Captain Shark-Killer 77 



water by the wind and drifting to the bottom. Mud clung to our nets and caked 

 the hulls of our boats. But that mud was a good omen, for mud means sharks. 



Our shark-hunters were a motley lot: tall, regal Abyssinians; wiry little 

 Arabs; Dankali natives from northern French Somaliland; their long-time rivals, 

 Somali from the south. Both the Somali and the Dankali carried knives. The 

 natural rivalry between them would have been murderous if we hadn't dis- 

 armed them. We took advantage of the rivalry by urging them to compete 

 against each other as shark-catchers. 



My private shadow was a big, muscular, ugly Somali who wore tattered 

 dungarees and a vest. He was handy with tools and quick witted. He attached 

 himself to me and called himself Ali Young. He dogged my footsteps so closely, 

 ashore or afloat, he was something of a nuisance. 



But if he hadn't been an arm's length away from me one day . . . 



We were in a small boat about 5 miles southeast of Warimos. It was a spot 

 known for big sharks— Kabir Lokho?n, the natives said. At daybreak, we started 

 hauling in our first shark net. We pulled in a few Mantas, a couple of Hammer- 

 heads and some Tigers. Ali was ever at my side, as I helped to work the net or 

 manhandled the writhing sharks and Mantas into the stowage compartment. 



The nets were slippery with mud, and, as the nets were taken aboard, they 

 coated the decks with slime. The sea was pretty rough. And the slippery decks 

 didn't help us keep our feet under us. Suddenly, the sea heaved mightily, and I 

 tumbled into a net which was already crowded with sharks. Just as I landed in 

 the net, I heard one of the boys scream: ''''Lokhom! Kabir lokhom! —^\\2ivV\ Big 

 shark!" 



I felt I was safe for a moment or two. I wasn't bleeding, so the sharks would 

 probably not attack me immediately. Luckily, I hadn't landed on any of them, 

 so I had not yet provoked them. And— except for the kabir lokhom who had just 

 swum into the net— the sharks were near exhaustion from their hours of struggle 

 in the net I now shared with them. 



The big Tiger was a different matter. He was after prey, for he was still 

 free and not yet entangled in the net. I felt I could hold him off momentarily 

 by taking a chance at splashing and thrashing about. Then I realized that I could 

 not move. A net is a treacherous thing, which I had learned to fear, for, if a 

 foot or arm is caught in it, a fatal entanglement almost surely begins. It was like 

 a variation on that old legend of the Tiger or the Lady. For me, it was the 

 Tiger or the lethal embrace of the net. 



Whenever I see the phrase "snatched from the jaws of death," I think of that 

 moment in the net, for that is exactly what Ali Young did. He reached down 

 and, holding onto the gunwale of the tossing boat with one hand, he grabbed 

 me with the other. He tightened his big hand around my wrist and plucked me 

 out of the sea. 



That night, Ali was the hero of the camp. His own account of the adventure 

 lost nothing in the telling. His listeners were properly awed by both the story 

 and the large supply of tobacco I had rewarded him with. 



One of the most spectacular catches off Warimos was made by a couple of 

 natives in the smallest boat we had. They were hauling in a net when they felt 

 something huge tugging it down. Inch by inch, they pulled the net up high 



