Peter Benchley - Jaws

“What do you want me to say?”

“That’s good,” said the man with the earphones.

“Okay,” said Middleton. “We’ll start tight, Walter, then go to a two-shot, okay? Give me speed when you’re ready.”

The cameraman peered into the eyepiece, raised a finger, and pointed it at Middleton. “Speed,” he said.

Middleton looked at the camera and said, “We have been here on the Amity beach since early this morning, and as far as we know, no one has yet dared venture into the water. There has been no sign of the shark, but the threat still lingers. I’m standing here with Jim Prescott, a young man who has just decided to take a swim. Tell me, Jim, do you have any worries about what might be swimming out there with you?”

“No,” said the boy. “I don’t think there’s anything out there.”

“So you’re not scared.”

“No.”

“Are you a good swimmer?”

“Pretty good.”

Middleton held out his hand. “Well, good luck, Jim. Thanks for talking to us.”

The boy shook Middleton’s hand. “Yeah,” he said.

“What do you want me to do now?”

“Cut!” said Middleton. “We’ll take it from the top, Walter. Just a sec.” He turned to the boy. “Don’t ask that, Jim, okay? After I thank you, just turn around and head for the water.”

“Okay,” said the boy. He was shivering, and he rubbed his arms.

“Hey, Bob,” said the cameraman. “The kid ought to dry off. He can’t look wet if he isn’t supposed to have been in the water yet.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Middleton. “Can you dry off, Jim?”

“Sure.” The boy jogged up to his friends and dried himself with a towel.

A voice beside Brody said, “What’s goin’ on?” It was the man from Queens.

“Television,” said Brody. “They want to film somebody swimming.”

“Oh yeah? I should of brought my suit.”

The interview was repeated, and after Middleton had thanked the boy, the boy ran into the water and began to swim.

Middleton walked back to the cameraman and said, “Keep it going, Walter. Irv, you can kill the sound. We’ll probably use this for B-roll.”

“How much do you want of this?” said the cameraman, tracking the boy as he swam.

“A hundred feet or so,” said Middleton. “But let’s stay here till he comes out. Be ready, just in case.”

Brody had become so accustomed to the far-off, barely audible hum of the Flicka ’s engine that his mind no longer registered it as a sound. It was as integral a part of the beach as the wave sound. Suddenly the engine’s pitch changed from a low murmur to an urgent growl. Brody looked beyond the swimming boy and saw the boat in a tight, fast turn — nothing like the slow, ambling sweeps Hooper made in his normal patrol. He put the walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, “You see something, Hooper?” Brody saw the boat slow, then stop.

Middleton heard Brody speak. “Give me sound, Irv,” he said. “Get this, Walter.” He walked to Brody and said, “Something going on, Chief?”

“I don’t know,” said Brody. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He said into the walkie-talkie, “Hooper?”

“Yes,” said Hooper’s voice, “but I still don’t know what it is. It was that shadow again. I can’t see it now. Maybe my eyes are getting tired.”

“You get that, Irv?” said Middleton. The sound man shook his head no.

“There’s a kid swimming out there,” said Brody.

“Where?” said Hooper.

Middleton shoved the microphone at Brody’s face, sliding it between his mouth and the mouthpiece of the walkie-talkie. Brody brushed it aside, but Middleton quickly jammed it back to within an inch of Brody’s mouth.

“Thirty, maybe forty yards out. I think I better tell him to come in.” Brody tucked the walkie-talkie into the towel at his waist, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called, “Hey out there! Come on in!”

“Jesus!” said the sound man. “You damn near blew my ears out.”

The boy did not hear the call. He was swimming straight away from the beach.

The boy who had offered the ten dollars heard Brody’s call, and he walked down to the water’s edge. “What’s the trouble now?” he said.

“Nothing,” said Brody. “I just think he’d better come in.”

“Who are you?”

Middleton stood between Brody and the boy, flipping the microphone back and forth between the two.

“I’m the police chief,” Brody said. “Now get your ass out of here!” He turned to Middleton. “And you keep that fucking microphone out of my face, will you?”

“Don’t worry, Irv,” said Middleton. “We can edit that out.”

Brody said into the walkie-talkie, “Hooper, he doesn’t hear me. You want to toot in here and tell him to come ashore?”

“Sure,” said Hooper. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

The fish had sounded now, and was meandering a few feet above the sandy bottom, eighty feet below the Flicka . For hours, its sensory system had been tracking the strange sound above. Twice the fish had risen to within a yard or two of the surface, allowing sight and smell and nerve canals to assess the creature passing noisily overhead. Twice it had sounded, compelled neither to attack nor move away.

Brody saw the boat, which had been facing westward, swing toward shore and kick up a shower of spray from the bouncing bow.

“Get the boat, Walter,” said Middleton.

Below, the fish sensed a change in the noise. It grew louder, then faded as the boat moved away. The fish turned, banking as smoothly as an airplane, and followed the receding sound.

The boy stopped swimming, raised his head, and looked toward shore, treading water. Brody waved his arms and yelled, “Come in!” The boy waved back and started for shore. He swam well, rolling his head to the left to catch a breath, kicking in rhythm with his arm strokes. Brody guessed he was sixty yards from shore and that it would take him a minute or more to reach the beach.

“What’s goin’ on?” said a voice next to Brody. It was the man from Queens. His two sons stood behind him, smiling eagerly.

“Nothing,” said Brody. “I just don’t want the boy to get out too far.”

“Is it the shark?” asked the father of the two boys.

“Hey, neat,” said the other boy.

“Never mind!” said Brody. “Just get back up the beach.”

“Come on, Chief,” said the man. “We drove all the way out here.”

“Beat it!” said Brody.

At fifteen knots, it took Hooper only thirty seconds to cover the couple of hundred yards and draw near the boy. He stopped a few yards away, letting the engine idle in neutral. He was just beyond the surf line, and he didn’t dare go closer for fear of being caught in the waves.

The boy heard the engine, and he raised his head. “What’s the matter?” he said.

“Nothing,” said Hooper. “Keep swimming.”

The boy lowered his head and swam. A swell caught him and moved him faster, and with two or three more strokes he was able to stand. The water was up to his shoulders, and he began to plod toward shore.

“Come on!” said Brody.

“I am,” said the boy. “What’s the problem, anyway?”

A few yards behind Brody, Middleton stood with the microphone in his hand. “What are you on, Walter?” he said.

“The kid,” said the cameraman, “and the cop. Both. A two-shot.”

“Okay. You running, Irv?”

The sound man nodded.

Middleton spoke into the microphone: “Something is going on, ladies and gentlemen, but we don’t know exactly what. All we know for sure is that Jim Prescott went swimming, and then suddenly a man on a boat out there saw something. Now Police Chief Brody is trying to get the boy to come ashore as fast as possible. It could be the shark, but we just don’t know.”