64 Man Against Shark 



another line was secured around his tail. Now the shark hung suspended within 

 reach of the rail. 



Swish! The glint of a big knife caught my eye as a native hacked oflF the 

 shark's tail. The rest of the boys aboard danced around shouting curses at the 

 mutilated enemy. Suddenly, the falls were slacked off, the boy in the boat cut 

 the hook from the mouth and the shark was free— free to die a cruel death. For, 

 if he were not immediately devoured by other sharks, he would soon weaken 

 from loss of blood and die. This one died at the jaws of other sharks. Killed by 

 shark and man, by hunger and vengeance. 



Even then, I wondered if there could be some commercial use for sharks. 

 The thought faded away; I had more pressing business there in the islands with 

 our various shipping enterprises. But the thought— and the persistent desire to 

 catch sharks— never left me. 



It was off Honolulu one day that I saw the biggest shark in the sea, the 

 Whale shark. It was about 35 feet long, and it seemed to be suspended in the 

 water, no more than 2 fathoms below the surface, right next to our small boat. 

 I could see its checkerboard skin so clearly I felt I could almost lean out of the 

 boat and touch it. 



The presence of our boat did not disturb this huge, sluggish shark. But my 

 brother and I were practically holding our breath while we decided how to 

 take him. We were determined to bring him in. Then, both of us realized at 

 almost the same moment the awful truth. We had left port without a harpoon! 

 We didn't have so much as a marlin spike aboard. So we just drifted there 

 and after a while the biggest shark I have ever seen slowly swam out of my 

 sight. Once again, the old adage held true: the biggest ones always get away. 



My curiosity about sharks and my frequent harpoonings of sharks that 

 attacked the dead horses we hauled to sea eventually led to a sideline for Young 

 Brothers, Ltd.— shark hunting. 



A shark hunt usually began with a phone call to our boathouse. "Hello, 

 Young Brothers? Is Bill there— Sharky Bill. Well, tell him there's a party at 

 the hotel who wants to go shark fishing." 



When I got a call such as that, I would telephone the Humane Society and 

 offer to take a condemned horse off their hands. 



The shark hunt begins. The poor old horse is led to the end of the wharf 

 and put out of its misery. It tumbles into the water at the end of a stout line. 

 The fishing party arrives from the hotel and boards the boat. The fishermen 

 look anxiously at a crewman honing a harpoon. 



Not far out of the harbor one of the boys slits the carcass up the belly. 

 Soon the water is saturated with the blood and scent of fresh-killed prey. We 

 stop the boat. The fishermen are tense, not quite sure what is going to happen 

 next. We tell them to keep quiet. They don't utter a sound. All that can be 

 heard is the sound of the waves lapping at the sides of the boat. The sea is 

 still, except for the bobbing body of the horse. 



I can see, far off, a shadow in the water, zig-zagging ever closer to the 

 surface and a black triangular fin cuts the water above it. Now it is the fin that 

 is zig-zagging. It circles the carcass. A couple of times. A head appears forward 

 of the fin and a cold, expressionless eye can be seen. It is the eye of a shark. 



