Chapter 13
"You're not putting that thing on my boat," said Quint. They stood on the dock in the brightening light. The sun had cleared the horizon, but it lay behind a low bank of clouds that touched the eastern sea. A gentle wind blew from the south. The boat was ready to go. Barrels lined the bow; rods stood straight in their holders, leaders snapped into eyelets on the reels. The engine chugged quietly, sputtering bubbles as tiny waves washed against the exhaust pipe, coughing diesel fumes that rose and were carried away by the breeze.
At the end of the dock a man got into a pickup truck and started the engine, and file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (110 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt the truck began to move slowly off down the dirt road. The words stenciled on the door of the truck read: Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute.
Quint stood with his back to the boat, facing Brody and Hooper, who stood on each side of an aluminum cage. The cage was slightly over six feet tall and six feet wide and four feet deep. Inside, there was a control panel: atop were two cylindrical tanks. On
the floor of the cage were a scuba tank, a regulator, a face mask, and a wet suit.
"Why not?" said Hooper. "It doesn't weigh much, and I can lash it down out of the way."
"Take up too much room."
"That's what I said," said Brody. "But he wouldn't listen."
"What the hell is it anyway?" said Quint.
"It's a shark cage," said Hooper. "Divers use them to protect themselves when they're swimming in the open ocean. I had it sent down from Woods Hole --in that truck that just left."
"And what do you plan to do with it?"
"When we find the fish, or when the fish finds us, I want to go down in the cage and take some pictures. No one's ever been able to photograph a fish this big before."
"Not a chance," said Quint. "Not on my boat."
"Why not?"
"It's foolishness, that's why. A sensible man knows his limits. That's beyond your
limits."
"How do you know?"
"It's beyond any man's limits. A fish that big could eat that cage for breakfast."
"But would he? I don't think so. I think he might bump it, might even mouth it, but I don't think he'd seriously try to eat it."
"He would if he saw something as juicy as you inside."
"I doubt it."
"Well, forget it."
"Look, Quint, this is a chance of a lifetime. Not just for me. I wouldn't have thought of doing it until I saw the fish yesterday. It's unique, at least in this hemisphere.
And even though people have filmed great whites before, no one's ever filmed a twentyfoot white swimming in the open ocean. Never."
"He said forget it," said Brody. "So forget it. Besides, I don't want the responsibility. We're out here to kill that fish, not make a home movie about it."
"What responsibility? You're not responsible for me."
"Oh yes I am. The town of Amity is paying for this trip, so what I say goes." Hooper said to Quint, "I'll pay you."
Quint smiled. "Oh yeah? How much?"
"Forget it," said Brody. "I don't care what Quint says. I say you're not bringing that thing along."
Hooper ignored him and said to Quint, "A hundred dollars. Cash. In advance, the way you like it." He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
"I said no!" said Brody.
"What do you say, Quint? A hundred bucks. Cash. Here it is." He counted five twenties and held them out to Quint.
"I don't know." Then Quint reached for the money and said, "Shit, I don't suppose it's my business to keep a man from killing himself if he wants to."
"You put that cage on the boat," Brody said to Quint, "and you don't get your four
hundred." If Hooper wants to kill himself, Brody thought, let him do it on his own time.
"And if the cage doesn't go," said Hooper, "I don't go."
"Fuck yourself," said Brody. "You can stay here, for all I care."
"I don't think Quint would like that. Right, Quint? You want to go out and take on
that fish with just you and the chief? You feel good about that?"
"We'll find another man," said Brody.
"Go ahead," Hooper snapped. "Good luck." file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (111 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
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"Can't do it," said Quint. "Not on this short notice."
"Then the hell with it!" said Brody. "We'll go tomorrow. Hooper can go back to Woods Hole and play with his fish." Hooper was angry --angrier, in fact, than he knew,
for before he could stop himself, he had said, "That's not all I might... Oh, forget it." For several seconds, a leaden silence fell over the three men. Brody stared at Hooper, unwilling to believe what he had heard, uncertain how much substance there was in the remark and how much empty threat. Then suddenly he was overcome by rage. He reached Hooper in two steps, grabbed both sides of his collar, and rammed his fists into Hooper's throat. "What was that?" he said. "What did you say?" Hooper could hardly breathe. He clawed at Brody's fingers. "Nothing!" he said, choking. "Nothing!" He tried to back away, but Brody gripped him tighter.
"What did you mean by that?"
"Nothing, I tell you! I was angry. It was something to say."
"Where were you last Wednesday afternoon?"
"Nowhere!" Hooper's temples were throbbing. "Let me go! You're choking me!"
"Where were you?" Brody twisted his fists tighter.
"In a motel! Now let me go!"
Brody eased his grip. "With who?" he said, praying to himself, God, don't let it be
Ellen; let his alibi be a good one.
"Daisy Wicker."
"Liar!" Brody tightened his grip again, and he felt tears begin to squeeze from his
eyes.
"What do you mean?" said Hooper, struggling to free himself.
"Daisy Wicker's a goddam lesbian! What were you doing, knitting?" Hooper's thoughts were fogging. Brody's knuckles were cutting off the flow of blood to his brain. His eyelids flickered and he began to lose consciousness. Brody released him and pushed him down to the dock, where he sat, sucking air.
"What do you say to that?" said Brody. "Are you such a hotshot you can fuck a lesbian?"
Hooper's mind cleared quickly, and he said, "No. I didn't find it out until... until it
was too late."
"What do you mean? You mean she went with you to a motel and then turned you down? No dyke is gonna go to any motel room with you."
"She did!" said Hooper, desperately trying to keep pace with Brody's questions.
"She said she wanted ... that it was time she tried it straight. But then she couldn't go through with it. It was awful."
"You're bullshitting me!"
"I'm not! You can check with her yourself." Hooper knew it was a weak excuse. Brody could check it out with no trouble. But it was all he could think of. He could stop on the way home that evening and call Daisy Wicker from a phone booth, beg her to corroborate his story. Or he could simply never return to Amity --turn north and take the
ferry from Orient Point and be out of the state before Brody could reach Daisy Wicker.
"I will check," said Brody. "You can count on it." Behind him, Brody heard Quint laugh and say, "That's the funniest thing I ever did hear. Tried to lay a lesbian."
Brody tried to read Hooper's face, searching for any-thing that might betray a lie.
But Hooper kept his eyes fixed on the dock.
"Well, what do you say?" said Quint. "We going today or not? Either way, Brody, it'll cost you."
Brody felt shaken. He was tempted to cancel the trip, to return to Amity and discover the truth about Hooper and Ellen. But suppose the worst was true. What could he do then? Confront Ellen? Beat her? Walk out on her? What good would that do? He had to have time to think. He said to Quint, "We'll go."
"With the cage?"
"With the cage. If this asshole wants to kill himself, let him." file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (112 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
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"Okay by me," said Quint. "Let's get this circus on the road." Hooper stood and walked to the cage. "I'll get in the boat," he said hoarsely.
"If
you two can push it over to the edge of the dock and lean it toward me, then one of you come down into the boat with me, we can carry it over into the corner." Brody and Quint slid the cage across the wooden boards, and Brody was surprised at how light it was. Even with the diving gear inside, it couldn't have weighed more than two hundred pounds. They tipped it toward Hooper, who grabbed two of the bars and waited until Quint joined him in the cockpit. The two men easily carried the cage a few feet and pushed it into a corner under the overhang that supported the flying bridge. Hooper secured it with two pieces of rope.
Brody jumped aboard and said, "Let's go."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" said Quint.
"What?"
"Four hundred dollars."
Brody took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Quint. "You're going to die a rich man, Quint."
"That's my aim. Uncleat the stern line, will you?" Quint uncleated the bow and midships spring lines and tossed them onto the dock, and when he saw that the stern line was clear, too, he pushed the throttle forward and guided the boat out of the slip. He turned right and pushed the throttle forward, and the boat moved swiftly through the calm sea --past Hicks Island and Goff Point, around Shagwong and Montauk points. Soon the lighthouse on Montauk Point was behind them, and they were cruising south by southwest in the open ocean.
Gradually, as the boat fell into the rhythm of the long ocean swells, Brody's fury
dulled. Maybe Hooper was telling the truth. It was possible. A person wouldn't make up a story that was so easy to check. Ellen had never cheated on him before, he was sure of that. She never even flirted with other men. But, he told himself, there's always a first time. And once again the thought made his throat tighten. He felt jealous and injured, inadequate and outraged. He hopped down from the fighting chair and climbed up to the flying bridge.
Quint made room on the bench for Brody, and Brody sat down next to him. Quint chuckled. "You boys almost had a no-shit punch-up back there."
"It was nothing."
"Looked like something to me. What is it, you think he's been poking your wife?" Confronted with his own thoughts stated so brutally, Brody was shocked. "None of your damn business," he said.
"Whatever you say. But if you ask me, he ain't got it in him."
"Nobody asked you." Anxious to change the subject, Brody said, "Are we going back to the same place?"
"Same place. Won't be too long now."
"What are the chances the fish will still be there?"
"Who knows? But it's the only thing we can do."
"You said something on the phone the other day about being smarter than fish. Is that all there is to it? Is that the only secret of success?"
"That's all there is. You just got to outguess 'em. It's no trick. They're stupid as
sin."
"You've never found a smart fish?"
"Never met one yet." Brody remembered the leering, grinning face that had stared up at him from the water. "I don't know," he said. "That fish sure looked mean yesterday. Like he meant to be mean. Like he knew what he was doing."
"Shit, he don't know nothing."
"Do they have different personalities?"
"Fish?" Quint laughed. "That's giving them more credit than they're due. You can't treat 'em like people, even though I guess some people are as dumb as fish. No. They do different things sometimes, but after a while you get to know everything they can do."
"It's not a challenge, then. You're not fighting an enemy."
"No. No more 'n a plumber who's trying to unstick a drain. Maybe he'll cuss at it file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (113 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt and hit it with a wrench. But down deep he don't think he's fighting somebody. Sometimes I run into an ornery fish that gives me more trouble than other ones, but I just
use different tools."
"There are fish you can't catch, aren't there?"
"Oh sure, but that don't mean they're smart or sneaky or anything. It only means they're not hungry when you try to catch 'em, or they're too fast for you, or you're using
the wrong bait."
Quint fell silent for a moment, then spoke again. "Once," he said, "a shark almost
caught me. It was about twenty years ago. I had a fair-size blue shark to gaff and he gave
a big yank and hauled me overboard with him."
"What did you do?"
"I come up over that transom so fast I don't think my feet touched anything between water and deck. I was lucky I fell over the stern, where it's fairly low down, near
the water. If I'd of fallen over amidships, I don't know what I would've done. Anyway, I was out of that water before the fish even knew I was in it. He was busy trying to shake the gaff."
"Suppose you fell over with this fish. Is there anything you could do?"
"Sure. Pray. It'd be like falling out of an airplane without a parachute and hoping
you'll land in a haystack. The only thing that'd save you would be God, and since He pushed you overboard in the first place, I wouldn't give a nickel for your chances."
"There's a woman in Amity who thinks that's why we're having trouble," said Brody. "She thinks it's some sort of divine retribution." Quint smiled. "Might be. He made the damn thing, I suppose He can tell it what to do."
"You serious?"
"No, not really. I don't put much stock in religion."
"So why do you think people have been killed."
"Bad luck." Quint pulled back on the throttle. The boat slowed and settled in the swells. "We'll try to change it." He took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, read the notes, and sighting along his outstretched arm, checked his bearings. He turned the ignition key, and the engine died. There was a weight, a thickness, to the sudden silence. "Okay, Hooper," he said. "Start chuckin' the shit overboard." Hooper took the top off the chum bucket and began to ladle the contents into the sea. The first ladleful spattered on the still water, and slowly the oily smear spread westward.
By ten o'clock a breeze had come up --not strong, but fresh enough to ripple the water and cool the men, who sat and watched and said nothing. The only sound was the regular splash as Hooper poured chum off the stern.
Brody sat in the fighting chair, struggling to stay awake. He yawned, then recalled
that he had left the half-read copy of The Deadly Virgin in a magazine rack below. He stood, stretched, and went down the three steps into the cabin. He found the book and started topside again, when his eye caught the ice chest. He looked at his watch and said to himself, the hell with it; there's no time out here.
"I'm going to have a beer," he called. "Anybody want one?"
"No," said Hooper.
"Sure," said Quint. "We can shoot at the cans." Brody took two beers from the chest, removed the metal tabs, and started to climb the stairs. His foot was on the top step when he heard Quint's flat, calm voice say,
"There
he is."
At first, Brody thought Quint was referring to him, but then he saw Hooper jump off the transom and heard him whistle and say, "Wow! He sure is!" Brody felt his pulse speed up. He stepped quickly onto the deck and said,
"Where?"
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"Right there," said Quint. "Dead off the stern." It took Brody's eyes a moment to adjust, but then he saw the fin --a ragged, brownish-gray triangle that sliced through the water, followed by the scythed tail sweeping left and right with short, spasmodic thrusts. The fish was at least thirty yards behind the boat, Brody guessed. Maybe forty. "Are you sure it's him?" he said.
"It's him," said Quint.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing. Not till we see what he does. Hooper, you keep ladling that shit. Let's bring him in here."
Hooper lifted the bucket up onto the transom and scooped the chum into the water. Quint walked forward and fastened a harpoon head to the wooden shaft. He picked up a barrel and put it under one arm. He held the coiled rope over his other arm and clutched the harpoon in his hand. He carried it all aft and set it on the deck. The fish cruised back and forth in the slick, seeming to search for the source of the bloody miasma.
"Reel in those lines," Quint said to Brody. "They won't do any good now we've got him up."
Brody brought in the lines one by one and let the squid bait fall to the deck. The
fish moved slightly closer to the boat, still cruising slowly. Quint set the barrel on the transom to the left of Hooper's bucket and arranged the
rope beside it. Then he climbed up on the transom and stood, his right arm cocked, holding the harpoon. "Come on," he said. "Come on in here." But the fish would come no closer than fifty feet from the boat.
"I don't get it," said Quint. "He should come in and take a look at us. Brody, take
the cutters out of my back pocket and clip off those squid bait and throw 'em overboard. Maybe some food'll bring him in. And splash the hell out of the water when you throw
'em. Let him know something's there."
Brody did as he was told, slapping and roiling the water with a gaff, always keeping the fin in sight, for he imagined the fish suddenly appearing from the deep and seizing him by the arm.
"Throw some other ones while you're at it," said Quint. "They're in the chest there. And throw those beers over, too."
"The beers? What for?"
"The more we can get in the water, the better. Don't make no difference what it is,
so long as it gets him interested enough to want to find out." Hooper said, "What about the porpoise?"
"Why, Mr. Hooper," said Quint. "I thought you didn't approve."
"Never mind that," Hooper said excitedly. "I want to see that fish!"
"We'll see," said Quint. "If I have to use it, I will." The squid had drifted back toward the shark, and one of the beers bobbed on the surface as it slowly faded aft of the boat. But still the fish stayed away. They waited --Hooper ladling, Quint poised on the transom, Brody standing by one of the rods.
"Shit," said Quint. "I guess I got no choice." He set the harpoon down and jumped off the transom. He flipped the top off the garbage can next to Brody, and Brody saw the lifeless eyes of the tiny porpoise as it swayed in the briny water. The sight repelled him,
and he turned away.
"Well, little fella," said Quint. "The time has come." From the lazaret he took a length of dog-leash chain and snapped one end of it into the hook eye protruding from beneath the porpoise's jaw. To the other end of the chain he tied a length of three-quarterinch hemp. He uncoiled several yards of the rope, cut it, and made it fast to a cleat on the
starboard gunwale.
"I thought you said the shark could pull out a cleat," said Brody.
"It might just," said Quint. "But I'm betting I can get an iron in him and cut file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (115 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
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rope before he pulls it taut enough to yank the cleat." Quint took hold of the dog chain and lifted the starboard gunwale and set it down. He climbed onto the transom and pulled the porpoise after him. He took the knife from the sheath at his belt. With his left hand he
held the porpoise out in front of him. Then, with his right, he cut a series of shallow slashes in the porpoise's belly. A rank, dark liquid oozed from the animal and fell in droplets on the water. Quint tossed the porpoise into the water, let out six feet of line,
then put the rope under his foot on the transom and stepped down hard. The porpoise floated just beneath the surface of the water, less than six feet from the boat.
"That's pretty close," said Brody.
"Has to be," said Quint. "I can't get a shot at him if he's thirty feet away."
"Why are you standing on the rope?"
"To keep the little fella where he is. I don't want to cleat it down that close to the
boat. If he took it and didn't have any running room, he could thrash around and beat us to pieces." Quint hefted the harpoon and looked at the shark's fin. The fish moved closer, still cruising back and forth but closing the gap between itself and the boat by a few feet with every passage. Then it stopped, twenty or twentyfive feet away, and for a second seemed to lie motionless in the water, aimed directly at the boat. The tail dropped beneath the surface; the dorsal fin slid backward and vanished;
and the great head reared up, mouth open in a slack, savage grin, eyes black and abysmal. Brody stared in mute horror, sensing that this was what it must be like to try to stare down the devil.
"Hey, fish!" Quint called. He stood on the transom, legs spread, his hand curled around the shaft of the harpoon that rested on his shoulder. "Come see what we've got for you!"
For another moment the fish hung in the water, watching. Then, soundlessly, the head slid back and disappeared.
"Where'd he go?" said Brody.
"He'll be coming now," said Quint. "Come, fish," he purred. "Come, fish. Come get your supper." He pointed the harpoon at the floating porpoise. Suddenly the boat lurched violently to the side. Quint's legs skidded out from under him, and he fell on his back on the transom. The harpoon dart separated from the shaft and clattered to the deck. Brody tumbled sideways, grabbed the back of the chair, and twirled around as the chair swiveled. Hooper spun backward and slammed into the port gunwale.
The rope attached to the porpoise tautened and shivered. The knot by which it was secured to the cleat tightened so hard that the rope flattened and its fibers popped. The wood under the cleat began to crack. Then the rope snapped backward, went slack, and curled in the water beside the boat.
"I'll be fucked!" said Quint.
"It was like he knew what you were trying to do," said Brody, "like he knew there was a trap set for him."
"Goddammit! I never have seen a fish do that before."
"He knew if he knocked you down he could get to the porpoise."
"Shit, he was just aiming for the porpoise, and he missed." Hooper said, "Aiming from the opposite side of the boat?"
"Well, it don't make no never-mind," said Quint.
"Whatever he did, it worked."
"How do you think he got off the hook?" said Brody. "He didn't pull the cleat out."
Quint walked over to the starboard gunwale and began to pull in the rope. "He either bit right through the chain, or else... uh-huh, that's what I figured." He leaned over
the gunwale and grabbed the chain. He pulled it aboard. It was intact, the clip still attached to the eye of the hook. But the hook itself had been destroyed. The steel shaft no
longer curled. It was nearly straight, marked by two small bumps where once it had been file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (116 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
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"Jesus Christ!" said Brody. "He did that with his mouth?"
"Bent it out nice as you please," said Quint. "Probably didn't slow him down for more than a second or two."
Brody felt light-headed. His fingertips tingled. He sat down in the chair and drew
several deep breaths, trying to stifle the fear that was mounting inside him.
"Where do you suppose he's gone?" said Hooper, standing at the stern and looking at the water.
"He's around here somewhere," said Quint. "I imagine he'll be back. That porpoise wasn't any more to him than an anchovy is to a bluefish. He'll be looking for more food." He reassembled the harpoon, recoiled the rope, and set them on the transom. "We're just gonna have to wait. And keep chumming. I'll tie up some more squid and hang 'em overboard."
Brody watched Quint as he wrapped twine around each squid and dropped it overboard, attached to the boat at cleats, rod-holders, and almost anything else around which he could tie a knot. When a dozen squid had been placed at various points and various depths around the boat, Quint climbed to the flying bridge and sat down. Hoping to be contradicted, Brody said, "That sure does seem to be a smart fish."
"Smart or not, I wouldn't know," said Quint. "But he's doing things I've never seen a fish do before." He paused, then said --as much to himself as to Brody --"but I'm
gonna get that fucker. That's one thing for sure."
"How can you be sure?"
"I know it, that's all. Now leave me be." It was a command, not a request, and though Brody wanted to talk --about anything, even the fish itself, as long as he could steer his mind away from the image of the beast lurking in the water below him --he said nothing more. He looked at his watch: 11:05.
They waited, expecting at any moment to see the fin rise off the stern and cut back and forth through the water. Hooper ladled chum, which sounded to Brody, every time it hit the water, like diarrhea.
At eleven-thirty, Brody was startled by a sharp, resonant snap. Quint leaped down the ladder, across the deck, and onto the transom. He picked up the harpoon and held it at
his shoulder, scanning the water around the stern.
"What the hell was that?" said Brody.
"He's back."
"How do you know? What was that noise?"
"Twine snapping. He took one of the squid."
"Why would it snap? Why wouldn't he chew right through it?"
"He probably never bit down on it. He sucked it in, and the twine came tight behind his teeth when he closed his mouth. He went like this, I imagine" --Quint jerked his head to the side --"and the line parted."
"How could we hear it snap if it snapped under water?"
"It didn't snap under water, for Christ sake! It snapped right there." Quint pointed
to a few inches of limp twine hanging from a cleat amidships.
"Oh," said Brody. As he looked at the remnant, he saw another piece of twine --a few feet farther up the gunwale --go limp. "There's another one," he said. He stood and walked to the gunwale and pulled in the line.
"He must be right underneath us." Quint said, "Anybody care to go swimming?"
"Let's put the cage overboard," said Hooper.
"You're kidding," said Brody.
"No, I'm not. It might bring him out."
"With you in it?"
"Not at first. Let's see what he does. What do you say, Quint?"
"Might as well," said Quint. "Can't hurt just to put it in the, water, and you paid
for it." He put down the harpoon, and he and Hooper walked to the cage. They tipped the cage onto its side, and Hooper opened the top hatch and crawled through it. He removed the scuba tank, regulator, face mask, and neoprene wet suit, and file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (117 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt set them on the deck. They tipped the cage upright again and slid it across the deck to the
starboard gunwale. "You got a couple of lines?" said Hooper. "I want to make it fast to the boat." Quint went below and returned with two coils of rope. They tied one to an after
cleat, one to a cleat amidships, then secured the ends to the bars on top of the cage.
"Okay," said Hooper. "Let's put her over." They lifted the cage, tipped it backward, and pushed it overboard. It sank until the ropes stopped it, a few feet beneath the surface. There it rested, rising and falling slowly in the swells. The three men stood at the gunwale, looking into the water.
"What makes you think this'll bring him up?" said Brody.
"I didn't say 'up,'" said Hooper. "I said 'out.' I think he'll come out and have a look
at it, to see whether he wants to eat it."
"That won't do us any damn good," said Quint. "I can't stick him if he's twelve feet under water."
"Once he comes out," said Hooper, "maybe he'll come up. We're not having any luck with anything else."
But the fish did not come out. The cage lay quietly in the water, unmolested.
"There goes another squid," said Quint, pointing forward. "He's there, all right."
He leaned overboard and shouted, "God damn you, fish! Come out where I can have a shot at you."
After fifteen minutes, Hooper said, "Oh well," and went below. He reappeared moments later, carrying a movie camera in a waterproof housing, and what looked to Brody like a walking stick with a thong at one end.
"What are you doing?" Brody said.
"I'm going down there. Maybe that'll bring him out."
"You're out of your goddam mind. What are you going to do if he does come out?"
"First, I'm going to take some pictures of him. Then I'm going to try to kill him."
"With what, may I ask?"
"This." Hooper held up the stick.
"Good thinking," Quint said with a derisive cackle. "If that doesn't work you can tickle him to death."
"What is that?" said Brody.
"Some people call it a bang stick. Others call it a power head. Anyway, it's basically an underwater gun." He pulled both ends of the stick, and it came apart in two pieces. "In here," he said, pointing to a chamber at the point where the stick had come apart, "you put a twelve-gauge shotgun shell." He took a shotgun shell from his pocket and pushed it into the chamber, then rejoined the two ends of the stick. "Then, when you get close enough to the fish, you jab it at him and the shell goes off. If you hit him right --in the brain's the only sure place --you kill him."
"Even a fish that big?"
"I think so. If I hit him right."
"And if you don't? Suppose you miss by just a hair."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"I would be, too," said Quint. "I don't think I'd like five thousand pounds of pissed-off dinosaur trying to eat me."
"That's not my worry," said Hooper. "What concerns me is that if I miss, I might drive him off. He'd probably sound, and we'd never know if he died or not."
"Until he ate someone else," said Brody.
"That's right."
"You're fucking crazy," said Quint.
"Am I, Quint? You're not having much success with this fish. We could stay here all month and let him eat your bait right out from under us."
"He'll come up," said Quint. "Mark my words."
"You'll be dead of old age before he comes up, Quint. I think this fish has you all
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file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt shook. He's not playing by the rules."
Quint looked at Hooper and said evenly, "You telling me my business, boy?"
"No. But I am telling you I think this fish is more than you can handle."
"That right, boy? You think you can do better 'n Quint?"
"Call it that if you want. I think I can kill the fish."
"Fine and dandy. You're gonna get your chance." Brody said, "Come on. We can't let him go in that thing."
"What are you bitchin' about?" said Quint. "From what I seen, you just as soon he went down there and never come up. At least that'd stop him from --"
"Shut your mouth!" Brody's emotions were jumbled. Part of him didn't care whether Hooper lived or died --might even relish the prospect of Hooper's death. But such vengeance would be hollow --and quite possibly, unmerited. Could he really wish a man dead? No. Not yet.
"Go on," Quint said to Hooper. "Get in that thing."
"Right away." Hooper removed his shirt, sneakers, and trousers, and began to pull the neoprene suit over his legs. "When I'm inside," he said, forcing his arms into the rubber sleeves of the jacket, "stand up here and keep an eye. Maybe you can use the rifle if he gets close enough to the surface." He looked at Quint. "You can be ready with the harpoon... if you want to."
"I'll do what I'll do," said Quint. "You worry about yourself." When he was dressed, Hooper fit the regulator onto the neck of the air tank, tightened the wing nut that held it in place, and opened the air valve. He sucked two breaths from the tank to make sure it was feeding air. "Help me put this on, will you?" he
said to Brody.
Brody lifted the tank and held it while Hooper slipped his arms through the straps
and fastened a third strap around his middle. He put the face mask on his head. "I should have brought weights," said Hooper.
Quint said, "You should have brought brains." Hooper put his right wrist through the thong at the end of the power head, picked up the camera with his right hand, and said, "Okay." He walked to the gunwale. "If you'll each take a rope and pull, that'll bring the cage to the surface. Then I'll open the hatch and
go in through the top, and you can let the ropes go. It'll hang by the ropes. I won't use the
flotation tanks unless one of the ropes breaks."
"Or gets chewed through," said Quint.
Hooper looked at Quint and smiled. "Thanks for the thought." Quint and Brody pulled on the ropes, and the cage rose in the water. When the hatch broke the surface, Hooper said, "Okay, right there." He spat in the face mask, rubbed the saliva around on the glass, and fit the mask over his face. He reached for the regulator tube, put the mouthpiece in his mouth, and took a breath. Then he bent over the gunwale, unlatched the top of the hatch and flipped it open. He started to put a knee on the gunwale, but stopped. He took the mouthpiece out of his mouth and said, "I forgot something." His nose was encased in the mask, so his voice sounded thick and nasal. He walked across the deck and picked up his trousers. He rummaged through the pockets until he found what he was looking for. He unzipped his wet-suit jacket.
"What's that?" said Brody.
Hooper held up a shark's tooth, rimmed in silver. It was a duplicate of the one he
had given Ellen. He dropped it inside his wet suit and zipped up the jacket. "Can't be too
careful," he said, smiling. He crossed the deck again, put his mouthpiece in his mouth, and kneeled on the gunwale. He took a final breath and dove overboard through the open hatch. Brody watched him go, wondering if he really wanted to know the truth about Hooper and Ellen.
Hooper stopped himself before he hit the bottom of the cage. He curled around and stood up. He reached out the top of the hatch and pulled it closed. Then he looked up at Brody, put the thumb and index finger of his left hand together in the okay sign, and ducked down.
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"I guess we can let go," said Brody. They released the ropes and let the cage descend until the hatch was about four feet beneath the surface.
"Get the rifle," said Quint. "It's on the rack below. It's all loaded." He climbed
onto the transom and lifted the harpoon to his shoulder.
Brody went below, found the rifle, and hurried back on deck. He opened the breach and slid a cartridge into the chamber. "How much air does he have?" he said.
"I don't know," said Quint. "However much he has, I doubt he'll live to breathe it."
"Maybe you're right. But you said yourself you never know what these fish will do."
"Yeah, but this is different. This is like putting your hand in a fire and hoping you
won't get burned. A sensible man don't do it."
Below, Hooper waited until the bubbly froth of his descent had dissipated. There was water in his mask, so he tilted his head backward, pressed on the top of the faceplate,
and blew through his nose until the mask was dear. He felt serene. It was the pervasive sense of freedom and ease that he always felt when he dived. He was alone in blue silence speckled with shafts of sunlight that danced through the water. The only sounds were those he made breathing --a deep, hollow noise as he breathed in, a soft thudding of
bubbles as he exhaled. He held his breath, and the silence was complete. Without weights, he was too buoyant, and he had to hold on to the bars to keep his tank from clanging against the hatch overhead. He turned around and looked up at the hull of the boat, a gray body that sat above him, bouncing slowly. At first, the cage annoyed him. It confined him, restricted him, prevented him from enjoying the grace of underwater movement. But then he remembered why he was there, and he was grateful. He looked for the fish. He knew it couldn't be sitting beneath the boat, as Quint had thought. It could not "sit" anywhere, could not rest or stay still. It had to move to survive.
Even with the bright sunlight, the visibility in the murky water was poor --no more than forty feet. Hooper turned slowly around, trying to pierce the edge of gloom and grasp any sliver of color or movement. He looked beneath the boat, where the water turned from blue to gray to black. Nothing. He looked at his watch, calculating that if he
controlled his breathing, he could stay down for at least half an hour more. Carried by the tide, one of the small white squid slipped between the bars of the cage and, tethered by twine, fluttered in Hooper's face. He pushed it out of the cage. He glanced downward, started to look away, then snapped his eyes down again. Rising at him from the darkling blue --slowly, smoothly --was the shark. It rose with no
apparent effort, an angel of death gliding toward an appointment foreordained. Hooper stared, enthralled, impelled to flee but unable to move. As the fish drew nearer, he marveled at its colors: the flat brown-grays seen on the surface had vanished. The top of the immense body was a hard ferrous gray, bluish where dappled with streaks of sun. Beneath the lateral line, all was creamy, ghostly white. Hooper wanted to raise his camera, but his arm would not obey. In a minute, he said to himself, in a minute.
The fish came closer, silent as a shadow, and Hooper drew back. The head was only a few feet from the cage when the fish turned and began to pass before Hooper's eyes --casually, as if in proud display of its incalculable mass and power. The snout passed first, then the jaw, slack and smiling, armed with row upon row of serrate triangles. And then the black, fathomless eye, seemingly riveted upon him. The gills rippled --bloodless wounds in the steely skin.
Tentatively, Hooper stuck a hand through the bars and touched the flank. It felt cold and hard, not clammy but smooth as vinyl. He let his fingertips caress the flesh --past the pectoral fins, the pelvic fin, the thick, firm genital claspers --until finally (the
fish seemed to have no end) they were slapped away by the sweeping tail. The fish continued to move away from the cage. Hooper heard faint popping file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (120 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt noises, and he saw three straight spirals of angry bubbles speed from the surface, then slow and stop, well above the fish. Bullets. Not yet, he told himself. One more pass for pictures. The fish began to turn, banking, the rubbery pectoral fins changing pitch.
"What the hell is he doing down there?" said Brody. "Why didn't he jab him with the gun?"
Quint didn't answer. He stood on the transom, harpoon clutched in his fist, peering into the water. "Come up, fish," he said. "Come to Quint."
"Do you see it?" said Brody. "What's it doing?"
"Nothing. Not yet, anyway."
The fish had moved off to the limit of Hooper's vision --a spectral silver-gray blur tracing a slow circle. Hooper raised his camera and pressed the trigger. He knew the film would be worthless unless the fish moved in once more, but he wanted to catch the beast as it emerged from the darkness.
Through the viewfinder he saw the fish turn toward him. It moved fast, tail thrusting vigorously, mouth opening and closing as if gasping for breath. Hooper raised his right hand to change the focus. Remember to change it again, he told himself, when it turns.
But the fish did not turn. A shiver traveled the length of its body as it closed on
the cage. It struck the cage head on, the snout ramming between two bars and spreading them. The snout hit Hooper in the chest and knocked him backward. The camera flew from his hands, and the mouthpiece shot from his mouth. The fish turned on its side, and the pounding tail forced the great body farther into the cage. Hooper groped for his mouthpiece but couldn't find it. His chest was convulsed with the need for air.
"It's attacking!" screamed Brody. He grabbed one of the tether ropes and pulled, desperately trying to raise the cage.
"God damn your fucking soul!" Quint shouted.
"Throw it! Throw it!"
"I can't throw it! I gotta get him on the surface! Come up, you devil! You prick!"
The fish slid backward out of the cage and turned sharply to the right in a tight circle. Hooper reached behind his head, found the regulator tube, and followed it with his
hand until he located the mouthpiece. He put it in his mouth and, forgetting to exhale first, sucked for air. He got water, and he gagged and choked until at last the mouthpiece
cleared and he drew an agonized breath. It was then that he saw the wide gap in the bars and saw the giant head lunging through it. He raised his hands above his head, grasping at
the escape hatch.
The fish rammed through the space between the bars, spreading them still farther with each thrust of its tail. Hooper, flattened against the back of the cage, saw the mouth
reaching, straining for him. He remembered the power head, and he tried to lower his right arm and grab it. The fish thrust again, and Hooper saw with the terror of doom that the mouth was going to reach him.
The jaws dosed around his torso. Hooper felt a terrible pressure, as if his guts were being compacted. He jabbed his fist into the black eye. The fish bit down, and the last thing Hooper saw before he died was the eye gazing at him through a cloud of his own blood.
"He's got him!" cried Brody. "Do something!"
"The man is dead," Quint said.
"How do you know? We may be able to save him."
"He is dead."
Holding Hooper in its mouth, the fish backed out of the cage. It sank a few feet, chewing, swallowing the viscera that were squeezed into its gullet. Then it shuddered and thrust forward with its tail, driving itself and prey upward in the water.
"He's coming up!" said Brody.
"Grab the rifle!" Quint cocked his hand for the throw. The fish broke water fifteen feet from the boat, surging upward in a shower of spray. Hooper's body protruded from each side of the mouth, head and arms hanging file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (121 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt limply down one side, knees, calves, and feet from the other. In the few seconds while the fish was dear of the water, Brody thought he saw Hooper's glazed, dead eyes staring open through his face mask. As if in contempt and triumph, the fish hung suspended for an instant, challenging mortal vengeance. Simultaneously, Brody reached for the rifle and Quint cast the harpoon. The target
was huge, a field of white belly, and the distance was not too great for a successful throw
above water. But as Quint threw, the fish began to slide down in the water, and the iron went high.
For another instant, the fish remained on the surface, its head out of water, Hooper hanging from its mouth.
"Shoot!" Quint yelled. "For Christ sake, shoot!" Brody shot without aiming. The first two shots hit the water in front of the fish.
The third, to Brody's horror, struck Hooper in the neck.
"Here, give me the goddam thing!" said Quint, grabbing the rifle from Brody. In a single, quick motion he raised the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed off two shots. But the fish, with a last, vacant gaze, had already begun to slip beneath the surface. The bullets plopped harmlessly into the swirl where the head had been. The fish might never have been there. There was no noise, save the whisper of a breeze. From the surface the cage seemed undamaged. The water was calm. The only difference was that Hooper was gone.
"What do we do now?" said Brody. "What in the name of God can we do now?
There's nothing left. We might as well go back."
"We'll go back," said Quint. "For now."
"For now? What do you mean? There's nothing we can do. The fish is too much for us. It's not real, not natural."
"Are you beaten, man?"
"I'm beaten. All we can do is wait until God or nature or whatever the hell is doing this to us decides we've had enough. It's out of man's hands."
"Not mine," said Quint. "I am going to kill that thing."
"I'm not sure I can get any more money after what happened today."
"Keep your money. This is no longer a matter of money."
"What do you mean?" Brody looked at Quint, who was standing at the stern, looking at the spot where the fish's head had been, as if he expected it to reappear at any
moment clutching the shredded corpse in its mouth. He searched the sea, craving another confrontation.
Quint said to Brody, "I am going to kill that fish. Come if you want. Stay home if
you want. But I am going to kill that fish."
As Quint spoke, Brody looked into his eyes. They seemed as dark and bottomless as the eye of the fish.
"I'll come," said Brody. "I don't guess I have any choice."
"No," said Quint. "We have no choice." He took his knife from its sheath and handed it to Brody. "Here. Cut that cage loose and let's get out of here." When the boat was tied up at the dock, Brody walked toward his car. At the end of the dock there was a phone booth, and he stopped beside it, prompted by his earlier resolve to call Daisy Wicker. But he sup-pressed the impulse and moved on to his ear. What's the point? he thought. If there was anything, it's over now. Still, as he drove toward Amity, Brody wondered what Ellen's reaction had been when the Coast Guard had called her with the news of Hooper's death. Quint had radioed the Coast Guard before they started in, and Brody had asked the duty officer to phone Ellen and tell her that he, at least, was all right.
By the time Brody arrived home, Ellen had long since finished crying. She had wept mechanically, angrily, grieving not so much for Hooper as in hopelessness and bitterness at yet another death. She had been sadder at the disintegration of Larry Vaughan than she was now, for Vaughan had been a dear and close friend. Hooper had been a "lover" in only the most shallow sense of the word. She had not loved him. She file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (122 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt had used him, and though she was grateful for what he had given her, she felt no obligation to him. She was sorry he was dead, of course, just as she would have been sorry to hear that his brother, David, had died. In her mind they were both now relics of her distant past.
She heard Brody's car pull into the driveway, and she opened the back door. Lord, he looks whipped, she thought as she watched him walk toward the house. His eyes were red and sunken, and he seemed slightly hunched as he walked. She kissed him at the door and said, "You look like you could use a drink."
"That I could." He went into the living room and flopped into a chair.
"What would you like?"
"Anything. Just so long as it's strong."
She went into the kitchen, filled a glass with equal portions of vodka and orange juice, and brought it to him. She sat on the arm of his chair and ran her hand over his head. She smiled and said, "There's your bald spot. It's been so long since I touched your
bald spot that I'd forgotten it was there."
"I'm surprised there's any hair left at all. Christ, I'll never be as old as I feel
today."
"I'll bet. Well, it's over now."
"I wish it was," said Brody. "I truly do wish it was."
"What do you mean?' It is over, isn't it? There's nothing more you can do."
"We're going out tomorrow. Six o'clock."
"You're kidding."
"I wish I was."
"Why?" Ellen was stunned. "What do you think you can do?"
"Catch the fish. And kill it."
"Do you believe that?"
"I'm not sure. But Quint believes it. God, how he believes it."
"Then let him go. Let him get killed."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"It's my job."
"It is not your job!" She was furious, and scared, and tears began to well behind her eyes.
Brody thought for a moment and said, "No, you're right."
"Then why?"
"I don't think I can tell you. I don't think I know."
"Are you trying to prove something?"
"Maybe. I don't know. I didn't feel this way before. After Hooper was killed, I was ready to give it up."
"What changed your mind?"
"Quint, I guess."
"You mean you're letting him tell you what to do?"
"No. He didn't tell me anything. It's a feeling. I can't explain it. But giving up isn't
an answer. It doesn't put an end to anything."
"Why is an end so important?"
"Different reasons, I think. Quint feels that if he doesn't kill the fish, everything he
believes in is wrong."
"And you?"
Brody tried to smile. "Me, I guess I'm just a screwed-up cop."
"Don't joke with me!" Ellen cried, and tears spilled out of her eyes. "What about me and the children? Do you want to get killed?"
"No, God no. It's just..."
"You think it's all your fault. You think you're responsible."
"Responsible for what?"
"For that little boy and the old man. You think killing the shark will make everything all right again. You want revenge."
Brody sighed. "Maybe I do. I don't know. I feel... I believe that the only way file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (123 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
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town can be alive again is if we kill that thing."
"And you're willing to get killed trying to --"
"Don't be stupid! I'm not willing to get killed. I'm not even willing --if that's the
word you want to use --to go out in that goddam boat. You think I like it out there? I'm so scared every minute I'm out there I want to puke."
"Then why go?" She was pleading with him, begging. "Can't you ever think of anybody but yourself?"
Brody was shocked at the suggestion of selfishness. It had never occurred to him that he was being selfish, indulging a personal need for expiation. "I love you," he said.
"You know that... no matter what."
"Sure you do," she said bitterly. "Oh, sure you do." They ate dinner in silence. When they were finished, Ellen picked up the dishes, washed them, and went upstairs. Brody walked around the living room, turning out lights. Just as he reached for the switch to turn off the hall light, he heard a tap on the front door.
He opened it and saw Meadows.
"Hey, Harry," he said. "Come on in."
"No," said Meadows. "It's too late. I just wanted to drop this by." He handed Brody a manila envelope.
"What is it?"
"Open it and see. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Meadows turned and walked down the path to the curb, where his ear was parked, lights on and motor running. Brody shut the door and opened the envelope. Inside was a proof of the editorial page of the next day's Leader. The first two editorials had been circled in red grease pencil. Brody read:
A NOTE OF SORROW . . .
In the past three weeks, Amity has suffered through one horrible tragedy after another. Its citizens, and its friends, have been struck down by a savage menace that no one can deter, no one can explain.
Yesterday another human life was cut short by the Great White Shark. Matt Hooper, the young oceanographer from Woods Hole, was killed as he tried to kill the beast singlehandedly.
People may debate the wisdom of Mr. Hooper's daring attempt. But call it brave or foolhardy, there can be no debate about the motive that sent him on his fatal mission. He was trying to help Amity, spending his own time and money in an effort to restore peace to this despairing community.
He was a friend, and he gave his life so that we, his friends, might live.
. . . AND A VOTE OF THANKS
Ever since the marauding shark first came to Amity, one man has spent his every waking minute trying to protect his fellow citizens. That man is Police Chief Martin Brody.
After the first attack, Chief Brody wanted to inform the public of the danger and close the beaches. But a chorus of less prudent voices, including that of the editor of this newspaper, told him he was wrong. Play down the risk, we said, and it will disappear. It was we who were wrong. Some in Amity were slow to learn the lesson. When, after repeated attacks, Chief Brody insisted on keeping the beaches closed, he was vilified and threatened. A few of his most vocal critics were men motivated not by public-spiritedness but personal greed. Chief Brody persisted, and, once again, he was proven right.
Now Chief Brody is risking his life on the same expedition that took the life of Matt Hooper. We must all offer our prayers for his safe return... and our thanks for his extraordinary fortitude and integrity. file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (124 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:23 AM]
file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt Brody said aloud, "Thank you, Harry."
Around midnight, the wind began to blow hard from the northeast, whistling through the screens and soon bringing a driving rain that splashed on the bedroom floor. Brody got out of bed and shut the window. He tried to go back to sleep, but his mind refused to rest. He got up again, put on his bathrobe, went downstairs to the living room, and turned
on the television. He switched channels until he found a movie --Weekend at the Waldorf, with Ginger Rogers. Then he sat down in a chair and promptly slipped into a fitful doze.
He awoke at five, to the whine of the television test pattern, turned off the set, and
listened for the wind. It had moderated and seemed to be coming from a different quarter, but it still carried rain. He debated calling Quint, but thought, no, no use: we'll be going
even if this blows up into a gale. He went upstairs and quietly dressed. Before he left the
bedroom, he looked at Ellen, who had a frown on her sleeping face. "I do love you, you know," he whispered, and he kissed her brow. He started down the stairs and then, impulsively, went and looked in the boys' bedrooms. They were all asleep.