Shit on the North Sea with its foul moods and constant danger, on the crummy quarters and the vast boredom of two weeks flying off a rig a hundred miles offshore to earn one week at home in Kiel and barely enough money to pay the mortgage and schooling and stay ahead with a little to spare for holidays. But you’ll be near the kids and Hilda and Ma and Pa, your homeland is always your homeland. Yes, it is, and with any luck, some day soon, all Germans will mix freely with all Germans, Ma can visit her family in Schwerin whenever she wants - and Schwerin and all our other Schwerins won’t be occupied anymore. Oh, God, let me live to see that day.
“Scrag, a shadow’s coming in.”
Scragger had seen it almost at the same time, and he swam back to the raft and got aboard. The shadow came in fast. It was a shark. “Stone the crows,” he gasped. “Look at her size!”
The shark slowed, then leisurely began to circle, its large dorsal fin cutting the calm surface. Dull gray, lethal and unhurried. Both men watched silently, awed. Then Scragger chuckled. “How about it, Willi?” “Yes, by God Harry, he’s not Jaws but he’s the biggest beetch I’ve ever seen so I think we get him, by God!” Gleefully, he got the fishing tackle that was in the dinghy. “What about bait? What you think for bait?” “The sea bass, the big one!”
Laughing, Willi reached down into the cage and pulled out the squirming fish and baited the steel shark hook. There was blood on his hands now and he washed them off in the water, watching the prey. Then he got up, checked the short length of chain attached to the hook, knotted it carefully to the heavy nylon fishing line that was on the reel of the rod. “Here you are, Scrag.” “No, cobber. You spotted her first!”
Excitedly Willi wiped the sea salt off his forehead with the back of his hand, settled his cap jauntily, and looked at the shark that still circled twenty yards away. With great care he threw the bait directly into its path, gently tightened the line. The shark passed the bait and continued circling. Both men cursed. Willi reeled in. The sea bass danced and kicked spasmodically, dying fast. A thin trail of blood was in its wake. Again Willi cast perfectly. Again nothing happened.
“Goddamn,” Willi said. This time he left the bait where it was, watching it settle lower and lower until it lay on the bottom, keeping just enough tension on the line. The shark came around, passed over it, almost touching it with its belly, and continued circling.
“Maybe he’s not hungry.”
“Those sonsofbeetches’re always hungry. Maybe he knows we’re waiting for him - or he’s going to trick us. Scrag, get a smaller fish and throw it just where the bait is as he comes around.”
Scragger chose a rock cod. He threw it deftly. The fish fell into the water ten yards ahead of the shark, sensed the danger, and fled for the sandy bottom. The shark paid no attention to it, or to the sea bass so close by, just flicked its tail and circled. “Let the bait stay where it is,” Scragger said. “That bugger can’t’ve not got its scent.”
Now they could see the yellow eyes and the three small pilot fish hovering over its head, the thin line of the vast mouth under the blunt nose, the sleek skin and power of the great tail. Another circuit. A little closer this time. “Betcha he’s nearer eight feet than six, Willi.” “That sonofabitch’s watching us, Scrag,” Willi said uneasily, his excitement gone now, a hollowness in its place.
Scragger frowned, having the same feeling. He looked away from the eyes to the dinghy. No weapons there of any value, just a small sheath knife, a light aluminum three-pronged fishing spear and some oars. Even so, he tugged on the painter to bring the dinghy closer, knelt down, and reached for the knife and fishing spear. Wish I had a gun, he thought. A sudden warning cry from Willi made him jump back and he just had time to see the shark coming straight for him at full speed. It smashed against the side of the rubber dinghy, its ugly head now out of the water, jaws gaping as it lunged at him, crashing against the oil drums, making the bow of the dinghy rear up out of the water. Then it was gone, both men aghast. “By God Harry…” Willi shouted and pointed. The shark was charging toward the bait. They saw it take it and the hook into its mouth and swim away, the line singing off the reel. Willi held his breath, tightened the line, then with both hands on the rod, he struck hard. “Gotttt heemmm!” he shouted, taking the strain, the reel shrieking as the line rushed out, the hook deeply embedded now.
“Bloody bastard near did me,” Scragger said, his heart racing, watching the taut line. “Don’t let the bugger cheat you.”
Willi put more strain on the line and began to fight him, the line taut. “Watch him, Willi, he’ll turn and come back fast…” But the shark did not, just slowed and fought the line and hook in a frenzy, boiling the water around it, half in and out of the water, rolling over and turning. But the hook held and the line was strong enough and Willi gave the fish just enough leeway, allowing it to swim off a way, then once more began to reel in. Minutes passed. The strain of fighting such a fish without a harness or chair, unable to use his legs to help him, was overwhelming. But Willi held on. Abruptly the shark stopped fighting, beginning to circle again. Slower. “Good on you, Willi, you got him, Willi.”
“Scrag, if he comes in fast see if you can keep the line from fouling, and when I get him near enough, jab him with the harpoon.” Willi felt the pain in his back and hands but now he was exhilarated, waiting for the next move. It came quickly.
The shark swirled and headed for them. Frantically Willi reeled in to take up the slack lest the shark turn again and snap the line, but it kept barreling in and went directly under the raft. Miraculously the line did not foul and when the shark came out on the other side to charge off toward deeper water, Willi let him take line with him and gradually got the tension back. Once more the shark tried to shake off the hook in a paroxysm of rage, churning the water white, and once more Willi held him. But his muscles were weakening, he knew he would not be able to hold him alone and swore silently. “Give me a hand, Scrag.”
“Okay, mate.”
Together the two men held the rod now, Willi working the reel, pulling the shark in, playing him, closer and closer. The shark was slowing. “He’s tiring, Willi.” Inch by inch they pulled him in. Now the shark was thirty yards out from the raft just making headway, its great tail waving slowly back and forth, almost wallowing in the water. To breathe, a shark must have forward motion. If it stops it drowns.
Patiently they fought it, its huge weight hurting them. Now they could see its great size, the yellow eyes, jaws tight shut, the pilot fish. Twenty-five yards, twenty, eighteen, seventeen…
Then it happened. The shark came to life and tore away from them for fifty yards at incredible speed, line screeching off the reel, then turned ninety degrees at full speed and was going away but Willi somehow got tension back on the line, forcing the fish to circle, but he could not bring it nearer. Another circuit, Willi using all his strength on the reel to no avail. On the next circuit he gained a little. Another inch. Another, then both men lurched and nearly fell overboard as the line came free. “Lost heem by God Harry…”
Both were panting and aching and bitterly disappointed. There was no sign of the shark now. “God cursed line,” Willi said, reeling in, swearing in two languages. But it wasn’t the line. It was the chain. The links nearest the hook were mashed. “That bugger must’ve just chewed through it!” Scragger said, awed.
“He was playing with us, Scrag,” Willi said disgustedly. “He could have bust it any time he wanted. He was giving us the finger.” They searched the water all around but there was no sign of it. “He could be on the bottom, waiting,” he said thoughtfully.