This story, “The Hammerhead,” appeared in the January 1953 issue of Outdoor Life.
Something had to give. My fly rod had that deadly arc indicative of ultimate stress. The bend was severe just above the grip, and the rest of the rod lay out almost parallel with the water. But I just didn’t have enough strength left in my wrist to raise the thing.
I glanced at the anchor rope, and then I reached for it. My little watch fob of an anchor came easily out of the coral, and somehow I managed to get it into the kayak. The boat began to move toward Hawk Channel, which meant the Atlantic.
Getting that anchor aboard gave me a mild sense of triumph. As I say, something had to give, and it wasn’t going to be me. I was determined to land this big shark, but I should have known that my stubbornness was ridiculous and foolhardy.
Key West, Fla., is a long way from New Jersey, which is where I was living then. Some 1,200 miles, I guess. The kayak I’d put together in the garage back home was a boat, and because I knew that I’d be going fishing in Key West and would need a boat I took the kayak with me. It had two pontoons attached to it. They were like miniature kayaks, made of canvas stretched over light wooden frames, and were mounted on a crossbar which placed them about three feet out on each side of the kayak amidships.
The kayak worked fine in New Jersey, especially on lakes like Budd, Swartswood. and Hopatcong. It even carried me on one mildly perilous trip down the Musconetcong River. It was a good fishing boat. Good, that is, for bass and trout.
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In Key West it created a small sensation. People turned to stare at it, and sometimes they smiled or laughed. They often looked twice. Small boys followed my car, chattered in Spanish, and pointed in wonder at the thing perched on top. It made me kind of proud. We usually are when we can be safely different.
I was a little nervous when I first put the kayak in the water off the Boca Chica Fishing Camp. Boca Chica was a quiet tropical isle before the Navy took over. I paddled out into the turquoise channel that separates Boca Chica from the island south of it. The long wooden bridge was some distance away, and here and there were flats where the water slowed and spread itself thinly. To my right were tiny dotted mangrove keys that shouldered the water into sectional flows.
The wide, immensely high skies were bigger than anything; the white clouds piled up for miles. I knew that the black, wide-winged bird soaring over my head was a frigate bird. I don’t know how I knew. I just did. Terns with cocked, inquisitive heads flew so close that I could see their orange legs plainly. A pelican collapsed into the water with a great splash, then sat and rearranged the fish in his bill. A horde of small silver fish came out of the blue water in one leaping lift. Then they all went down, only to come up again three feet beyond. They were being chased by a swarm of striking jacks. The water boiled, and as it did so the terns left me to join the party. I was bewitched.
At that moment the kayak bumped hard and tipped as far as the pontoons would permit. I came back to my senses and pushed my light craft away from the bridge piling against which it had bumped. I began to paddle back up the channel. Outside that wooden bridge was the Atlantic, and I wasn’t ready for it.
I went to work with my casting rod and plugs. It was difficult to keep the kayak from rushing away with the tide. I’d cast once and then have to paddle for three or four minutes. I didn’t like it, so I quit fishing.
Then I went exploring, west against the current toward the backwaters near the little keys. Four tarpon came rolling up out of a deep hole, and my heart leaped. They weren’t silver, as I’d read; they were pinkish and yellow. At least their backs were, and that’s all I could see.
I approached a tiny key. It wasn’t more than fifty feet long, but it had a white sandy beach. As I got closer to it a three-foot barracuda slid out of his hiding place and went past me. When he saw the kayak he kicked his tail, and was gone. I slid the kayak up on the beach and stepped ashore. Instantly I was covered with small black 111.osquitoes. I got out of there fast, wiping layers of mosquitoes off my arms and face. There was a lot of blood.
I went back to Key West, and that’s when I bought the little anchor. It weighed only five pounds. Charlie Thompson sold it to me, and he knew the waters around there. He laughed at the anchor, and called it a watch fob because it was so little. But it was O.K. for my kayak. Charlie suggested that I fish off Rest Beach.
“Lots of coral out there about half a mile,” he said. “Take a water glass. Look down into the holes in the coral. Pick the fish you want to catch.” He laughed. I bought a bucket with a glass bottom in it. Charlie told me to hold the bottom of the bucket against the surf ace of the water and to look down. “You can see a fish sigh with that thing,” he said.
Next morning I went out off Rest Beach. I carried the anchor, two sandwiches, and a crawfish tail for bait. I had about 150 yards of silk casting line on my fly reel. I didn’t take fly line because I didn’t expect to cast. I had some drinking water, my big sheath knife, some brass leader wire, and some hooks.
The water off the beach was so shallow I could have waded out in it for a couple of city blocks. I kept looking into the water glass. Charlie was right, I could see everything — even grains of sand which sometimes moved because they weren’t grains of sand at all but small mollusks. I saw three big crawfish hiding in crevices. Their long feelers waved fast when the kayak went over.
Then I came to the coral. It was just like in the books. There was a great city of it going out for a long way. Big mussels loomed up, and between them were dark holes. There were fish in them, small yellowtails, muttonfish, porkfish, angelfish, and grunts. There were sergeant fish, tiny damselfish, and slippery dicks, too. I looked down into the bucket so long I began to get seasick. I didn’t know whether it was from my looking down or from the chop. The chop is always bad over shallow water, even on nice days. This was a very nice day.
I dropped the watch fob overboard and paid out line until the kayak was right at the edge of a big hole. Then I cut the crawfish tail into fine baits, tied a wire leader to the end of my line, and fastened a hook to it. A segment of the crawfish tail slipped on the hook nicely. I dropped the line into the water, and placed the rod over the gunwales of the kayak. The boat gave the bait plenty of motion.
The dip and rise of the craft occupied my attention for a time; I felt green. But quickly the tip of the fly rod moved. The kayak went up, but the rod tip stayed down. I picked up the butt and set the hook. The fish fought hard. It bore down, then went round and round like a big bluegill. It put up a good fight, and when I brought it in it turned out to be a black angelfish. When I grasped it, the sharp scalpel-like bone projection on its gills cut my thumb badly. I still have the scar. I put the angelfish in a sack, baited my hook again, and tossed it into the water.
The air smelled like warm seaweed. The clouds were high, white, and round. The terns came to visit me, and I tossed them the shell of the crawfish tail. On the beach I could see the cabanas and little people. They seemed very far away.
My rod tip went down sharply, making an audible swish. Drops of seawater struck my sunglasses. I grabbed the butt quickly and raised it until I felt the fish move. It felt terribly strong. I set the hook. Nothing happened. It was as though the fish hadn’t noticed the sting of the steel. Its calm indifference annoyed me, so I struck hard, again and again.
When I was a small boy I once tried to bring a bucket of water up out of a well. I got it half way and then had to let go. Its weight was too much for me. The awful weight of that bucket came as a shock to me, and I never forgot it.
Something like that happened now. The fish I’d hooked shook and then, like that bucket of water, pulled from my grasp and shot away. There was nothing I could do to stop it. I held the rod high, and the reel spun. Since the water wasn’t deep, the line tangent was long. It cut the water with an ominous hiss. A wave of fear swept over me momentarily.
Maybe it was fortunate that I couldn’t thumb the reel. With no drag beyond the slight one of the line, the fish ran only 200 or perhaps 300 feet Then it turned. A gull came down the line, but when it approached the fish’s end it veered up wildly.
I compressed my lips and pulled the rod tip high. I began turning the reel handle. The fish moved off into the direction of the sun. The swing gave me some slack, and I reeled as fast as I could.
A second later the fish turned again and came toward me. Realizing that it would be impossible to reel line fast enough, I began to strip it in. It fell in coils on my feet. The fish slowed down about thirty feet away. I took in more slack. Then the fish surfaced. I gasped when I saw it. It was a hammerhead shark, and was nearly as long as my kayak.
When I’d got in almost all the loose line the shark submerged and made another run. This time the run was strong and full of panic. The line whipped up and flipped over a button on my shirt. There was a twang, and the button was gone. The shark headed out to sea.
I leaned back on the rod and gave the shark full butt. The effort had no effect on the fish. The line tore out, the reel hummed, and the rod assumed a terrible arc. So I lifted the anchor.
I put my left hand under the butt section of the fly rod, hoping to relieve the near paralysis in my arms. The line dwindled fast, but the fish was slowing. I held hard, desperately. Suddenly the kayak began to move, but I found that with just the right amount of strain on the line I could save what I had reeled in. After a while I even began to take in more line. But the big fish moved on out.
My right arm. began to ache. At first it was just a small ache, like the beginning of a toothache, it spread fiercely and suddenly to my shoulder. I gathered the entire rod into my arms, and pressed the butt into my stomach. This gave me some relief.
At times the fish appeared to rest. When it did I pumped in line until the kayak was almost over the monster. I looked around at the beach, and was frightened when I couldn’t see much of the cabanas. I put more pressure on the shark.
It happened while I was attempting to gain a little more line. The shark seemed to be resting, and I was pumping away at the reel handle. The line was straight down. Suddenly the pressure on it lightened. I reeled desperately, hoping that the fish was about to give up. In seconds the hammerhead appeared under the left pontoon.
The shark was long, and utterly horrible. Its eyes stuck out on the extremities of the crossbar that is part of its head. It looked at me, and I at it. Then it turned on its side and moved to the pontoon. It opened its jaws and bit the fragile thing clean through. The kayak immediately listed sharply to the left. Desperately I threw my weight to the right, at the same time letting go of the line.
I no longer felt secure: With only one pontoon for balance, it became imperative for me to keep my weight on the right of the kayak all the time. I’d arrived at the point when the only sensible thing to do was cut the line and paddle home. But I didn’t.
I don’t know why I didn’t. Perhaps I was trying unconsciously to be a hero. Real fear flooded over me, but instead of provoking me to be sensible it only increased my foolish determination to hang on.
My slacking off of line relieved the tension of the moment; the shark turned, went down, and swam leisurely away. I gave line grudgingly. The kayak again began to follow the fish, but this time it acted like a crippled seagull.
The water was turning from green to deep blue, and I knew we couldn’t be far from the Gulf Stream. My arms hurt terribly. I began to talk to myself, telling myself how stupid I was for not cutting the line.
I leaned hard to the right. It hurt my side, but I tried not to think of that. A squall came up, and the rain pelted hard. Seconds became minutes, minutes hours. We headed farther out into the Atlantic. I managed to eat a sandwich and drink some water. Nausea gagged me, but I hoped the food would calm the trouble inside me. It didn’t.
A black tramp steamer went south far on the fuzzy horizon. I watched it with longing. A great flock of terns followed me for a while. The big, blue balloons of Portuguese men-of-war drifted past, and once a stray flying fish lifted from the water.
The water was turning from green to deep blue, and I knew we couldn’t be far from the Gulf Stream. My arms hurt terribly. I began to talk to myself, telling myself how stupid I was for not cutting the line. Why don’t you cut the line, you fool? But I didn’t cut it.
I looked at my watch. It was now five hours since· I’d hooked the shark. I couldn’t see Key West; it had dropped below the horizon. I began to doze, but suddenly I felt that I was tipping. I came awake with a frightened start and leaned heavily to the right. I was tired, seasick, and hurt, but eventually I fell asleep.
A sudden bump shook me, and I : awoke with a shout. Next to me, on the water, was a small platform that reached almost to the kayak. I looked up and saw a small Bahama sloop. It was the dirtiest, most ramshackle boat I’ve ever seen, but to me it looked beautiful. There were four or five men aboard. One leaned over the gunwale. “Hey mon,” he shouted, “you in trouble?”
I shook my head. Then I knew I was being silly, and I think I blushed.
“My outrigger,” I answered. “I lost it. Shark bit it off.”
I was close to the boat’s platform now, and I managed to uncramp one arm from around my rod and grasp it. The pain was awful. The man who had shouted came down the ladder.
“Here mon, why it ‘appen you — don’t let go that pole?” he asked, reaching out for me.
“Hooked big shark,” I gasped. “Don’t want to lose him.”
“Don’t want to lose ‘im? Why not, mon?”
I was on the platform now, and the man was tying the kayak to the ladder. “I don’t know,” I said.
I staggered and almost fell, but the man grasped my arm.
“It ain’t nothing to eat, mon. Break your line,” he urged.
I shook my head. I had my left arm around the rod, and leaned back against it. I reeled. I felt dead, except for the pain. The man scratched his head.
“‘E won’t let ‘im go, and it ain’t a eatin’ fish. God! Where you from?” he asked.
“Key West,” I gasped, “Rest Beach.”
“In that thing?” He looked at the kayak.
I nodded, working at the reel. The shark was a dead weight, but it moved slowly toward me.
“Get a gaff,” I begged. The man turned to one of the crew. He got a gaff, a great hook on a tenfoot pole, and tu·rned to the water. The hammerhead was close now. I gave the rod all it would take.
“Hough,” the man grunted, and struck the gaff into the fish. The water exploded, the pressure on the rod suddenly disappeared, and I fell into the water.
I saw one of the men on the deck grab the gaff, and felt him haul me aboard. That was all. After that all the lights went out.
I awoke just before the boat pulled into the dock at Key West.
“Thanks,” I said to the man. He laughed.
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“What a sport,” he said. “Know how much that hammerhead weighed? It weighed one hundred an’ twenty-seven pounds.”
My good wife took care of me when I got home. She said a great many things, and asked a lot of questions. She kept asking one question I couldn’t answer. “What were you trying to prove?”
I still don’t know, not well enough to put it into words. But I think other fishermen will understand.