76 Man Against Shark 



rolling over and over and pounding the water with his tail. After a few minutes, 

 he settles toward the bottom, and my catch is saved." 



Captain Caswell later taught his son, Wallace, to ride sharks. But what the 

 old Captain did to save his catch, Wallace did for a living. Billed as the "Tarzan 

 of the Sea," Wallace would enter a tank at a seaside resort, and, while a crowd 

 of paying viewers gaped, battle a shark. Wallace always won. 



(During the New York World's Fair of 1939-40, Billy Rose wanted to stage 

 a sensational show— Captain Caswell versus a shark. I was hired to design the 

 tank, make arrangements for the delivery of sea water to it, and, of course, 

 catch the sharks. It would have been a great show, but the New York Humane 

 Society got wind of it, and the project was quietly dropped.) 



Isle of Warimos, French Somaliland 



When my employers at the Ocean Leather Company once asked me how far 

 I would be willing to go to hunt sharks, I said, "To the ends of the earth." This 

 is the end of the earth. Unbelievably hot, unbelievably desolate, this island is so 

 barren not a blade of grass grows upon it, let alone a tree. It lies, low and sun- 

 baked, about 8 miles south of Djibouti, the only place in French Somaliland 

 that could be loosely termed a city. Djibouti has been called the hottest place 

 on earth. Warimos is hotter. 



Djibouti is on the Gulf of Aden, near the neck of water that connects the 

 southern terminus of the Red Sea with the Gulf of Aden. Here, I was told, an 

 experimental shark station could be set up. If it proved successful, another 

 would be established on Madagascar. 



On the way to Djibouti, I met Ras Tafari, a friendly, dignified little African. 

 I invited him shark-fishing and he invited me to a lion hunt. Neither of us 

 could accept the other's invitation. I was about to plunge into my job as a 

 shark fisherman, and Ras Tafari was heading for his new job. He was on his 

 way to Ethiopia, where he would be crowned Haile Selassie, Emperor of 

 Ethiopia and Lion of Judah. 



I often envied him his palace, in the months that followed. Imagine landing 

 on the moon and trying to build something there. That is the way it was on 

 Warimos. Lumber had to be brought in from Trieste. Water, scarce even in 

 Djibouti, was non-existent on Warimos. Our drinking water was brought to the 

 camp on the backs of donkeys from an oasis 10 miles in the desert. Other water 

 came by boat. We had ice brought in, too— by a native runner, who carried it 

 from Djibouti to the island, which was accessible by foot twice a day at low 

 tide. 



At night, hyenas prowled the island, looking for the shark carcasses which 

 they could smell from shore. The terrifying howls of the hyenas woke us in 

 the middle of the night, frightened the natives, and even sent the dogs whimper- 

 ing under the beds. 



A dry, unceasing southeast wind swept across the parched land, carrying 

 sand and dust into everyone's eyes. The wind had been blowing for centuries, 

 and it filled the floor of the sea around the island with fine mud. The water was 

 always muddy; particles of sand and dirt were constantly being deposited on the 



