I decided I'd have to resurface and hang around on the boulder, hoping it would go away. I did this and spent the next ten minutes shivering in the mist and rain, crouched down because I didn't want the others to see that I wasn't fishing. Every so often I peered underwater to check if it was still there. It always was, circling slowly near the spot where I'd been sitting, watching me – I reckoned – with its inky eyes.
A brilliant idea coincided with a blistering peal of thunder. I put my milkfish, which was still in the twitching stage of death, on the tip of my spear. Then I rolled on to my front so I could dip my head and arms into the water, and held the spear ahead of me. The shark responded at once, breaking out of its leisured pace with a crisp snap of its tail. It headed towards me at an angle that would have carried it past the boulder, but six feet away it turned abruptly and lunged at the milkfish.
Out of sheer instinct I pulled the spear back. The lunge had been so quick and threatening that my reflexes had got the better of my common sense. The shark whipped past me and vanished behind a bank of corals. It didn't reappear within ten seconds, so I pulled myself out of the water to get some air.
I swore at myself, took a few deep breaths, then dipped back in.
The next time the shark appeared it was more cautious, swimming near but showing little interest. The milkfish was dead by now and floating limply, so I tried jerking the spear to approximate life. The shark's enthusiasm revived. Again it began its angled approach, but this time I took care to tense my arms. As it lunged, I pushed. The point of the spear caught momentarily on its teeth or gums, then sunk into its mouth.
With a mighty wrench I pulled myself upwards, stupidly thinking I'd hoist the shark on to the boulder behind me, but the spear simply snapped. I looked blankly at my broken spear for a couple of seconds, then shoved myself completely off the rock.
Underwater, the greyness was already hanging with curiously static strings of blood. Close by, the shark wildly thrashed and twisted, champing at the splintered bamboo between its teeth, sometimes diving directly downwards and ramming its snout on the seabed.
Watching it, I realized I'd never killed anything as large before, or anything that fought so violently for its survival. As if to complement my thought, the shark increased the intensity of its thrashing, and became obscured behind a cloud of disturbed sand and shredded seaweed. Occasionally, like in a comic-book fight, its tail or head would appear out of the cloud before darting back inside again. The sight made me grin, and salt-water eased through the sides of my mouth. I resurfaced. I needed to spit and I needed some air. Then, with no intention of going near it while it was in that frantic state, I floated face down and waited for it to die.
Hi, Man
I don't keep a travel diary. I did keep a travel diary once, and it was a big mistake. All I remember of that trip is what I bothered to write down. Everything else slipped away, as though my mind felt jilted by my reliance on pen and paper. For exactly the same reason, I don't travel with a camera. My holiday becomes the snapshots and anything I forget to record is lost. Apart from that, photographs never seem to be very evocative. When I look through the albums of old travelling companions I'm always surprised by how little I'm reminded of the trip.
If only there were a camera that captured smell. Smells are far more vivid than images. I've often been walking in London on a hot day, caught the smell of hot refuse or melting tarmac and suddenly been transported to a Delhi side-street. Likewise, if I'm walking past a fishmonger's I think instantly of Unhygienix, and if I smell sweat and cut grass (the lawn kind) I think of Keaty. I doubt either of them would appreciate being remembered in such a way, especially Unhygienix, but that's how it is.
All that said, I wish there'd been someone with a camera when I sauntered out of the mist with a dead shark over my shoulder. I must have looked so cool.
That afternoon, I was the toast of the camp. The shark was grilled and cut into strips so everyone would get a proper taste, and Keaty made me stand up and repeat my story to the whole camp. When I got to the part about the shark's first lunge, everyone gasped as if they were watching fireworks, and when I told how I tensed my arms for the deathblow, everyone cheered.
For the remainder of that day and night I had people constantly coming up to me to give their congratulations. Jed was the nicest. He walked over to where I was smoking with Etienne, Francoise and Keaty, and said, 'Well done, Richard. That was really something. I think we ought to rename you Tarzan.' That made Keaty giggle like crazy, mainly because he was stoned, so Jed sat down with us and we all got wasted together.
It was doubly nice because Keaty and Jed got on so well. After the Rice Run I'd been trying to persuade Keaty that Jed was OK, and now I felt like I'd had some success. It also turned out they had something in common, one of those weird coincidences that could easily never have been realized. Six years ago they'd both stayed at the same guesthouse in Yogyakarta, on the very same night. They were able to work this out because on that night the guesthouse had mysteriously burned down—or not so mysteriously as it turned out. Keaty had been tripping, and the mosquitoes in his room were driving him mad. Knowing that mosquitoes were driven away by smoke he lit a small fire, and the next thing he knew the room was completely ablaze. Jed explained that he'd had to escape the guesthouse by jumping from a third-storey window and that all his money had been burned, and Keaty apologized, and everyone rolled around laughing.
If there was a sour note to the evening, it was Bugs, but ironically even that turned out OK. He came over while we were in the middle of another laughing fit, this one about the moment Etienne had realized we were standing in a dope field.
'Hi, man,' he said, flicking his head back to clear the hair from his eyes.
At first I didn't answer because I was out of breath, and then I said, 'What?' It wasn't a good choice of words. I'd honestly meant it in a friendly way, but it came out sounding like a confrontation.
If Bugs was taken aback he didn't show it – then again, he wouldn't have done.
'I just came over to say congratulations. About the shark.'
'Oh, yeah. Thanks. I… uh… I'm glad I caught it…' Again, my stoned head seemed to be putting the most inappropriate words into my mouth.' …I've never caught a shark before.'
'We 're all glad you caught it… Actually, I've caught a shark before.'
'Oh?' I said, now trying extremely hard to concentrate on what I was saying. 'Really? That's amazing… You should certainly… uh… certainly tell us about it.'
'Certainly,' Keaty echoed, then coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed giggle.
Bugs paused. 'It was in Australia.'
'Australia… Gosh.'
'Must be about five years ago now.'
'Five years? Was it as long ago as that? …uh…'
'A tiger shark, twelve-footer.'
'How very… huge.'
Suddenly Keaty dissolved into hysterics, and he set off Jed, who set off the others.
Bugs smiled thinly. 'Maybe I'll save it for another time.'
'It sounds like a great story,' I managed to say before he turned to go. Then Keaty gasped, 'Certainly,' and I collapsed as well.
'My God, Richard,' said Francoise a couple of minutes later. Her face was shining from tears. 'What were you saying to Bugs? Everything you said…'