Jaws

by Peter Benchley

“It’s attacking the boat!” cried Brody. Involuntarily, he backed into the seat of the fighting chair and tried to draw away.

  Quint came down from the flying bridge, cursing. “No fucking warning this time,” he said. “Hand me that iron.”

  The fish was almost at the boat. It raised its flat head, gazed vacantly at Hooper with one of its black eyes, and passed under the boat. Quint raised the harpoon and turned back to the port side. The throwing pole struck the fighting chair, and the dart dislodged and fell to the deck.

  “Cocksucker!” shouted Quint. “Is he still there?” He reached down, grabbed the dart, and stuck it back on the end of the pole.

  “Your side, your side!” yelled Hooper. “He’s passed this side already.”

  Quint turned back in time to see the gray-brown shape of the fish as it pulled away from the boat and began to dive. He dropped the harpoon and, in a rage, snatched up the rifle and emptied the clip into the water behind the fish. “Bastard!” he said. “Give me some warning next time.” Then he put the rifle down and laughed. “I suppose I should be grateful,” he said. “At least he didn’t attack the boat.” He looked at Brody and said, “Gave you a bit of a start.”

  “More ’n a bit,” said Brody. He shook his head, as if to reassemble his thoughts and sort out his visions. “I’m still not sure I believe it.” His mind was full of images of a torpedo shape streaking upward in the blackness and tearing Christine Watkins to pieces; of the boy on the raft, unknowing, unsuspecting, until suddenly seized by a nightmare creature; and of the nightmares he knew would come to him, dreams of violence and blood and a woman screaming at him that he killed her son. “You can’t tell me that thing’s a fish,” he said. “It’s more like one of those things they make movies about. You know, the monster from twenty million fathoms.”

  “It’s a fish, all right,” said Hooper. He was still visibly excited. “And what a fish! Damn near megalodon.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Brody.

  “That’s an exaggeration,” said Hooper, “but if there’s something like this swimming around, what’s to say megalodon isn’t? What do you say, Quint?”

  “I’d say the sun’s got to you,” said Quint.

  “No, really. How big do you think these fish grow?”

  “I’m no good at guessing. I’d put that fish at twenty feet, so I’d say they grow to twenty feet. If I see one tomorrow that’s twenty-five feet, I’ll say they grow to twenty-five feet. Guessing is bullshit.”

  “How big do they grow?” Brody asked, wishing immediately that he hadn’t said anything. He felt that the question subordinated him to Hooper.

  But Hooper was too caught up in the moment, too flushed and happy, to be patronizing. “That’s the point,” he said. “Nobody knows. There was one in Australia that got snarled in some chains and drowned. He was measured at thirty-six feet, or so said the reports.”

  “That’s almost twice as big as this one,” said Brody. His mind, barely able to comprehend the fish he had seen, could not grasp the immensity of the one Hooper described.

  Hooper nodded. “Generally, people seem to accept thirty feet as a maximum size, but the figure is fancy. It’s like what Quint says. If they see one tomorrow that’s sixty feet, they’ll accept sixty feet. The really terrific thing, the thing that blows your mind, is imagining—and it could be true—that there are great whites way down in the deep that are a hundred feet long.”

  “Oh bullshit,” said Quint.

  “I’m not saying it’s so,” said Hooper. “I’m saying it could be so.”

  “Still bullshit.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Look, the Latin name for this fish is Carcharodon carcharias, okay? The closest ancestor we can find for it is something called Carcharodon megalodon, a fish that existed maybe thirty or forty thousand years ago. We have fossil teeth from megalodon. They’re six inches long. That would put the fish at between eighty and a hundred feet. And the teeth are exactly like the teeth you see in great whites today. What I’m getting at is, suppose the two fish are really one species. What’s to say megalodon is really extinct? Why should it be? Not lack of food. If there’s enough down there to support whales, there’s enough to support sharks that big. Just because we’ve never seen a hundred-foot white doesn’t mean they couldn’t exist. They’d have no reason to come to the surface. All their food would be way down in the deep. A dead one wouldn’t float to shore, because they don’t have flotation bladders. Can you imagine what a hundred-foot white would look like? Can you imagine what it could do, what kind of power it would have?”

  “I don’t want to,” said Brody.

  “It would be like a locomotive with a mouth full of butcher knives.”

  “Are you saying this is just a baby?” Brody was beginning to feel lonely and vulnerable. A fish as large as what Hooper was describing could chew the boat to splinters.

  “No, this is a mature fish,” said Hooper. “I’m sure of it. But it’s like people. Some people are five feet tall, some people are seven feet tall. Boy, what I’d give to have a look at a big megalodon.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” said Brody.

  “No, man, just think of it. It would be like finding the Abominable Snowman.”

  “Hey, Hooper,” said Quint, “do you think you can stop the fairy tales and start throwing chum overboard? I’d kind of like to catch a fish.”

  “Sure,” said Hooper. He returned to his post at the stern and began to ladle chum into the water.

  “You think he’ll come back?” said Brody.

  “I don’t know,” said Quint. “You never know what these bastards are going to do.” From a pocket he took a note pad and a pencil. He extended his left arm and pointed it toward shore. He closed his right eye and sighted down the index finger of his left hand, then scribbled something on the pad. He moved his hand a couple of inches to the left, sighted again, and made another note. Anticipating a question from Brody, Quint said, “Taking bearings. I want to see where we are, so if he doesn’t show up for the rest of today, I’ll know where to come tomorrow.”

  Brody looked toward shore. Even shading his eyes and squinting, all he could see was a dim gray line of land. “What are you taking them on?”

  “Lighthouse on the point and the water tower in town. They line up different ways depending where you are.”

  “You can see them?” Brody strained his eyes, but he saw nothing more distinct than a lump in the line.

  “Sure. You could too, if you’d been out here for thirty years.”

  Hooper smiled and said, “Do you really think the fish will stay in one place?”

  “I don’t know,” said Quint. “But this is where we found him this time, and we didn’t find him anywhere else.”

  “And he sure as hell stayed around Amity,” said Brody.

  “That’s because he had food,” said Hooper. There was no irony in his voice, no taunt. But the remark was like a needle stabbing into Brody’s brain.

  They waited for three more hours, but the fish never returned. The tide slackened, carrying the slick ever slower.

  At a little after five, Quint said, “We might as well go in. It’s enough to piss off the Good Humor man.”

  “Where do you think he went?” said Brody. The question was rhetorical; he knew there was no answer.

  “Anywhere,” said Quint. “When you want ’em, they’re never around. It’s only when you don’t want ’em, and don’t expect ’em, that they show up. Contrary fuckers.”

  “And you don’t think we should spend the night, to keep the slick going.”

  “No. Like I said, if the slick gets too big, it’s no good. We don’t have any food out here. And last but not least, you’re not paying me for a twenty-four-hour day.”

  “If I could get the money, would you do it?”

  Quint thought for a moment. “Nope. It’s tempting, though, ’cause I don’t think there’s much chance anything would happen at night. The slick would be big and confu
sing, and even if he came right up alongside and looked at us, we wouldn’t know he was there unless he took a bite out of us. So it’d be taking your money just to let you sleep on board. But I won’t do it, for two reasons. First off, if the slick did get too big, it would screw us up for the next day. Second, I like to get this boat in at night.”

  “I guess I can’t blame you,” said Brody. “Your wife must like it better, too, having you home.”

  Quint said flatly, “Got no wife.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I never saw the need for one.” Quint turned and climbed the ladder to the flying bridge.

  Ellen was fixing the children’s supper when the doorbell rang. The boys were watching television in the living room, and she called to them, “Would somebody please answer the door?”

  She heard the door open, heard some words exchanged, and, a moment later, saw Larry Vaughan standing at the kitchen door. It had been less than two weeks since she had last seen him, yet the change in his appearance was so startling that she couldn’t help staring at him. As always, he was dressed perfectly—a two-button blue blazer, button-down shirt, gray slacks, and Gucci loafers. It was his face that had changed. He had lost weight, and like many people who have no excess on their bodies, Vaughan showed the loss in his face. His eyes had receded in their sockets, and their color seemed to Ellen lighter than normal—a pasty gray. His skin looked gray, too, and appeared to droop at the cheekbones. His lips were moist, and he licked them every few seconds.

  Embarrassed when she found herself staring, Ellen lowered her eyes and said, “Larry. Hello.”

  “Hello, Ellen. I stopped by to …” Vaughan backed up a few steps and peered into the living room. “First of all, do you suppose I could have a drink?”

  “Of course. You know where everything is. Help yourself. I’d get it for you, but my hands are covered with chicken.”

  “Don’t be silly. I can find everything.” Vaughan opened the cupboard where the liquor was kept, took out a bottle, and poured a glass full of gin. “As I started to say, I stopped by to say farewell.”

  Ellen stopped shuffling pieces of chicken in the frying pan and said, “You’re going away? For how long?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps for good. There’s nothing here for me anymore.”

  “What about your business?”

  “That’s gone. Or it soon will be.”

  “What do you mean, gone? A business doesn’t just go away.”

  “No, but I won’t own it anymore. What few assets there are will belong to my … partners.” He spat the word and then, as if to cleanse his mouth of its unpleasant residue, took a long swallow of gin. “Has Martin told you about our conversation?”

  “Yes.” Ellen looked down at the frying pan and stirred the chicken.

  “I imagine you don’t think very highly of me anymore.”

  “It’s not up to me to judge you, Larry.”

  “I never wanted to hurt anybody. I hope you believe that.”

  “I believe it. How much does Eleanor know?”

  “Nothing, poor dear. I want to spare her, if I can. That’s one reason I want to move away. She loves me, you know, and I’d hate to take that love away … from either of us.” Vaughan leaned against the sink. “You know something? Sometimes I think—and I’ve thought this from time to time over the years—that you and I would have made a wonderful couple.”

  Ellen reddened. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re from a good family. You know all the people I had to fight to get to know. We would have fit together and fit in Amity. You’re lovely and good and strong. You would have been a real asset to me. And I think I could have given you a life you would have loved.”

  Ellen smiled. “I’m not as strong as you think, Larry. I don’t know what kind of … asset I would have been.”

  “Don’t belittle yourself. I only hope Martin appreciates the treasure he has.” Vaughan finished his drink and put the glass in the sink. “Anyway, no point in dreaming.” He walked across the kitchen, touched Ellen’s shoulder, and kissed the top of her head. “Good-bye, dear,” he said. “Think of me once in a while.”

  Ellen looked at him. “I will.” She kissed his cheek. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. Vermont, maybe, or New Hampshire. I might sell land to the skiing crowd. Who knows? I might even take up the sport myself.”

  “Have you told Eleanor?”

  “I told her we might be moving. She just smiled and said, ‘Whatever you wish.’ ”

  “Are you leaving soon?”

  “As soon as I chat with my lawyers about my … liabilities.”

  “Send us a card so we’ll know where you are.”

  “I will. Good-bye.” Vaughan left the room, and Ellen heard the screen door close behind him.

  When she had served the children their supper, Ellen went upstairs and sat on her bed. “A life you would have loved,” Vaughan had said. What would a life with Larry Vaughan have been like? There would have been money, and acceptance. She would never have missed the life she led as a girl, for it would never have ended. There would have been no craving for renewal and self-confidence and confirmation of her femininity, no need for a fling with someone like Hooper. But no. She might have been driven to it by boredom, like so many of the women who spent their weeks in Amity while their husbands were in New York. Life with Larry Vaughan would have been life without a challenge, a life of cheap satisfactions.

  As she pondered what Vaughan had said, she began to recognize the richness of her life: a relationship with Brody more rewarding than any Larry Vaughan would ever experience; an amalgam of minor trials and tiny triumphs that, together, added up to something akin to joy. And as her recognition grew, so did a regret that it had taken her so long to see the waste of time and emotion in trying to cling to her past. Suddenly she felt fear—fear that she was growing up too late, that something might happen to Brody before she could savor her awareness. She looked at her watch: 6:20. He should have been home by now. Something has happened to him, she thought. Oh please, God, not him.

  She heard the door open downstairs. She jumped off the bed, ran into the hall and down the stairs. She wrapped her arms around Brody’s neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.

  “My God,” he said when she let him go. “That’s quite a welcome.”

  13

  “You’re not putting that thing on my boat,” said Quint.

  They stood on the dock in the brightening light. The sun had cleared the horizon, but it lay behind a low bank of clouds that touched the eastern sea. A gentle wind blew from the south. The boat was ready to go. Barrels lined the bow; rods stood straight in their holders, leaders snapped into eyelets on the reels. The engine chugged quietly, sputtering bubbles as tiny waves washed against the exhaust pipe, coughing diesel fumes that rose and were carried away by the breeze.

  At the end of the dock a man got into a pickup truck and started the engine, and the truck began to move slowly off down the dirt road. The words stenciled on the door of the truck read: Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute.

  Quint stood with his back to the boat, facing Brody and Hooper, who stood on each side of an aluminum cage. The cage was slightly over six feet tall and six feet wide and four feet deep. Inside, there was a control panel: atop were two cylindrical tanks. On the floor of the cage were a scuba tank, a regulator, a face mask, and a wet suit.

  “Why not?” said Hooper. “It doesn’t weigh much, and I can lash it down out of the way.”

  “Take up too much room.”

  “That’s what I said,” said Brody. “But he wouldn’t listen.”

  “What the hell is it anyway?” said Quint.

  “It’s a shark cage,” said Hooper. “Divers use them to protect themselves when they’re swimming in the open ocean. I had it sent down from Woods Hole—in that truck that just left.”

  “And what do you plan to do with it?”

  “When we find the
fish, or when the fish finds us, I want to go down in the cage and take some pictures. No one’s ever been able to photograph a fish this big before.”

  “Not a chance,” said Quint. “Not on my boat.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s foolishness, that’s why. A sensible man knows his limits. That’s beyond our limits.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s beyond any man’s limits. A fish that big could eat that cage for breakfast.”

  “But would he? I don’t think so. I think he might bump it, might even mouth it, but I don’t think he’d seriously try to eat it.”

  “He would if he saw something as juicy as you inside.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, forget it.”

  “Look, Quint, this is a chance of a lifetime. Not just for me. I wouldn’t have thought of doing it until I saw the fish yesterday. It’s unique, at least in this hemisphere. And even though people have filmed great whites before, no one’s ever filmed a twenty-foot white swimming in the open ocean. Never.”

  “He said forget it,” said Brody. “So forget it. Besides, I don’t want the responsibility. We’re out here to kill that fish, not make a home movie about it.”

  “What responsibility? You’re not responsible for me.”

  “Oh yes I am. The town of Amity is paying for this trip, so what I say goes.”

  Hooper said to Quint, “I’ll pay you.”

  Quint smiled. “Oh yeah? How much?”

  “Forget it,” said Brody. “I don’t care what Quint says. I say you’re not bringing that thing along.”

  Hooper ignored him and said to Quint, “A hundred dollars. Cash. In advance, the way you like it.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

  “I said no!” said Brody.

  “What do you say, Quint? A hundred bucks. Cash. Here it is.” He counted five twenties and held them out to Quint.

  “I don’t know.” Then Quint reached for the money and said, “Shit, I don’t suppose it’s my business to keep a man from killing himself if he wants to.”

  “You put that cage on the boat,” Brody said to Quint, “and you don’t get your four hundred.” If Hooper wants to kill himself, Brody thought, let him do it on his own time.