The Havana is, I believe, the only place where the flesh of the shark is exposed for sale in the markets, although it is often tasted at sea by the curious.
The shark, judging by an European palate, is not good eating; the flesh is dry and of an acid taste. The fins and tail are, however, very glutinous, and are the portions most relished by the seamen; and dried, they form an article of commerce to China, where they are used in soups, and considered an excellent aphrodisiac.
‘How thankful we ought to be to a bountiful Providence, who has created all things for us richly to enjoy,’ observed an alderman at the last great city dinner, whilst sumptuously regaling on turtle soup, crimped cod, with oyster sauce, and other delicacies. ‘The beasts of the earth, the fowls of the air, and the fishes of the sea,’ he continued, ‘were all created for the use of man.’
‘Very true,’ replied his next friend, ‘but if you had witnessed the hair-breadth escape which I experienced of being devoured alive by a shark, when in the West Indies, you would have been satisfied that the horrible monster entertained just the opposite opinion. He believed that man was created for him!’
Sharks, which are very numerous there, form a common article of food with the Gold Coast negroes, and hippopotami and alligators are occasionally eaten.
Mr. George Bennett informs us, that ‘the shark is eaten eagerly by the natives of the Polynesian Islands; and I have often seen them feasting on it in a raw state, when they gorge themselves to such an excess as to occasion vomiting.’
It is not an unfrequent source of illness among these islanders, and they suffer so much in consequence, as to lead them to suppose that their dissolution is nigh: but they cannot be persuaded that the eating of raw fish is the cause. An emetic soon removes the symptoms by removing the cause, and the sufferer considers the cure as almost miraculous. Sharks are caught on the New Zealand shores in great numbers, during the months of November, December, and January, by the natives, who use them as an article of food.
Shark hunting is most exciting sport.
He who has hooked the fish holds tight—like grim Death on his victim; and if you watch his face you will see powerful indication of excitement, mental and muscular; his teeth are set, his colour is heightened, the perspiration starts on his brow, while something like an oath slips through his lips as the cord, strained to the utmost, cuts into the skin of his empurpled fingers: he invokes aid, and with his feet jammed against stretcher, thwart, or gunwale, gradually shortens his hold. Meanwhile, the others, seizing lance and gaff-hook, stand by to assist the overtasked line, as the monster, darting hither and thither in silvery lightnings beneath the translucent wave, is drawn nearer and nearer the surface. ‘My eyes, he’s a whopper!’ cries the excited young boatman. ‘He’s off!’ shouts another, as the shark makes a desperate plunge under the boat, and the line, dragged through the hands of the holder, is again suddenly slackened. ‘He’s all right, never fear—belay your line a bit, sir, and look here,’ says the old fisherman. And sure enough there is the huge fish clearly visible, about ten feet under the keel of the boat, and from stem to stern about the same length as herself. ‘Now, sir, let’s have him up.’ And the instant the line is taut, the shark shoots upwards, his broad snout showing above the surface, close to the boat. Then comes a scene of activity and animation indeed. The fish, executing a series of summersaults, and spinning, gets the line into a hundred twists, and if once he succeed in bringing it across his jaws above the chain links—adieu to both fish and tackle. But, in the midst of a shower-bath, splashed up by the broad tail of the shark, both lance and gaff are hard at work. He is speared through and through, his giant struggles throwing waves of bloody water over the gunwales of the little boat; the gaffs are hooked through his tough skin, or within his jaws—for he has no gills to lay hold on; a shower of blows from axe, stretcher, or tiller, falls on his devoted head, and, if not considered too large, heavy, or dangerous, he is lugged manfully into the centre of the boat, and, threshing right and left with his tail to the last, is soon dispatched. A smart blow a few inches above the snout is more instantly fatal than the deepest stab. The school-shark is dealt with as above. But if the ‘grey-nurse,’ or old solitary shark be hooked, the cable is cut, or the grapnel hauled on board, and he is allowed to tow the boat as he darts away with the line. The tables, however, are soon turned upon him; and after being played (as this cruel operation in fishing is blandly styled) for a while, until some portion of his vast strength is exhausted, the line is drawn over a roller in the stern of the boat, the oars are set to work, and, towed instead of towing, the shark is drawn into some shallow cove near the shore, where his bodily powers avail him less than in deeper water; and after a fierce resistance, and some little risk to his assailants, he falls a victim to their attack. Man has as innate an horror of a shark as he has of a snake, and he who has frequented tropical climates, felt the absolute necessity of bathing, had his diurnal plunge embittered by the haunting idea of the vicinity of one of these sea-pests, and has occasionally been harrowed by accidents arising from their voracity—feels this antipathy with double force. There is, therefore, a species of delightful fury, a savage excitement, experienced by the shark-hunter, that has no affinity with the philosophy of Old Isaak’s gentle art. He revels in the animated indulgence of that cruelty which is inherent in the child of wrath; and the stings of conscience are blunted by the conviction that it is an act of justice, of retribution, of duty, he is engaged in, not one of wanton barbarity. These were precisely my own sensations when, drenched to the skin with showers of salt water, scorched to blisters by the burning sun, excoriated as to my hands, covered with blood, and oil, and dirt, and breathless with exertion, I contemplated the corpse of my first shark. Tiger-hunting is a more princely pastime; boar-hunting in Bengal Proper the finest sport in the world; fox-hunting an Englishman’s birthright; the chase of the moose is excellent for young men strong enough to drag a pair of snow shoes five feet long upon their toes; and Mr. Gordon Cumming tells you how man may follow the bent of his organ of destructiveness on the gigantic beasts of South Africa: shark-fishing is merely the best sport to be had in New South Wales; and affords a wholesome stimulation to the torpid action of life in Sydney. The humane or utilitarian reader will be glad to hear that the shark is not utterly useless after death. The professional fishermen extract a considerable quantity of excellent oil from the liver; and the fins cut off, cured, and packed, become an article of trade with China—whose people, for reasons best known to themselves, delight in gelatinous food. The most hideous to behold of the shark tribe is the wobegong, or woe-begone as the fishermen call it. Tiger-shark is another of the names of this fish. His broad back is spotted over with leopard-like marks; the belly is of a yellowish white; but to describe minutely so frightful a monster would be a difficult and ungracious task. Fancy a bloated toad, elongated to the extent of six or seven feet, and weighing some 20 stone; then cut off his legs, and you have a flattering likeness of the wobegong—two of which we killed this day. A heavy sluggish fish, he lies in wait for his prey at the edge of some reef of rocks, or bank of sea-weed; swallows the bait indolently; appears but little sensible to the titillation of the barbed hook, and is lugged hand over hand to the slaughter without much trouble or resistance. Neither lance nor gaff will penetrate his tough hide, but a blow on the head with an axe proves instantly fatal.’
The schnapper affords a long and strong pull at the line; and is considered by the colonists as one of their best table fish. ‘We killed one to-day,’ writes a correspondent, ‘weighing 21 lbs. The flat-head is half buried in the sand at the bottom, but bites freely; and is, in my mind, a much better fish than the former. Our fishing-basket of this day comprised nine sharks, four schnappers, and about 40 flat-heads.’