend, Tiffany, was next to Brooke, and had fallen asleep with her bikini top unsnapped so that she could get an even tan on her fair skin. Brooke had just finished arranging pennies on Tiffany’s bare back.

  “She’s going to kill you,” Amber whispered.

  Instead of answering, Brooke motioned for her sister to check out a guy parading down the beach. The absurdly muscular bodybuilder in his tight-fitting Speedo swim trunks sensed the girls staring and flexed.

  “That’s what I call hunkalicious,” Brooke said.

  “I think he’s already taken,” Amber said.

  “By who?”

  “By himself.”

  A lean surfer with long sandy-blond hair darted by.

  “Now, don’t tell me he’s not cute,” Brooke said.

  “Eh. He’s okay.”

  “Oh, right, I forgot. He’s no Vinnie Vedderman. I can’t believe you’re still dating that creep after last weekend.”

  “How was I to know the stud in his tongue was going to get hooked on my braces?”

  “You’re lucky I showed up and found the pliers before Dad got home,” Brooke said.

  “You’re just jealous I have a boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, like I’d want Vinnie Vedderman’s fat icky tongue flopping around in my mouth for two hours.”

  They craned their necks as a young man walked in front of them. He had straggly shoulder-length black hair and a thick fu Manchu and was inappropriately dressed for the sweltering heat in a black leather jacket, black jeans, and black motorcycle boots. He ignored the girls and strode by.

  “Now, he’s cool,” said Amber.

  “Hey, get a load of Ben,” Brooke said.

  Ben shot down a wave and rode it out onto the sand. He picked up his boogie board and ran over to his sisters.

  He stuck the nose of his board into the sand and shook his wet hair, sprinkling Tiffany on the back, causing her to wake in a start.

  “Hey! Watch it!”

  “You’ve got to go in. The water’s great,” Ben said. He snatched Tiffany’s soda and finished it off in one gulp then crumbled the aluminum can and tossed it back on Tiffany’s beach towel.

  “Jerk-off!”

  Ben spun around, grabbed his boogie board, and headed back out into the water.

  “I’m getting hot. Let’s go in,” Amber said.

  Amber and Brooke stood and adjusted their bikinis.

  Tiffany reached back to snap her top. She went to get up and felt the pennies slide off her back.

  “What the—”

  Fifty yards away, a lifeguard standing on the deck of his tower spotted something with his binoculars. A twenty-foot long dark shape was beneath the surface out where the waves were forming. He quickly dropped the binoculars lanyard around his neck and grabbed his walkie-talkie.

  “This is tower five. I have a possible shark alert.”

  “Are you sure it’s not a bed of kelp?” a woman asked.

  “Maybe, but we better not chance it.”

  “Stations respond. Get everyone out of the water!”

  The lifeguard jumped from the tower onto the sand and raced toward the water.

  A hundred feet out, a body surfer jumped up to see farther out. A giant swell was beginning to form into what could be a ten-foot wave.

  “Outside! Outside!” he yelled to the others.

  Twenty other bodysurfers set up for the wave. Ben was among them. He turned the nose of his boogie board around. The wave began to take shape, rolling up into a white-crested peak. The bodysurfers poured it on, swimming as fast as they could.

  Ben paddled with everything he had.

  The wave curled with only the bodysurfers’ heads and shoulders protruding out of the surf.

  A great white shark thrust its head out of the wave between two bodysurfers, its mouth gaping wide enough to swallow a man whole.

  Ben looked over his shoulder and saw the shark directly behind him.

  “Oh my God!” he screamed and paddled for his life.

  Amber, Brooke, and Tiffany were splashing each other when Brooke stopped to look at the approaching wave.

  The wave broke, and the shark came down on Ben.

  “Ben!” She watched her brother swept under.

  A white jeep wagon drove up on the sand. Three lifeguards jumped out and ran over, motioning for swimmers to get out of the water, which created mayhem as people scrambled, stumbling and falling to get to safety.

  Ben’s lime-green boogie board washed ashore—and then everyone backed away.

  The enormous great white slid up on the beach with its mouth agape, bearing its razor sharp teeth.

  Brooke screamed and ran over to one of the lifeguards.

  “Somebody do something! It’s eaten my brother! Please help him!”

  Tiffany and Amber held onto Brooke’s arm, afraid that she would get too close to the deadly predator.

  A lifeguard warily approached the shark and kicked it. The shark did not move.

  “It’s dead.”

  “Get me out of here,” came a muffled voice.

  The lifeguard knelt and looked inside the shark’s enormous mouth and peered down its gullet.

  “I see him. I don’t believe it. Somebody go grab some towels so we can flip this thing over.”

  Four lifeguards and six other men used towels to protect their hands from the shark’s rough skin. They turned the shark over on its side, exposing a craterous gash in its belly. Ropy entrails slopped out of the cavity like cooked spaghetti sliding out of a pot.

  Ben was entangled in the shark’s intestines. The smell was nauseating.

  “Come on, I’m dying in here,” Ben pleaded.

  The lifeguards pulled Ben out.

  “Ben, thank God you’re alive!” Brooke shouted.

  Ben staggered to his feet, wiping the offensive gore off his face and chest. He looked down at the gutted shark.

  “What tore into him?” Ben wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know,” said the lifeguard, “but whatever it was, it was more than a match for a great white.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Catalina Island—Southern California

  After the Starship Express ferry had tied up in Avalon Bay, Devon and Jess disembarked and carried their bags down the wharf a short distance to the Catalina Island Inn where they checked in and went up to their room.

  They dropped their bags at the foot of the queen-size bed not bothering to unpack and stepped out on the veranda overlooking the Avalon Bay Marina and the Catalina Casino.

  “Some view,” Devon said.

  “It’s beautiful,” Jess said, holding onto the railing.

  “So, what do you want to do? We could go hiking or rent jet skis, your call. If you want, we could go visit the Wrigley Mansion.”

  “You mean like the chewing gum?”

  “Yep. It said in the brochure that William Wrigley, Jr. once owned the island. So, what do you want to do first?”

  “Well, we could double our pleasure, double our fun for starters.” Jess put her arms around Devon’s neck and kissed him.

  When their lips parted, Devon said, “Yeah, but don’t you—?”

  Jess silenced him with another kiss.

  Devon quickly grasped where this was going. He clutched Jess in a lover’s embrace, toppling over a patio chair. They stumbled back into the room and crashed onto the bed.

  ***

  Windsurfers, Doug Montague and Sam Warner were at Avalon Beach, fastening their masts on their sailboards, preparing for an afternoon run out on the ocean.

  “So, Sam, getting psyched?” Doug asked.

  “I don’t know if I’m up for a loop just yet,” Sam replied.

  Doug handed Sam a helmet.

  “Hey, you got the basics down. All you have to do is get on a decent reach and haul ass. When you hit the chop, tuck your body, and check your landing over y
our right shoulder. Once you’ve done it once, it’s like riding a bike. You never forget.”

  Sam still looked unsure.

  “Just go for it!” Doug said and clapped Sam on the back.

  Ten minutes later, they were a quarter mile from shore.

  Doug held the boom near the mast, both feet on the sailboard, the sea breeze billowing the sail.

  Sam had a false start then managed to get up on his sailboard.

  The windsurfers raced across the water at a fast clip.

  On the first chop, Doug took his sailboard airborne and executed a perfect loop, flipping completely around. Sam followed right behind. He flew in the air and started a loop then chickened out and came down in an awkward landing.

  “Take your time! You can do it!” Doug yelled, trying to build his friend’s confidence while the Pacific trade winds swept them farther out onto the ocean.

  ***

  Toby Crane, the owner of Avalon Jet Ski Rental, was finishing giving Devon and Jess last minute instructions in operating the tandem Jet Ski. Devon and Jess were wearing wetsuits and life vests.

  “If you want to take a nice little run, turn right out of the marina,” Toby said.

  “Thanks, Toby, we’ll do that,” Devon said, climbing aboard the Jet Ski.

  Jess sat behind Devon and put her arms around his waist while her husband started the marine engine.

  Toby checked his wristwatch and said, “I’ll give you a couple of minutes before I start the clock. I wouldn’t go out too far. The fog will be rolling in soon. I’d hate to see you nice folks get lost out there.”

  “We won’t,” Jess said.

  After a few minutes, they were out beyond the five-mile-an-hour buoy, and Devon was able to open up the throttle. They leaned into a hard right turn and blasted up the coastline. The Jet Ski bounced across the white caps doing an easy thirty miles an hour.

  Devon glanced out on the ocean and saw two windsurfers sailing just below the horizon. He turned his head so that Jess could hear him over the loud engine and yelled, “Maybe tomorrow, we’ll give that a try,” motioning his head in the direction of the windsurfers.

  The Jet Ski loomed over a swell, slammed down, and almost jarred them out of their seats.

  Jess clutched the side of her jaw. “Sure, after I see a dentist and get my fillings put back in.”

  ***

  Doug and Sam decided it was time to turn back. A massive fog bank behind them gave the illusion that they were being pursued by a white tidal wave.

  Luckily, the wind was in their favor and was blowing shoreward.

  Sam saw a large mass two hundred feet ahead. “Hey, Doug. What’s that? Looks like a capsized boat! A big one,” he hollered over to his windsurfing buddy.

  Doug peered through the clear plastic window in his sail. “Looks like it! Let’s go see. Hey, catch this chop!”

  The windsurfers sailed over the swell, looped in the air like mirrored images, and came down for perfect landings.

  “I did it! I did it!” Sam screamed with joy.

  Doug gave Sam the thumbs up. “See, all you had to do was just go for it!” he said with encouragement, racing toward the capsized boat.

  And then Doug witnessed something bizarre.

  The upended boat was moving, its inverted keel-like shape wedging through the surface swells straight for Sam.

  “This is so cool,” Sam yelled. “Watch this!” Sam’s sailboard nosed over a choppy wave and went airborne.

  Doug leaned out and peered around his sail to catch sight of his friend.

  A prehistoric-looking fish—the size of a whale—leaped out of the water.

  It knocked Sam off his sailboard, swallowed him up, and dove under the surface. It happened so fast Doug swore his eyes were playing tricks on him.

  “Jesus Christ!” Doug shifted his weight, made an evasive jibe, and straightened his arms to fill the sail. The sailboard cut across the surface with incredible speed.

  He was near enough to shore that he could make out the masts of the schooners and the yachts in the Avalon Bay harbor and the welcoming sight of the red roof on the Catalina Casino. He was so close that he could see—

  The ocean rose in front of him like an underwater bomb had exploded.

  He stared down the gullet of the monstrous fish and quickly joined the fate of his windsurfing buddy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Devon and Jess returned down the misty coastline.

  “Toby wasn’t kidding about the fog,” Devon said, slowing down due to the poor visibility.

  “Devon, look. There’s something up ahead,” Jess warned.

  “I see it.” Devon slowed and pulled the Jet Ski alongside a sailboard. The mast was broken in half, and there were splotches of blood on the Fiberglas board.

  Devon shut off the engine. “Hello! Is anyone out here?”

  “Can you hear us?” Jess yelled.

  They drifted for a couple of minutes in the dense fog listening to the nearby waves slapping the rocky shore, but no one answered.

  “We better alert the harbormaster when we get in,” Devon said.

  “Think we should tow in the sailboard?” Jess asked.

  “Better not. Just in case someone shows up and needs it to swim back. I don’t think it will drift too far.” Devon started the Jet Ski and steered for the marina.

  ***

  That evening, Devon and Jess strolled through the giant pillars that led into the Catalina Casino’s ballroom. Devon was decked out in a sports jacket and slacks. Jess was radiant in a chiffon dress with thin shoulder straps, and stiletto heels.

  They’d had a wonderful dinner at the elegant Avalon Grill, a dining experience that they were not accustomed to and would long remember. Devon had the grilled red snapper, and Jess had the blackened catfish.

  While they were having dessert, Devon went to use the telephone and called the harbormaster to see if they were able to find the missing sailboarder. The only information readily available was that they knew the man’s identity because his name was engraved on the Fiberglas board that was retrieved, and that he was an islander and was an experienced windsurfer.

  The harbormaster said the police were combing the area, visiting the man’s home, and questioning his friends and that if he did not materialize by the end of the night they would continue the search out in the water come daybreak.

  Once back, Devon escorted Jess into the lavish ballroom. Standing on the shiny dance floor they both looked up and marveled at the beautiful red-hue walls that stretched up to the fifty-foot dome ceiling with its sparkling Tiffany chandeliers.

  They walked arm in arm over to a raised seating area and sat at one of the tables.

  A tuxedo band was on the elevated stage playing old-time music from the fifties.

  As they held hands and listened to the melodies of bygone years, a polite waiter came by and gave them each a flute of champagne.

  Devon raised his glass to toast.

  “To our happy family.”

  “To us,” Jess grinned.

  They clinked their glasses together and drank.

  Devon put down his glass.

  “May I have this dance, me lady?” he asked jokingly.

  “Why sir, I would be delighted.” Jess gave her husband a curt bow of the head.

  Devon scooted his chair away from the table, got up, and graciously pulled Jess’s chair out for her. She held onto the crook of his arm and they stepped onto the dance floor. Devon put his right arm around Jess’s waist and held her right hand in his left hand.

  They danced for the best part of an hour non-stop having the time of their lives.

  When the drummer ended a set with a heavy swipe across the cymbals, Jess fell into Devon’s arms.

  “Honey, I’m wiped out.”

  “Yeah, me too. That Jet Ski really must have killed my back.”

  “Want to hit the Jacuzzi?”

  “Lead the way.”

  ***

  Sunlight fil
tered into their hotel room the following morning. Jess sat on the edge of the bed, surfing the channels on the television with the remote control.

  “So what should we do today?” she asked.

  Devon stood in the bathroom doorway, drying his hair with a towel. On the back of his T-shirt was a logo with a trout jumping out of the water within a circle bordered with the words—LAKE RECLUSE—A FISHERMAN’S PARADISE.

  “I wouldn’t mind snorkeling,” he said and stepped back into the bathroom.

  Jess turned to the TV and watched the tanned, young reporter in the white polo shirt holding a microphone. Behind him, a crowd of people were standing around an orange webbed fence sectioning off a portion of a beach.

  “Yesterday,” the reporter said, “a twenty-foot great white shark terrorized bathers here at Playa del Rey Beach.”

  Jess plucked a California map from the side pocket of her bag and unfolded it on the bed.

  “Luckily for everyone,” the reporter continued, “the enormous creature was already dead when it washed ashore. Judging by its severe wound, authorities believe that the shark may have been killed by a ship’s propeller somewhere out in the shipping lanes.”

  Jess put her finger on the map and traced a short line from the beach town of Playa del Rey to Catalina Island.

  “Honey, are we anywhere near the shipping lanes?”

  Devon popped his head out of the bathroom. “I would guess. We’re twenty-five miles from the mainland.”

  Jess clicked off the TV. “Maybe we better skip the snorkeling and go shopping.”

  “Okay by me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Ten Miles Off The Coast Of Santa Barbara

  Of the twenty fishermen that had booked the trip, only one had become seasick on Captain Bob’s Excursion cruiser.

  Sitting on an ice cooler with his head between his legs, the man was taking a short reprieve before making another run to the railing. Sure it was bad enough that he had to endure the hot sun and the pitching boat, but now he was forced to stare down at the ugly rock cod that someone had pulled out of the water over an hour ago and had left on the deck as a practical joke.

  Captain Bob was inside the pilot’s house, manning the helm. He glanced at the fish finder and saw no sign of activity.