Peter Benchley - Jaws

“I wondered about that hook-and-line business,” said Brody.

“What do you mean?”

“What you were saying. You wouldn’t try to catch the fish we’re after on a hook and line, would you?”

“Shit, no. From what I hear, the fish that’s been bothering you makes the one we got look like a pup.”

“Then how come the lines are out?”

“Two reasons. First, a big white might just take a little squid bait like that. It’d cut the line pretty quick, but at least we’d know he was around. It’s a useful telltale. The other reason is, you never know what a chum slick will bring around. Even if your fish doesn’t show up, we might run into something else that’ll take the bait.”

“Like what?”

“Who knows? Maybe something useful. I’ve had swordfish take a drifting squid, and with all the federal bullshit about mercury no one’s catching them commercially any more, so you can get two fifty a pound for broadbill in Montauk. Or maybe just something that’ll give you a boot in the ass to catch, like a mako.

If you’re paying four hundred bucks, you might as well have some fun for your money.”

“Suppose the big white did come around,” said Brody. “What would be the first thing you’d do?”

“Try to keep him interested enough so he’d stick around till we could get at him. It’s no big trick; they’re pretty stupid fish. It depends on how he finds us. If he pulls the same crap the other one did and attacks the boat, we’ll just start pumping irons into him as fast as we can, then pull away from him and let him wear himself down. If he takes one of the lines, there’ll be no way to stop him if he wants to run. But I’ll try to turn him toward us — tighten the drag way down and take the risk of tearing loose. He’ll probably bend the hook out pretty quick, but we might get him close enough for an iron. And once I’ve got one iron in him, it’s only a matter of time.

“Most likely, the way he’ll come will be following his nose — right up the slick, either on the surface or just below. And that’s where we’ll have a little trouble. The squid isn’t enough to keep him interested. Fish that size’ll suck a squid right down and not even know he’s et it. So we’ll have to give him something special that he can’t turn down, something with a big ol’ hook in it that’ll hold him at least until we can stick him once or twice.”

“If the hook’s too obvious,” said Brody, “won’t he avoid the bait altogether?”

“No. These things don’t have the brains of a dog. They eat anything. If they’re feeding, you could throw a bare hook down at ’em and they’ll take it if they see it. A friend of mine had one come up once and try to eat the outboard motor off his dinghy. He only spat it out ’cause he couldn’t get it down in one swallow.”

From the stern, where he was ladling chum, Hooper said, “What’s something special, Quint?”

“You mean that special treat he can’t turn down?” Quint smiled and pointed to a green plastic garbage can nestled in a comer amidships. “Take a look for yourself. It’s in that can. I’ve been saving it for a fish like the one we’re after. On anything else it’d be a waste.”

Hooper walked over to the can, flipped the metal clasps off the sides, and lifted the top. His shock at what he saw made him gasp. Floating vertically in the can full of water, its lifeless head swaying gently with the motion of the boat, was a tiny bottle-nosed dolphin; no more than two feet long. Sticking out from a puncture on the underside of the jaw was the eye of a huge shark hook, and from a hole in the belly the barbed hook itself curled forward. Hooper clutched the sides of the can and said, “A baby.”

“Even better,” Quint said with a grin. “Unborn.”

Hooper gazed into the can for a few more seconds, then slammed the top back on and said, “Where did you get it?”

“Oh, I guess about six miles from here, due east. Why?”

“I mean how did you get it?”

“How do you think? From the mother.”

“You killed her.”

“No.” Quint laughed. “She jumped into the boat and swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills.” He paused, waiting for a laugh, and when none came he said, “You can’t rightly buy them, you know.”

Hooper stared at Quint. He was furious, outraged. But he said only, “You know they’re protected.”

“When I fish, son, I catch what I want.”

“But what about laws? Don’t—”

“What’s your line of work, Hooper?”

“I’m an ichthyologist. I study fish. That’s why I’m here. Didn’t you know that?”

“When people charter my boat, I don’t ask questions about them. But okay, you study fish for a living. If you had to work for a living — I mean the kind of work where the amount of money you make depends on the amount of sweat you put in — you’d know more about what laws really mean. Sure, those porpoise are protected. But that law wasn’t put in to stop Quint from taking one or two for bait. It was meant to stop big-time fishing for them, to stop nuts from shooting them for sport. So I’ll tell you what, Hooper: You can bitch and moan all you want. But don’t tell Quint he can’t catch a few fish to help him make a living.”

“Look, Quint, the point is that these dolphins are in danger of being wiped out, extinguished. And what you’re doing speeds up the process.”

“Don’t give me that horseshit! Tell the tuna boats to stop snaring porpoise in their nets. Tell the Jap longliners to stop hookin’ ’em. They’ll tell you to go take a flying fuck at the moon. They got mouths to feed. Well, so do I. Mine.”

“I get your message,” said Hooper. “Take it while you can, and if after a while there’s nothing left, why, we’ll just start taking something else. It’s so stupid!”

“Don’t overstep, son,” said Quint. His voice was flat, toneless, and he looked directly into Hooper’s eyes.

“What?”

“Don’t go calling me stupid.”

Hooper hadn’t intended to give offense, and he was surprised to find offense taken. “I didn’t mean that, for God’s sake. I just meant…”

On his perch midway between the two men, Brody decided it was time to stop the argument. “Let’s drop it, Hooper, okay?” he said. “We’re not out here to have a debate on ecology.”

“What do you know about ecology, Brody?” said Hooper. “I bet all it means to you is someone telling you you can’t burn leaves in your back yard.”

“Listen, you. I don’t need any of your two-bit, rich-kid bullshit.”

“So that’s it! ‘Rich-kid bullshit.’ That rich-kid stuff really burns your ass, doesn’t it?”

“Listen, damn you! We’re out here to stop a fish from killing people, and if using one porpoise will help us save God knows how many lives, that seems to me a pretty good bargain.”

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, seared 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.”

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.