Darwin's Dream by Jim Etchison This story was published in the December, 1992 premier edition of "Caffeine" magazine, edited by a cool guy named Rob Cohen. It's kind-of based on some true experiences, kind-of not.

When I got to the docks, the sky was still mostly black. Only a feathered edge of grey light rose above the horizon. Amid gentle wooden knocks and groans of the docks and moorings, I quietly searched each row of boats looking for a Criss Craft named "Darwin's Dream." I found it, and waited for Martin. We were to meet at his boat at dawn. The last time I saw Martin, he had only three fingers on his left hand. The index had been cleanly cut. I asked him about it, and he told me he had caught it in the winch while pulling his Range Rover out of some brush. For once, I thought, Martin's run of good luck had caught up with him. I didn't say anything aloud. I just looked at his hand and felt bad. Martin noticed my consistant looking, and by the end of the day, kept the disfigured hand hidden in his coat pocket. Last week he called me to brag about his boat and set up a fishing jaunt. "Meet me at the dock at sunrise," he said. He spoke, and I listened to the pitch of his voice and his slurring syllables. I offered half-hearted responses, writing down the details. I could tell he was drunk, but said nothing. Warm orange light filtered through the cirrus clouds to the east. I sat in the cold air, listening to the waves lap at the docks. Gulls kamikazied into the water and stayed under for ten, sometimes twenty seconds before surfacing with a fish flopping in their beaks. I wondered if Martin would be able to handle a pole as well as he always claimed he could. There was a clumsy clapping of wood. I turned to see Martin bounding down the gangplank. I stood, hands in my pockets. He yelled something -- yo or ho, and held a large box in his right hand. His left hand was in his coat pocket. "Isn't she a beauty?" he asked. "The boat? Sure, it's great. Top of the line, I bet." "Damn right." I watched him open the box. From it, he pulled a large speaker and a small portable tape player. "Music?" I asked. "You'll see. We're gonna do something amazing today, Andy." he said tromping up and down the narrow port deck. "What?" "We're going for Great White." I sat huddled in the back of the boat. The aft, Martin would say. "We're not experienced fishermen, Martin. We might be getting in over our heads with that one." "Don't worry," he said. "I've got everything we need -- I've asked a lot of questions. We've got the stuff to get it in the boat, the harpoon -- everything." He lifted an aluminium bat and long-bladed knife out of the box. He checked the knife's edge, and put it into a small drawer at the helm. He stepped below deck, ducked down and fiddled with something. Through the dark, I could see him shaking his head. "I know it's scary, Andy, but bass are too boring. Besides, you know I can do anything I set my mind to." Martin emerged from the cabin and tossed some frozen fish onto the deck. "Let those defrost," he said. "Shark run in the morning?" I asked. "Shark don't run at all," he said. "When they find food, they eat." "How big do they get?" Martin smiled. "Big enough to eat us both." As he smiled, I glanced down at his hand. Two fingers were now gone. "How do you know so much about sharks all the sudden?" "When you buy a boat -- everybody suddenly has fish stories. Just wait and see what we're going to do." Martin started the engine. Blue exhaust churned up from the aft and choked the air. I held my breath until it blew off. As we headed for the bay, the noise of the boat was too loud to talk over. We humped wave after wave. Cool water sprayed me with each downward motion. The mesmerizing engine droned at a whining pitch for about an hour. Then Martin pulled back on the accelerator. The sound dropped back down to a low churning rhythm and he rushed around the dock, preparing for the catch. "You're not going to believe how this works, Andy." he said. He feverishly worked the wing nuts on the big speaker, attached the back of it to two steel bars, then lowered the speaker into the water. The other ends of the bars, he attached to the side of the boat. He handed me rubber-coated speaker chord spliced into two AC plugs at the end. "Plug that in to the stereo in the cabin, Andy," he said. "Audio Out." "We going to serenade the fish?" I asked. He finished with the wing nuts. "Not us," he said. He pulled a cassette tape out of his pocket, and held it up with his two-fingered hand. "Pink Floyd is." He put the tape in the stereo and pushed play. He lingered a moment in the shadows of the cabin. I saw his arm move and his head toss back a few times, then he came out. He sat down on one of the deck chairs, and after a moment I heard the tinny, muffled tones of the odd-tempo bass in "Money." "They can hear that for miles," Martin smiled. I nodded. "And this is one of the fish stories you heard?" "Yep," he said. "Rock and Roll works best, too. So, since sharks have such good taste, I thought I'd treat them to the best Rock and Roll available." "Then you're going to kill it?" Martin squinted over the horizon. "I need something over the mantel at the beach house." I shook my head. Martin pretended not to see. "It's a big mantel," he added. The water-filtered music droned on. In college, Martin and I listened to "The Dark Side of the Moon" almost every night, getting drunk on beer and talking about the girls we would screw. We were the same then. Now we were entirely different. Martin ate corporations for dinner -- I was lucky to have roast. After "Money" came "Us and Them," then "Any Color You Like." "What're you moping about?" Martin asked. I tipped my head toward his hand. "You did it again." He laughed. "No," he said. "Different method this time. You're not going to believe this one." I watched the ripples of the water raise and lower at the point where the steel bars pierced the water. "I was in the garage, working on Jeremy's bassoon. He took it up for the school orchestra -- wierd instrument, but that's what he wanted so I bought him one. Four thousand bucks and he breaks it. I figure I can make the part that he broke myself, so I head for the garage like a good father. Anyway, I have to mill this tiny part down to a ridiculously small O.D. I was concentrating so hard that at one point, I tried to pull the part out of the collat with my thumb and index finger. Right? You know how people still feel like missing parts are still there? Well it's true. For a second, I forgot that I didn't have an index finger, and my hand went right in and the middle finger got it worst. It didn't actually take the finger off; the doctor did it this time." He laughed again. "He says not to worry, that if I want to give someone the bird I can still use my right hand." Martin's eyebrows came together -- a face he sometimes made when we were kids and he was about to cheat on a test or break a date. He grabbed the pole and began working a piece of meat on its hook. "That line going to be strong enough?" "Strong enough to make him tired," he said. Until now, Martin had kept no secrets from me. I even knew the terrible events of his childhood. I knew never to talk about them, but I knew. I looked at the horizon. Martin put his pole into a pole-holder and busied himself with making some chum. He chopped up the dead fish that had defrosted. After a moment, he flung bits of fish over the water. "There," he said, sitting back down. "A shark'll smell the blood almost as far away as they hear the music." Martin guided the boat in a slow, straight line away from his first release of chum, then let out hundreds of feet of line. A hand with one finger missing still looked useful, but a hand with two gone seemed mutilated. He threw out more chum, then a few hundred feet later, threw more. He finally shut down the engine and dropped anchor, then settled into his chair. He grabbed his pole, curling his ring finger and pinky beneath the pole to balance it. "All this just for something to put over your mantle?" Martin started eating some chips. "Not totally," he said. "It's mostly the killing that's meaningful to me. In the water, the shark is the master . . . but not when I'm around. Besides, they're becoming a prize fish . . . not too many of them left." "I think it's cruel." Martin shook his head in disapproval. "That's why you're still driving a Chrysler," he said, looking at me. "I bet you bought that thing feeling some loyalty to the American worker." I didn't answer. "The shark moves without thinking," he said. "It's the master of the ocean. I admire the shark -- I imitate it, really. That's why I'm the master now." I detected a slight slur in Martin's voice. He must have had some booze hidden in the cabin. The muffled sounds of "Brain Damage" rose through the water. The sun was already high in the sky. The Earth's rotation seemed much more evident to me since I'd been out before sunrise. I had a more intimate knowledge of the day -- like a child I'd known since its birth. I checked out the controls at the helm. They seemed simple enough: a wheel, and throttle, an ignition button, a key. "Exactly what is the procedure when we see a shark?" "First," he said. "I reel it in close to harpoon it if we have to." "Why not shoot it in the brain?" Martin rolled the index finger and thumb of his right hand into a hole the size of a pea. "The winch will help us get it on board." I looked at the small roll of cable, then looked at Martin. "You don't mind if I have you operate the winch, do you?" he laughed. I smiled. "No problem." The sea on every side of "Darwin's Dream" was rippled by wind, and the high cirrus clouds had slowly moved overhead. There was no sign of dangerous weather. The tape had looped itself around a few times without us seeing any sign of shark. Just before "Us and Them," I heard the ending of "Money." Voices on the tape blurred together, but I knew from memory the bits of conversations on the tape. He's cruisin' for a bruisin, and I don't know, I was really drunk at the time. Martin pointed with his right hand at the horizon. I looked, but saw nothing. Then I noticed what seemed like a seal poking its head out of the water. "A seal?" "Shark fin. He knows we're here, too." I felt afraid and excited. As the fin glided through the water toward us, Martin handed me an aluminum softball bat, then set the knife on the deck by his right hand. We said nothing. Then Martin's pole dipped and the battle began. Martin lodged the butt of the pole between his legs, curled his entire left arm beneath the rod, and began furiously reeling in the line. He stopped occasionally to let the shark take some line back. I stood with the bat in my hands, wondering if I could actually bring myself to club the thing. "He's getting tired," Martin said after about twenty minutes. Sweat pouring down his face as he tightened the drag a tiny bit. He continued reeling, and as the shark neared, I felt my arm shaking. My fingers wrapped so tightly around the rubber grip of the bat that my fingertips began to sting. The wake behind the short fin silently grew nearer and I could see that the fish was about ten or twelve feet long. "Jesus," Martin said. "He's a big one." When it came within twenty feet of the boat, it slowed -- then passed back and forth in front of the speaker. The music offered a bleak accompaniment to the exhausted animal. Still Martin reeled. "We can't lift that thing," I said. "No," he said. "I'm gonna have to harpoon him. Hold my pole." He handed the rod and reel to me. He detached the harpoon from the outside wall of the cabin, unwound the nylon line and attached its end to the winch on the deck. "Can you do the harpoon?" I asked. "With your hand?" "Yes I can do it." He leaned his upper body over the edge of the boat as I examined the sleek body of the shark. Its tail stroked gracefully through the ocean water. As Martin leaned toward it, the shark lurched. It dove, and foot after foot of line went back out. "Play with it," he said. "I'll stay here until you get it back." I let the line out, then began pulling it back in. Though it was a warm day, my fingers felt frozen and worked the reel clumsily. Eventually, the fish reappeared, and neared its original position. Martin let fly the harpoon. The shark was so close to us that the weapon had not quite left his hand before it found its mark. It pierced the hide just in front of its dorsal fin. "Good enough," he said. "Gimme that." He reached for the rod and reel, and I gave it to him. "Turn on the winch now." His speech was clipped, excited, like he was creating a masterpiece. I turned on the winch and it began to wind in the cable. Spray erupted over the side of the boat as the animal thrashed. "Grab the bat," he said. As the winch pulled up the front end of the shark, Martin slid a cable noose around its head and behind its front fins, then attached it to the winch cable. He cut the nylon line on the harpoon. The shark fell a few inches, and the noose tightened instantly. "That ought to hold," Martin said. "When it falls on the deck, hit it on the head. Hard. But watch out for its tail." Just as he said that, the shark landed on the deck and its tail whipped toward me, knocking me off my feet. The boat rocked violently as the heavy beast thrashed on the deck. I started to stand, but bent and grasped my ankle in pain. Martin dropped his pole and took the bat from my hands. Circling wide around the thrashing tail, He approached the shark's head, and brought the bat down on its skull. The shark snapped at the air. Martin clumsily struck it again. The shark seemed unaffected by the beating, and Martin's blows had been slightly uncoordinated, but grew to a maniacal pace. Again and again the bat cracked against the taut hide of the beast. Finally, the shark became sluggish, rolled toward its side, no longer thrashing. Martin released the bat and it rolled toward the aft. "There, you sonofabitch," he whispered, panting. He stared at it for a long time. Water sloshed against the hull. Then he turned the key and the engine whined to a start. In a moment, we were moving back to the dock. The shark's paralyzed body and tail quivered, and sometimes his mouth opened and shut so violently that it lifted itself off the deck and came crashing back down. Martin waved me over to the helm. "Want to take the wheel a minute?" he said. I motioned that I wasn't sure what I was doing. "It's easy," he shouted, then pointed at the shore in the distance. "See those two markers? Just make sure they stay lined up, or close to it. That way, the coast is clear. O.K.?" I nodded and took the wheel. Martin went below deck. I cautiously worked the speeding boat left and right, keeping the markers aligned. I knew that I was being paranoid -- that if Martin saw me he would laugh and say that I didn't have to be so careful. Occasionally, the shark's teeth cut at the air. Martin stepped out of the cabin to get a closer look at it. The speeding boat made for an unstable walking surface, but Martin seemed to list and lean more than necessary. His back was to me as I steered nearer to the landing. "Martin, you better take it from here," I said. He looked at our location, paused, and said, "You sure?" He slowly swayed with the rocking of the boat. His eyes blinked twice in succession. I was afraid to put him behind the wheel, but felt even more apprehensive about wrecking the boat myself. I lowered the pitch of the engine to a low drone, and he stepped behind the helm. We were close enough to shore to be out of danger. I was a good swimmer. Instead of docking his boat at his private dock, Martin pulled into the gas dock. "How much do you think it weighs?" he asked. I didn't answer. I knew by Martin's half-drunk, crooked smile that the afternoon was not over. The guy who worked the gas pumps stood agape at our catch. His coveralls were green, and he had a Fu Manchu mustache. "Hey kid," Martin said. "Wanna help us weigh this baby?" The shark wasn't completely dead yet. Occasionally its mouth opened and shut with quick thrashing bites. Fu Manchu put on gloves and offered wary assistance as Martin began the process of hoisting the shark up on the scale. Fu Manchu attached a line to the cable noose and turned on the electric dock winch. With every click of the motor, the great shark's head curled around toward the stern of "Darwin's Dream." The gray flesh on its back buckled, and its white underbelly stretched as its head lifted over the sides of the boat and scraped onto the dock. Its mouth twisted open and I looked into its maw. The bright red folds behind the white teeth receded into black. Pink Floyd sang, "Breathe . . . breathe in the air." Martin hopped clumsily onto the dock, and stood in awe of his destroyed creation as it lifted into the air. Before its tail cleared the dock, I noticed movement in the shark's tail fin. I grabbed Martin's arm to pull him away should the tail lash out. Martin shucked my grasp, irritated, and continued staring at the quivering beast. I heard a squishing sound and saw a foot-long baby shark flop onto the dock. We all forgot about the weight of the shark, and stood in amazement at the birth. Another baby slapped onto the dock. Fu Manchu thought quickly, and grabbed an ice chest out of the boat. He threw the lid off and dunked the chest into the water. "Help me out," he said. As I bent down to lift the chest out of the ocean, I could smell the psychedelic oil that coated the black water. We placed the water beneath the mother shark just as another baby fell into it. I picked up one of the babies with my bare hands. Its hide was leathery and rough, and it thrashed in my grasp with remarkable strength. I tossed it into the ice chest. In just a few minutes, the great white gave birth to seventeen young. "What are we going to do with them?" I asked. "We're going to watch," said Martin. His gaze was fixed on the swirling gray creatures with unusual admiration. He knew what was to come. At less than a few minutes old, the infant sharks began feeding on one another. It began with a few nips at a passing tail, but as blood began clouding their tiny chamber of water, the sharks began biting wildly. Even the grossly injured continued wobbling through the water in search of edible flesh. Martin admiration evolved into a grim reverie. He smiled broadly at the massacre. In the end, the water had turned deep red and the small creatures slowly twitched and circled to a stop. The three of us stood in horror. "There's one left," said Martin. "One's alive." Peeking briefly into the ice chest, I saw the survivor swimming beneath the surface as Martin cleared away the bloody debris. "He's the winner," said Martin. "The champion." Fu Manchu went off to give some boaters gas. I turned to gather my things from the boat, then heard a slight gasp from Martin. Something dripped on the dock. I turned to see blood gathering around Martin's feet. I though for a moment that he was dumping out the water, but stepped around to his side and saw that he was not. In his right hand, he held the bloody ring finger from his left hand. Martin could move without thinking. I could think, but stood paralyzed. He held his digit out for the victor to eat. The tiny shark took it into his mouth. Martin's thumb and small finger on his dripping left hand clenched to form a ridiculous fist. Copyright 1998, Jim Etchison