Captain Shark-Killer 65 



The shark, quite suddenly, is gone. No shadow. No fin. Nothing. The sea 

 is deserted— at least by life. For the dead horse still floats there, awaiting its fate. 



In twenrv' minutes or so, the shark is back. This time four or five other sharks 

 accompany him. They prowl about, slowly circling closer and closer to the 

 carcass. Occasionally, they nose it. But they seem hesitant, cautious. 



If this were a white horse they would have attacked it long ago. But a dark 

 horse does not quickly arouse the shark's hunger. 



Suddenly, they strike! The first shark bites a huge piece of flesh from the 

 corpse's neck. Then the second darts in for a bite. Then the third. The water 

 is swirling now with hungry, rapacious sharks bathed in the blood of their prey. 

 A gleaming skeleton is rapidly appearing where moments before there was the 

 outline of a horse. Slowly, steadily, I draw the line attached to the horse closer 

 and closer to the boat. Oblivious to the boat— and the gaping amateur fishermen 

 aboard her— the sharks follow the corpse, still feeding on it savagely. 



I hand the line to one of the boys and turn my attention to the fishermen. 



"Here," I tell one of them, "hold the harpoon like this. Then strike down 

 into the neck or gill of the biggest one. And don't fall overboard!" 



The fisherman grasps the harpoon tightly with one hand— and with his other 

 hand holds onto the gunwale. He is visibly shaking, he looks as if he is getting 

 seasick, and he cannot tear his wide-open eyes from the seething water. So 

 close is the orgy of feasting that blood-flecked spray occasionally showers the 

 fisherman. 



"All right," I shout to the harpoon-holder. "Take that big one— the one that 

 is biting right now!" 



The fisherman pales— and freezes. 



"You, you take it, Captain," he says in a quavering voice. "I don't think I— 

 Here, I might miss—" 



I take the harpoon and hurl it. The iron strikes home into the forebody of 

 the biggest shark! Immediately, he spews forth all he has eaten. Instantly, this 

 is devoured by the other sharks. They will turn on him next, so he thrashes a 

 moment, and then sounds. 



Away goes the boat, towed by the wounded shark. Five minutes, he tows. 

 The scene of the bloody feast is far behind us. Ten minutes, he tows. The fisher- 

 men look worried. They wonder how long this can go on. 



I feel the line. It gives the jerks that signal the fact that the shark is rolling— 

 and thus done for. Too weak to pull against the line, he can only twist over and 

 over, trying to get loose, but only winding the line about his body. 



I begin to pull in the line, keeping a steady pressure on it. The wet slack 

 comes in, fathom after fathom. Then, out of the sea, his great jaws still gnashing, 

 his arrogant eye still seeing, comes the shark, a 12-footer, vanquished but 

 unyielding. 



Swiftly, he is hooked through the mouth as he is drawn alongside the boat. 

 He is securely held now, but he is thrashing, beating the water with his tail 

 and drenching us with spray. We get a line around his tail and make it fast to 

 a stern cleat. A sharp thrust from a whale-spade through the brain finishes him. 

 The harpoon and hook are cut loose, and, with our first catch under our belt, 

 we go after his companions. 



