Peter Benchley - Jaws

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.