“That kind of a shark does. All sharks that live on the surface of the water and follow sailing ships are man-eaters.”
I looked at the shark again. It looked harmless to me as it circled and played around in the wake from our rudder.
“How could a shark eat me? I can’t see any mouth on it,” I countered, still unconvinced.
“I’ll show you. Go ask the cook for a big chunk of salt pork, and we’ll put it on an iron hook, then watch the fun.”
I got the chunk of salt pork and Father baited a hook with it. Instead of lowering the hook overboard by a rope, he fastened a thin chain about twenty feet long onto it.
“Now get my rifle, and stand clear of the rail,” he ordered.
I brought the gun up, and Stitches and McLean came aft to help land the shark. Stitches tied a piece of board on the chain so that the pork and hook would float on the surface. The shark, led by its little vari-colored pilot fish, smelled at the bait—then it circled away. It came back again and after pushing the pork with its snout, the shark turned belly up, and opened its jaws on the meat. A shark can only bite when it is bottom up, as the lower part of its jaw is receding. As it turned up and snagged the hook Father shot at his throat with his rifle. The shark kicked out with its powerful tail and pulled away. McLean let out some slack as the shark started to bite viciously at the chain holding the hook. Again and again Father fired shots into its body, but still it fought. The pilot fish had disappeared—nothing remained but a bleeding, fighting shark pulling at the hook.
“Haul him up, head out of water,” Father called, and as Stitches and McLean pulled him out of the water Father slipped a running bowline around him.
“Get the hell out of the way now or you’ll get hurt,” he called to me as he hauled the heavy shark up by the bowline. Stitches had slipped another line around the shark’s pounding tail and was pulling him up by the stern. After a terrific struggle they landed him on the poop deck. It slapped and wallowed around the deck, its huge jaws with seven rows of saw-teeth gaping and trying to kill its attackers. Father ran a scantline down its throat and shot it again. McLean chopped its tail off, splintering its spine as he did so. Still the shark fought desperately. Nothing seemed to kill it.
“A shark don’t die until sundown,” said my father, “but we can cut him up so he can’t do any damage. Only don’t get too near him because he may only be foxing. A shark is the hardest deep sea thing to kill there is.”