With a soft metallic hiss, the wire on the starboard fishing rod began to feed overboard, knifing into the water in a straight silver line.

“Take the rod,” Quint said to Brody. “And when I tell you, throw the brake and hit him.”

“Is it the shark?” said Brody. The possibility that at last he was going to confront the fish—the beast, the monster, the nightmare—made Brody’s heart pound. His mouth was sticky-dry. He wiped his hands on his trousers, took the rod out of the holder, and stuck it in the swivel between his legs.

Quint laughed—a short, sour yip. “That thing? No. That’s just a little fella. Give you some practice for when your fish finds us.” Quint watched the line for a few more seconds, then said, “Hit it!”

Brody pushed the small lever on the reel forward, leaned down, then pulled back. The tip of the rod bent into an arc. With his right hand, Brody began to turn the crank to reel in the fish, but the reel did not respond. The line kept speeding out.

“Don’t waste your energy,” said Quint.

Hooper, who had been sitting on the transom, stood up and said, “Here, I’ll tighten down the drag.”

“You will not!” said Quint. “You leave that rod alone.”

Hooper looked up, bewildered and slightly hurt.

Brody noticed Hooper’s pained expression, and he thought: What do you know? It’s about time.

After a moment, Quint said, “You tighten the drag down too far and you’ll tear the hook out of his mouth.”

“Oh,” said Hooper.

“I thought you was supposed to know something about fishing.”

Hooper said nothing. He turned and sat down on the transom.

Brody held on to the rod with both hands. The fish had gone deep and was moving slowly from side to side, but it was no longer taking line. Brody reeled—leaning forward and cranking quickly as he picked up slack, hauling backward with the muscles in his shoulders and back. His left wrist ached, and the fingers in his right hand began to cramp from cranking. “What the hell have I got here?” he said.

“A blue,” said Quint.

“He must weigh half a ton.”

Quint laughed. “Maybe a hundred fifty pounds.”

Brody hauled and leaned, hauled and leaned, until finally he heard Quint say, “You’re getting there. Hold it.” He stopped reeling.

With a smooth, unhurried motion, Quint swung down the ladder from the flying bridge. He had a rifle in his hand, an old army M-1. He stood at the gunwale and looked down. “You want to see the fish?” he said. “Come look.”

Brody stood, and reeling to take up the slack as he walked, he moved to the side of the boat. In the dark water the shark was acrylic blue. It was about eight feet long, slender, with long pectoral fins. It swam slowly from side to side, no longer struggling.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” said Hooper.

Quint flicked the rifle’s safety to “off,” and when the shark moved its head to within a few inches of the surface, he squeezed off three quick shots. The bullets made clean round holes in the shark’s head, drawing no blood. The shark shuddered and stopped moving.