Fish and men confronted each other for perhaps ten seconds. Then Quint yelled, “Get an iron!” and, obeying himself, he dashed forward and began to fumble with a harpoon. Brody reached for the rifle. Just then, the fish slid quietly backward into the water. The long, scythed tail flicked once—Brody shot at it and missed—and the fish disappeared.

“He’s gone,” said Brody.

“Fantastic!” said Hooper. “That fish is everything I thought. And more. He’s fantastic! That head must have been four feet across.”

“Could be,” said Quint, walking aft. He deposited two harpoon barbs, two barrels, and two coils of rope in the stern. “In case he comes back,” he said.

“Have you ever seen a fish like that, Quint?” said Hooper. His eyes were bright, and he felt ebullient, vibrant.

“Not quite,” said Quint.

“How long, would you say?”

“Hard to tell. Twenty feet. Maybe more. I don’t know. With them things, it don’t make much difference over six feet. Once they get to six feet, they’re trouble. And this sonofabitch is trouble.”

“God, I hope he comes back,” said Hooper.

Brody felt a chill, and he shuddered. “That was very strange,” he said, shaking his head. “He looked like he was grinning.”

“That’s what they look like when their mouths are open,” said Quint. “Don’t make him out to be more than he is. He’s just a dumb garbage bucket.”

“How can you say that?” said Hooper. “That fish is a beauty. It’s the kind of thing that makes you believe in a god. It shows you what nature can do when she sets her mind to it.”

“Horseshit,” said Quint, and he climbed the ladder to the flying bridge.

“Are you going to use the porpoise?” said Brody.

“No need. We got him on the surface once. He’ll be back.”

As Quint spoke, a noise behind Hooper made him turn. It was a swishing noise, a liquid hiss. “Look,” said Quint. Heading straight for the boat, thirty feet away, was a triangular dorsal fin more than a foot high, knifing the water and leaving a rippled wake. It was followed by a towering tail that swatted left and right in tight cadence.

“It’s attacking the boat!” cried Brody. Involuntarily, he backed into the seat of the fighting chair and tried to draw away.

Quint came down from the flying bridge, cursing. “No fucking warning this time,” he said. “Hand me that iron.”

The fish was almost at the boat. It raised its flat head, gazed vacantly at Hooper with one of its black eyes, and passed under the boat. Quint raised the harpoon and turned back to the port side. The throwing pole struck the fighting chair, and the dart dislodged and fell to the deck.

“Cocksucker!” shouted Quint. “Is he still there?” He reached down, grabbed the dart, and stuck it back on the end of the pole.

“Your side, your side!” yelled Hooper. “He’s passed this side already.”

Quint turned back in time to see the gray-brown shape of the fish as it pulled away from the boat and began to dive. He dropped the harpoon and, in a rage, snatched up the rifle and emptied the clip into the water behind the fish. “Bastard!” he said. “Give me some warning next time.” Then he put the rifle down and laughed. “I suppose I should be grateful,” he said. “At least he didn’t attack the boat.” He looked at Brody and said, “Gave you a bit of a start.”