Jaws

by Peter Benchley

  Hooper smirked and said to Brody, “So now you’re an expert on saving lives, are you? Let’s see. How many could have been saved if you’d closed the beaches after the …”

  Brody was on his feet moving at Hooper before he consciously knew he had left his chair. “You shut your mouth!” he said. Reflexively, he dropped his right hand to his hip. He stopped short when he felt no holster at his side, scared by the sudden realization that if he had had a pistol he might have used it. He stood facing Hooper, who glowered back at him.

  A quick, sharp laugh from Quint broke the thread of tension. “What a pair of assholes,” he said. “I seen that coming since you came aboard this morning.”

  12

  The second day of the hunt was as still as the first. When they left the dock at six in the morning, a light southwest breeze was blowing, promising to cool the day. The passage around Montauk Point was choppy. But by ten the breeze had died, and the boat lay motionless on the glassy sea, like a paper cup in a puddle. There were no clouds, but the sun was dulled by a heavy haze. Driving to the dock, Brody had heard on the radio that the pollution in New York City had reached a crisis stage—something about an air inversion. People were falling sick, and of those who were sick already, or very old, some were dying.

  Brody had dressed more sensibly today. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt with a high collar, light cotton trousers, white socks, and sneakers. He had brought a book along to pass the time, a sex mystery borrowed from Hendricks, called The Deadly Virgin.

  Brody did not want to have to fill time with conversation, conversation that might lead to a repeat of yesterday’s scene with Hooper. It had embarrassed him—Hooper, too, he thought. Today they seldom spoke to one another, directing most of their comments at Quint. Brody did not trust himself to feign civility with Hooper.

  Brody had observed that in the mornings, Quint was quiet—tight and reserved. Words had to be wrung from him. But as the day wore on, he loosened up and became more and more loquacious. As they had left the dock that morning, for instance, Brody had asked Quint how he knew what spot to pick to wait for the fish.

  “Don’t,” said Quint.

  “You don’t know?”

  Quint moved his head once from left to right, then back again.

  “Then how do you choose a place?”

  “Just choose one.”

  “What do you look for?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You don’t go by the tide?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Does it matter whether the water’s deep or shallow?”

  “Some.”

  “How so?”

  For a moment, Brody thought Quint would refuse to answer. He stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the horizon. Then he said, as if it were a supreme effort, “Big fish like that probably won’t be in too shallow water. But you never know.”

  Brody knew he should drop the subject and leave Quint in peace, but he was interested, so he asked another question. “If we find that fish, or if he finds us, it’ll be luck, won’t it?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Like a needle in a haystack.”

  “Not quite.”

  “Why not?”

  “If the tide’s running good, we can put out a slick that’ll cover ten miles and more by the end of the day.”

  “Would it be better if we stayed the night out here?”

  “What for?” said Quint.

  “To keep the slick going. If we can spread ten miles in a day, we could make it more than twenty miles long if we stayed out all night.”

  “If a slick gets too big, it’s no good.”

  “Why?”

  “Gets confusing. If you stayed out here a month, you could cover the whole fuckin’ ocean. Not much sense in that.” Quint smiled, apparently at the thought of a chum slick covering the whole ocean.

  Brody gave up and read The Deadly Virgin.

  By noon, Quint had opened up. The lines had been in the slick for over four hours. Though no one had specifically assigned him the task, Hooper had taken up the chum ladle as soon as they began to drift, and now he sat at the stern, methodically scooping and dumping. At about ten o’clock, a fish had taken the starboard line and had caused a few seconds of excitement. But it turned out to be a five-pound bonito that could barely get its mouth around the hook. At ten-thirty, a small blue shark took the port line. Brody reeled it in, Quint brought it to gaff, slit its stomach open, and released it. The shark nibbled feebly at a few pieces of itself, then slipped into the deep. No other sharks came around to feed.

  At a little after eleven, Quint spied the scythed dorsal fin of a swordfish coming toward them up the slick. They waited silently, begging the fish to take a bait, but it ignored both squid and cruised aimlessly sixty yards off the stern. Quint jiggled one of the baits—tugging the line to make the squid move and seem alive—but the swordfish wasn’t impressed. Finally, Quint decided to harpoon the fish. He turned on his engine, told Brody and Hooper to reel in the lines, and drove the boat in a wide circle. One harpoon dart was already attached to the throwing pole, and a line-covered barrel stood ready at the bow. Quint explained the pattern of attack: Hooper would drive the boat. Quint would stand at the end of the pulpit in the bow, holding the harpoon over his right shoulder. As they came upon the fish, Quint would point the harpoon left or right, depending on which way he wanted the boat to turn. Hooper would turn the boat until the harpoon was again pointing straight ahead. It was like following a compass heading. If all went well, they would be able to creep up on the fish, and Quint could plunge the iron off his right shoulder—a throw of about twelve feet, almost straight down. Brody would stand at the barrel, making sure the line was kept clear as the fish sounded.

  All did go well until the last moment. Moving slowly, with the engine sound barely above a murmur, the boat closed on the fish, which lay resting on the surface. The boat had a sensitive helm, and Hooper was able to follow Quint’s directions precisely. Then, somehow, the fish sensed the presence of the boat. Just as Quint raised his arm to cast the iron, the fish lurched forward, thrust its tail, and darted for the bottom. Quint threw, yelling “Prick!” and missed by six feet.

  Now they were back at the head of the slick again.

  “You asked yesterday if we have many days like this,” Quint said to Brody. “It’s not often we string two of them together. We should of at least had a bunch of blue sharks by now.”

  “Is it the weather?”

  “Could be. Makes people feel shitty enough. Maybe fish, too.”

  They ate lunch—sandwiches and beer—and when they were finished, Quint checked to see if his carbine was loaded. Then he ducked into the cabin and returned, holding a machine Brody had never seen before. “Still got your beer can?” Quint asked.

  “Sure,” said Brody. “What do you want it for?”

  “I’ll show you.” The device looked like a potato-masher hand grenade—a metal cylinder with a handle at one end. Quint pushed the beer can down into the cylinder, turned it till there was a click, and took a .22 blank cartridge from his shirt pocket. He slipped the blank into a small hole at the base of the cylinder, then turned the handle until there was another click. He handed the device to Brody. “See that lever there?” he said, pointing to the top of the handle. “Point the thing up to the sky, and when I tell you, push that lever.”

  Quint picked up the M-1, released the safety, raised the rifle to his shoulder, and said, “Now.”

  Brody flipped the lever. There was a sharp, high report, a mild kick, and the beer can was launched from his hand straight up into the air. It spun, and in the bright sunlight it shone like a sparkler. At the height of its track—the split-second point when it hung suspended in air—Quint fired. He aimed low, to catch the can as it started down, and he hit its bottom. There was a loud whang, and the can cartwheeled down into the water. It did not sink immediately, but floated at a cockeyed angle, bobbing on the surface.

  “Want to try?�
�� said Quint.

  “You bet,” said Brody.

  “Remember to try to catch it right at the top and lead it a little bit low. If you go for it in full rise or full fall, you’ve got to lead by a whole lot, and it’s much harder. If you miss it, drop your sights, lead it again, and squeeze off another round.”

  Brody exchanged the launcher for the M-1 and stationed himself at the gunwale. As soon as Quint had reloaded the launcher, Brody shouted, “Now!” and Quint released the can. Brody fired once. Nothing. He tried again at the top of the arc. Nothing. And he led it by too much as it fell. “Boy, that’s a bitch,” he said.

  “Takes some getting used to,” said Quint. “See if you can hit it now.”

  The can floated upright in the still water, fifteen or twenty yards from the boat. Half of it was exposed above water. Brody aimed—consciously a hair low—and squeezed the trigger. There was a metallic plop as the bullet hit the can at the water line. The can vanished.

  “Hooper?” said Quint. “There’s one can left, and we can always drink more beer.”

  “No thanks,” said Hooper.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t want to shoot, that’s all.”

  Quint smiled. “You worried about the cans in the water? That’s an awful lot of tin we’re dropping into the ocean. Probably rust and sink to the bottom and clutter up everything down there.”

  “That’s not it,” said Hooper, careful not to rise to Quint’s bait. “It’s nothing. I just don’t feel like it.”

  “Afraid of guns?”

  “Afraid? No.”

  “Ever shot one?”

  Brody was fascinated to see Quint press, and pleased to see Hooper squirm, but he didn’t know why Quint was doing it. Maybe Quint got ornery when he was bored and wasn’t catching fish.

  Hooper didn’t know what Quint was doing either, but he didn’t like it. He felt he was being set up to be knocked down. “Sure,” he said. “I’ve shot guns before.”

  “Where? In the service?”

  “No. I …”

  “Were you in the service?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Christ, I’d even bet you’re still a virgin.”

  Brody looked at Hooper’s face to see his response, and for a split second he caught Hooper looking at him.

  Then Hooper looked away, his face beginning to redden. He said, “What’s on your mind, Quint? What are you getting at?”

  Quint leaned back in his chair and grinned. “Not a thing,” he said. “Just making a little friendly conversation to pass the time. Mind if I take your beer can when you’re through? Maybe Brody’d like to take another shot.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” said Hooper. “But get off my back, will you?”

  For the next hour they sat in silence. Brody dozed in the fighting chair, a hat pulled down over his face to protect it from the sun. Hooper sat at the stern, ladling and occasionally shaking his head to keep awake. And Quint sat on the flying bridge, watching the slick, his Marine Corps cap tilted back on his head.

  Suddenly Quint said—his voice flat, soft, matter-of-fact—“We’ve got a visitor.”

  Brody snapped awake. Hooper stood up. The starboard line was running out, smoothly and very fast.

  “Take the rod,” Quint said. He removed his cap and dropped it onto the bench.

  Brody took the rod out of the holder, fit it between his legs, and held on.

  “When I tell you,” said Quint, “you throw that brake and hit him.” The line stopped running. “Wait. He’s turning. He’ll start again. Don’t want to hit him now or he’ll spit the hook.” But the line lay dead in the water, limp and unmoving. After several moments, Quint said, “I’ll be goddamned. Reel it in.”

  Brody cranked the line in. It came easily, too easily. There was not even the mild resistance of the bait.

  “Hold the line with a couple fingers or it’ll snarl,” said Quint. “Whatever that was took the bait gentle as you please. Must have kissed it off the line.”

  The line came clear of the water and hung at the tip of the rod. There was no hook, no bait, no leader. The wire had been neatly severed. Quint hopped down from the flying bridge and looked at it. He felt the end, ran his fingers around the edges of the break, and gazed out over the slick.

  “I think we’ve just met your friend,” he said.

  “What?” said Brody.

  Hooper jumped down off the transom and said excitedly, “You’ve got to be kidding. That’s terrific.”

  “That’s just a guess,” said Quint. “But I’d bet on it. This wire’s been chewed clean through. One try. No hesitation. No other marks on it. The fish probably didn’t even know he had it in his mouth. He just sucked the bait in and closed his mouth and that did it.”

  “So what do we do now?” said Brody.

  “We wait and see if he takes the other one, or if he surfaces.”

  “What about using the porpoise?”

  “When I know it’s him,” said Quint. “When I get a look at him and know the bastard’s big enough to be worth it, then I’ll give him the porpoise. They’re garbage-eating machines, these fish, and I don’t want to waste a prize bait on some little runt.”

  They waited. There was no movement on the surface of the water. No birds dived, no fish jumped. The only sound was the liquid plop of the chum Hooper ladled overboard. Then the port line began to run.

  “Leave it in the holder,” said Quint. “No sense in getting ready if he’s going to chew through this one, too.”

  Adrenaline was pumping through Brody’s body. He was both excited and afraid, awed by the thought of what was swimming below them, a creature whose power he could not imagine. Hooper stood at the port gunwhale, transfixed by the running line.

  The line stopped and went limp.

  “Shit,” said Quint. “He done it again.” He took the rod out of the holder and began to reel. The severed line came aboard exactly as had the other one. “We’ll give him one more chance,” said Quint, “and I’ll put on a tougher leader. Not that that’ll stop him if it’s the fish I think it is.” He reached into the ice chest for another bait and removed the wire leader. From a drawer in the cockpit he took a four-foot length of three-eighths-inch chain.

  “That looks like a dog’s leash,” said Brody.

  “Used to be,” said Quint. He wired one end of the chain to the eye of the baited hook, the other to the wire line.

  “Can he bite through that?”

  “I imagine so. Take him a little longer, maybe, but he’d do it if he wanted to. All I’m trying to do is goose him a little and bring him to the surface.”

  “What’s next if this doesn’t work?”

  “Don’t know yet. I suppose I could take a four-inch shark hook and a length of no-shit chain and drop it overboard with a bunch of bait on it. But if he took it, I wouldn’t know what to do with him. He’d tear out any cleat I’ve got on board, and until I see him I’m not going to take a chance and wrap chain around anything important.” Quint flipped the baited hook overboard and fed out a few yards of line. “Come on, you bugger,” he said. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  The three men watched the port line. Hooper bent down, filled his ladle with chum, and tossed it into the slick. Something caught his eye and made him turn to the left. What he saw sucked from him a throaty grunt, unintelligible but enough to draw the eyes of the other two men.

  “Jesus Christ!” said Brody.

  No more than ten feet off the stern, slightly to the starboard, was the flat, conical snout of the fish. It stuck out of the water perhaps two feet. The top of the head was a sooty gray, pocked with two black eyes. At each side of the end of the snout, where the gray turned to cream white, were the nostrils—deep slashes in the armored hide. The mouth was open not quite halfway, a dim, dark cavern guarded by huge, triangular teeth.

  Fish and men confront
ed each other for perhaps ten seconds. Then Quint yelled, “Get an iron!” and, obeying himself, he dashed forward and began to fumble with a harpoon. Brody reached for the rifle. Just then, the fish slid quietly backward into the water. The long, scythed tail flicked once—Brody shot at it and missed—and the fish disappeared.

  “He’s gone,” said Brody.

  “Fantastic!” said Hooper. “That fish is everything I thought. And more. He’s fantastic! That head must have been four feet across.”

  “Could be,” said Quint, walking aft. He deposited two harpoon barbs, two barrels, and two coils of rope in the stern. “In case he comes back,” he said.

  “Have you ever seen a fish like that, Quint?” said Hooper. His eyes were bright, and he felt ebullient, vibrant.

  “Not quite,” said Quint.

  “How long, would you say?”

  “Hard to tell. Twenty feet. Maybe more. I don’t know. With them things, it don’t make much difference over six feet. Once they get to six feet, they’re trouble. And this sonofabitch is trouble.”

  “God, I hope he comes back,” said Hooper.

  Brody felt a chill, and he shuddered. “That was very strange,” he said, shaking his head. “He looked like he was grinning.”

  “That’s what they look like when their mouths are open,” said Quint. “Don’t make him out to be more than he is. He’s just a dumb garbage bucket.”

  “How can you say that?” said Hooper. “That fish is a beauty. It’s the kind of thing that makes you believe in a god. It shows you what nature can do when she sets her mind to it.”

  “Horseshit,” said Quint, and he climbed the ladder to the flying bridge.

  “Are you going to use the porpoise?” said Brody.

  “No need. We got him on the surface once. He’ll be back.”

  As Quint spoke, a noise behind Hooper made him turn. It was a swishing noise, a liquid hiss. “Look,” said Quint. Heading straight for the boat, thirty feet away, was a triangular dorsal fin more than a foot high, knifing the water and leaving a rippled wake. It was followed by a towering tail that swatted left and right in tight cadence.