84 Man Against Shark 



[Porpoises often seem to have no fear of sharks. In the Gulf of Mexico, I 

 know, porpoises will sometimes chase sharks out of a feeding area. In captivity, 

 at least, porpoises have even been accused of ganging up and killing a shark, 

 apparently by butting its relatively delicate gill slits and crowding it against the 

 wall of the tank, preventing it from swimming— and thus breathing.] 



While we were setting up the Pindimar station, several bathers were attacked 

 by sharks at Sydney's beaches. A day after a fatal attack at Bondi, one of 

 Sydney's most popular beaches, we sent a shark boat down to sweep the waters 

 of any sharks that might be around. The man-eater who attacked the bather 

 was shrugged off by some as a rare rogue whose presence at the beach was 

 extraordinary. We didn't find the sharks rare; we caught 29 sharks in one day, 

 right off Bondi. Most of them were man-eaters, and one of them, a 14-foot 

 Tiger, was caught in the first line of breakers, a favorite rendezvous for surf 

 enthusiasts. 



When the station was running smoothly at Pindimar, my job was done. I 

 could have stayed on, but I was seized by wanderlust again. 



After a brief stay in Honolulu, where I got in some shark fishing for sport 

 instead of profit, I received my next assignment: the Caribbean. 



ToRTOLA, British West Indies 



Tortola means Land of the Turtle Dove, and, though the turtle doves have 

 long since vanished, it is the kind of beautiful, peaceful island that would be a 

 homeland for them. Tortola is about 12 miles long and 3 miles wide at its 

 broadest point. Its only community is Roadtown, a neat, quiet little town which 

 has the charm of a small English village. 



There are sharks around Tortola, and there is obeah in the air. Obeah is a 

 kind of sorcery that originated in Africa and is still believed in here. 



On one of my first hunts here, I towed out a horse carcass. It didn't work 

 the way it did in Honolulu. "Perhaps I need obeah,^'' I mused, as I cut loose 

 the carcass and sailed home empty-handed. 



Just then, a school of porpoises appeared. I harpooned a large one, cut him 

 up for bait and drew off his blood into a bucket. My companion in the boat 

 was John Neville, one of the best shark-catchers on the island and a man who 

 reeked of the scent of shark oil. He ate shark liver raw. He rubbed himself with 

 shark oil. He even used soap he made from shark oil, lye and ashes. 



John and I let out a trawl line with several hooks on it. Each hook was baited 

 with porpoise, and the sea where we dropped the line was tinged with porpoise 

 blood, which we dumped, still warm, from the bucket. 



No sooner had the third hook hit the water, than down went the barrel that 

 marked the end of the trawl line. A shark! As we started to haul him in, two 

 more sharks hit two other hooks on the trawl line. 



Three sharks were all we could accommodate in our small boat, so we 

 headed for port. The next morning, we returned to the trawl line. Five more 

 big sharks hung on the only remaining hooks. The rest of the hooks had been 

 ripped off the line. 



Never before had I seen sharks go so avidly for bait. I wondered, "Was it 

 the porpoise blood— or the scent of John Neville?" 



