Peter Benchley - Jaws

“After a day like today I agree,” said Rose. “Eighteen pounds of bologna! Since when have we ever moved eighteen pounds of bologna in one day?”

“And the Swiss cheese,” said Loeffler. “When did we ever run out of Swiss cheese before? A few more days like this I could use. Roast beef, liverwurst, everything.

It’s like everybody from Brooklyn Heights to East Hampton stopped by for sandwiches.”

“Brooklyn Heights, my eye. Pennsylvania. One man said he had come all the way from Pennsylvania. Just to see a fish. They don’t have fish in Pennsylvania?”

“Who knows?” said Loeffler. “It’s getting to be like Coney Island.”

“The public beach must look like a dump.”

“It’s worth it. We deserve one or two good days.”

“I heard the beaches are closed again,” said Rose.

“Yeah. Like I always say, when it rains it pours.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. Let’s close up.”

The sea was as flat as gelatin. There was no whisper of wind to ripple the surface. The sun sucked shimmering waves of heat from the water. Now and then, a passing tern would plunge for food, and rise again, and the wavelets from its dive became circles that grew without cease.

The boat sat still in the water, drifting imperceptibly in the tide. Two fishing rods, in rod-holders at the stern, trailed wire line into the oily slick that spread westward behind the boat. Hooper sat at the stern, a twenty-gallon garbage pail at his side. Every few seconds, he dipped a ladle into the pail and spilled it overboard into the slick.

Forward, in two rows that peaked at the bow, lay ten wooden barrels the size of quarter kegs of beer. Each was wrapped in several thicknesses of three-quarter-inch hemp, which continued in a hundred-foot coil beside the barrel. Tied to the end of each rope was the steel head of a harpoon.

Brody sat in the swiveled fighting chair bolted to the deck, trying to stay awake. He was hot and sticky. There had been no breeze at all during the six hours they had been sitting and waiting. The back of his neck was already badly sunburned, and every time he moved his head the collar of his uniform shirt raked the tender skin. His body odor rose to his face and, blended with the stench of the fish guts and blood being ladled overboard, nauseated him. He felt poached.

Brody looked up at the figure on the flying bridge: Quint. He wore a white T-shirt, faded blue-jean trousers, white socks, and a pair of graying Top-Sider sneakers. Brody guessed Quint was about fifty, and though surely he had once been twenty and would one day be sixty, it was impossible to imagine what he would look like at either of those ages. His present age seemed the age he should always be, should always have been. He was about six feet four and very lean — perhaps 180 or 190 pounds. His head was totally bald — not shaven, for there were no telltale black specks on his scalp, but as bald as if he had never had any hair — and when, as now, the sun was high and hot, he wore a Marine Corps fatigue cap. His face, like the rest of him, was hard and sharp. It was ruled by a long, straight nose. When he looked down from the flying bridge, he seemed to aim his eyes — the darkest eyes Brody had ever seen — along the nose as if it were a rifle barrel. His skin was permanently browned and creased by wind and salt and sun. He gazed off the stern, rarely blinking, his eyes fixed on the slick.

A trickle of sweat running down Brody’s chest made him stir. He turned his head, wincing at the sting in his neck, and tried to stare at the slick. But the reflection of the sun on the water hurt his eyes, and he turned away. “I don’t see how you do it, Quint,” he said. “Don’t you ever wear sunglasses?”

Quint looked down and said, “Never.” His tone was completely neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly. It did not invite conversation.

But Brody was bored, and he wanted to talk. “How come?”

“No need to. I see things the way they are. That’s better.”

Brody looked at his watch. It was a little after two: three or four more hours before they would give up for the day and go home. “Do you have a lot of days like this?” The excitement and anticipation of the early morning had long passed, and Brody was sure they would not sight the fish that day.

“Like what?”

“Like this. When you sit all day long and nothing happens.”

“Some.”

“And people pay you even though they never catch a thing.”

“Those are the rules.”

“Even if they never get a bite?”

Quint nodded. “That doesn’t happen too often. There’s generally something that’ll take a bait. Or something we can stick.”

“Stick?”

“With an iron.” Quint pointed to the harpoons on the bow.

Hooper said, “What kinds of things do you stick, Quint?”

“Anything that swims by.”

“Really? I don’t—”

Quint cut him off. “Something’s taking one of the baits.”

Shading his eyes with his hand, Brody looked off the stern, but as far as he could see, the slick was undisturbed, the water flat and calm. “Where?” he said.

“Wait a second,” said Quint. “You’ll see.”

With a soft metallic hiss, the wire on the starboard fishing rod began to feed overboard, knifing into the water in a straight silver line.

“Take the rod,” Quint said to Brody. “And when I tell you, throw the brake and hit him.”

“Is it the shark?” said Brody. The possibility that at last he was going to confront the fish — the beast, the monster, the nightmare — made Brody’s heart pound. His mouth was sticky-dry. He wiped his hands on his trousers, took the rod out of the holder, and stuck it in the swivel between his legs.

Quint laughed — a short, sour yip. “That thing? No. That’s just a little fella. Give you some practice for when your fish finds us.” Quint watched the line for a few more seconds, then said, “Hit it!”

Brody pushed the small lever on the reel forward, leaned down, then pulled back. The tip of the rod bent into an arc. With his right hand, Brody began to turn the crank to reel in the fish, but the reel did not respond. The line kept speeding out.

“Don’t waste your energy,” said Quint.

Hooper, who had been sitting on the transom, stood up and said, “Here, I’ll tighten down the drag.”

“You will not!” said Quint. “You leave that rod alone.”

Hooper looked up, bewildered and slightly hurt.

Brody noticed Hooper’s pained expression, and he thought: What do you know? It’s about time.

After a moment, Quint said, “You tighten the drag down too far and you’ll tear the hook out of his mouth.”

“Oh,” said Hooper.

“I thought you was supposed to know something about fishing.”

Hooper said nothing. He turned and sat down on the transom.

Brody held on to the rod with both hands. The fish had gone deep and was moving slowly from side to side, but it was no longer taking line. Brody reeled — leaning forward and cranking quickly as he picked up slack, hauling backward with the muscles in his shoulders and back. His left wrist ached, and the fingers in his right hand began to cramp from cranking. “What the hell have I got here?” he said.

“A blue,” said Quint.

“He must weigh half a ton.”

Quint laughed. “Maybe a hundred fifty pounds.”

Brody hauled and leaned, hauled and leaned, until finally he heard Quint say, “You’re getting there. Hold it.” He stopped reeling.

With a smooth, unhurried motion, Quint swung down the ladder from the flying bridge. He had a rifle in his hand, an old army M-1. He stood at the gunwale and looked down. “You want to see the fish?” he said. “Come look.”