An Act of Kindness for a "Killer"

The day started well before the sun even had thoughts of cracking the sky. Lurching out of a beer assisted slumber at 3 in the morning, I slumped into my truck and headed west, towards the water. My father, a close friend of mine and I had chartered a fishing boat with 3 people we had never met before, found by a quick search on a fishing website that pairs people looking to cheapen a day on the water by matching them up for party boats and defraying the cost by increasing the number of people on board. Our first encounter with them was cordial, cups of steaming coffee switching hands for firm hand shakes and standard pleasantries. My father commented on the hint of red sky slowly edging up, saying that it would be a nice day. The water in the Gulf was smooth, not at all ruffled by wind. The Captain showed up a few minutes later, introduced himself and his gangly young first mate, and we climbed on board. We went going out for shark, seeking to battle razor toothed monsters that prowled the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. We came back humbled.

Our new fishing partners seemed like decent men, all in their early thirties, small beer bellies pushing at the hem of their sweatshirts, baseball hats pulled tight on their heads. They were avid fishermen, making it out to the ocean at least two times a month. This was their first shark expedition. They were excited at the thought of long, tiring bouts in the fishing chair hooked into a monster. I must admit, I was too, as was my friend Kevin. The conversation turned to what had been caught recently in the waters off Florida, the First Mate saying there were a few big thresher sharks, a tiger or two and a scattering of bulls, all caught in the last few weeks. The guys peppered the Mate with questions, laughing at the tales of the ones that had gotten away, and grew quiet as the Captain broke in with a report of a Great White sighting a few days prior, a rarity in these waters at this time of the year.

The engines slowed after a good 2 hours of sliding across pristinely calm water, the only disturbance caused by the large outboards cleaving through it. The Mate had rigged our lines during the trip out, filled the chum buckets with a foul, smelly mix of oily fish parts and was already hustling the chum overboard as we came to a gentle stop. The sliver of red in the sky was widening slowly, a few birds hung in the sky, the waters still seemed like tightly pulled plastic wrap, not a hint of swell anywhere. The chum drifted aimlessly behind us, a thick red, greasy trail floating off into the distance. The lines were set, small fish hooked and bound onto fist sized hooks and quickly dropped into the deep blue. We came to a gentlemen's agreement that the first fish on would be brought in by the other guys. Then we all found small nooks around the boat to lean into or sit on, and waited patiently. The Captain made rounds through the 2 groups, each having taken positions on separate sides of the boat. He talked with my father, an avid seaman, at length about the fishing industry and the new, stricter rules that were in place. Kevin and I made small talk. The other guys were laughing and talking about the shattering loss the Yankees suffered the day before. The mate rigged 3 smaller rods, handing 1 to each group and holding onto the last one. "There are always tuna around chum slicks, see what we find" he said with a smile. My father took the first shift, gazing out into the endless horizon, pulling his sunglasses on to ease the sun's morning rays off of his eyes.

Our Mate had hooked a few feisty tuna, fighting them briefly and swinging them on board. The other guys eagerly helped gaffing the larger ones, taking delight in violently hooking the bellies of the fish and shouting "Gut shot!" My father had hooked a small tuna, bringing it up as it frantically wriggled about on the end of the line. He quickly reached into its open mouth and flicked the hook out, tossing the still flapping fish back into the ocean. The guys on the other side of the boat assisted the Mate in gutting the tuna, stunning it first with a blow to its head with a small bat the Mate carried, then jabbing the fillet knife into it. They seemed to take extreme delight in all of this. Kevin and I looked on for a minute and turned away disgusted. It seemed senselessly violent. My father said nothing, watching the sea around him.

It was about four hours later, the sun glaring down mightily on us, with 2 more hours left to fish, when the heavy fishing rod on the right side of the boat slowly started to make noise. Any movement stopped and all eyes set intently on the reel. An instant later the line exploded out and stormed fiercely off of the reel. The guys on the other side of the boat scrambled over to the rod, the Mate shouting to get a rod holder belt on the one fighting the fish. The shortest one, Tony, was belted, quickly shoving the rod into the holder. His friends cheered him as he barely held on, mouth clamped tight, face turning red. The Mate reached over quickly to lessen the drag, easing Tony's struggle and allowing the fish to continue peeling off the line. Tony heaved mightily back and forth as the drag was slowly tightened, slowing the fish's race away from the boat. The battle went on for the next 50 minutes. Tony's brow was wiped by his friends and he was cheered frantically as the line was slowly replaced on the reel. Finally, thirty feet from the end of the boat, the water erupted violently and a grey fin cut the surface. "Shark on!!!!" came a chorus of shouts, everyone cheering, half in relief from the boredom and half in getting our moneys worth after sitting fruitlessly in the sun for hours.

The battle slowed as Tony cranked the reel a few more times, the large shark listlessly thrashing about in the water as it saw the boat. Tony's friends had gaffs in hand, clubs slung around their wrists. "I get the gut shot!" shouted one, the other twirling the club like an old time policeman. The mate shoved the men aside as the shark neared the boat. "She's a beauty, a hammerhead. A big female! Look at the girth on her!" She flailed her tail as she saw the men leaning over the boat, her teeth gnashing in panic, bulging body rolling and wrapping the line around her head. Her tail slapped the water and the hull of the boat. Kevin and I peered over the side, admiring the shark and feeling saddened at the same time. Her exhaustion was evident as she slowly rolled over and around, the line finally coming free from around her. "Get that bitch on board! Hook the damned gaff Get that gaff in her!" one of the guys yelled out as the shark's struggle wound down. Her mouth opened and closed slowly, her head shaking back and forth, still struggling to break free. He started to raise the gaff for a "gut shot" when my father moved quickly to his side. "Give me those cutters" he said tersely to the Mate, who obliged silently. My father ran his hand down the line to within a few inches from the sharks mouth and with a quick snip, cut the line and rolled her exhausted body right side up, yelling for the captain to slowly start the boat moving. "She needs to breath. Put the damned gaff away and help me". Tony looked dumbstruck and his friends started cursing at my father, asking him who the **** he thought he was, it was their shark. He ignored them, holding her upright, letting the water flow freely over her gills. Moments later, with a slight twitch of her tail, she swam away, slowly coasting deeper. "That belly was full of pups. No man would kill a pregnant shark" my father said, turning to stare at the guys clustered around Tony. A few muttered curses came in response. With that, the Captain revved the engines and turned us back toward shore.

The ride back was long, angry stares and accusations soon gave way to cold silence. I was proud of my father and ashamed at myself for not standing up and doing something. I was also relieved an animal that meant us no harm and did not deserve to die at the hands of sadistic butchers for no purpose, still swam in the sea that night. I slept well that night.