. . love ya." Then Max had hung up.
Within an hour, they had relocated the shark, which Chase regarded as a fortuitous confirmation of one of his pet theories.
He was particularly interested in—and in fact was considering writing his dissertation about—the question of territoriality in great white sharks. Researchers in South Australia, at places like Dangerous Reef and Coffin Bay, where the water temperature varied little from season to season, had concluded that the region's whites were definitely territorial. Their food source was stable—colonies of seals—and in the course of roughly a week each white would make a tour of its territory and return to begin again.
Here on the East Coast of the United States, where the water temperature varied by as much as thirty degrees from winter to summer, and food supplies appeared and disappeared unpredictably, territoriality would seem to be impractical. Though no one knew for certain, Chase had been gathering evidence suggesting that these whites might be migratory: they seemed to go south in the winter, reappear in the spring or early summer (traveling, some of them, as far north and east as the Canadian Maritimes), stay till late September or early October and then begin to move south again.
But what intrigued Chase most was that the records of years of tagging were beginning to show that some whites returned to the same area year after year and reestablished the same general territory during their stay in that area. If he could prove that there were patterns of repetition, he might be able to open up a new field of research into the navigational capacities and memory-engram imprinting in great white sharks.
That is, as long as there were any great white sharks left to study.
"She's goin' down again," Tall Man called from the cabin.
"I guess she's one fickle lady," Chase said, disappointed. He looked toward shore. Napatree Point was abeam, the town of Waterboro just beyond, "Where to now?"
"She's off to Montauk, looks like. But not with any great purpose. She's strolling."
Chase walked forward into the cabin, hung up the camera and wiped sweat from his eyebrows. "Want a sandwich?" he called to Max.
"Not one of those gross sardine-and-onion things."
"No, I saved you a peanut-butter-and-jelly."
"Crack me a beer," Tall Man said, looking at his watch. "This watch may say it's nine-fifteen, but it doesn't know diddly about what time it really is." They had been sleeping in erratic four-hour shifts for the past forty hours. "My guts tell me it's straight up on beer o'clock."
Chase took a step toward the ladder that led to the galley below, when suddenly the boat lurched, lurched again and lost forward motion. The bow seemed to heave up, the stern to drop.
"What the hell's that?" Chase said. "You hit something?"
"In a hundred feet of water?" Tall Man frowned at the Fathometer. "Not hardly." The engine seemed to be laboring.
They heard a sound, as of rubber stretching—a complaining screech—and then the television monitor and the signal receiver began to inch backward on their mounts. The connecting wire was stretched taut through the doorway.
"Reverse!" Chase shouted as he ran to the door.
Tall Man shifted into reverse; the connecting wire went slack and drooped to the deck.
Outside in the cockpit, Chase saw that the coil of rubber-coated wire was gone; three hundred feet had spooled overboard. "The twine must've broken," he said. "The sensor's hitched in something on the bottom."
Chase took the wire in his hand and began to pull, and Max coiled it on the deck behind him. When the wire tautened again, Chase jigged it, pulling it left and right, giving it slack then hauling it tight. There was no give; the sensor was caught fast.
"I can't figure out what it's hitched in," he said. "Nothing down there but sand."
"Maybe," Tall Man said. He put the engine in neutral, letting the boat drift, and joined Chase and Max in the stern. He took the wire from Chase and
Within an hour, they had relocated the shark, which Chase regarded as a fortuitous confirmation of one of his pet theories.
He was particularly interested in—and in fact was considering writing his dissertation about—the question of territoriality in great white sharks. Researchers in South Australia, at places like Dangerous Reef and Coffin Bay, where the water temperature varied little from season to season, had concluded that the region's whites were definitely territorial. Their food source was stable—colonies of seals—and in the course of roughly a week each white would make a tour of its territory and return to begin again.
Here on the East Coast of the United States, where the water temperature varied by as much as thirty degrees from winter to summer, and food supplies appeared and disappeared unpredictably, territoriality would seem to be impractical. Though no one knew for certain, Chase had been gathering evidence suggesting that these whites might be migratory: they seemed to go south in the winter, reappear in the spring or early summer (traveling, some of them, as far north and east as the Canadian Maritimes), stay till late September or early October and then begin to move south again.
But what intrigued Chase most was that the records of years of tagging were beginning to show that some whites returned to the same area year after year and reestablished the same general territory during their stay in that area. If he could prove that there were patterns of repetition, he might be able to open up a new field of research into the navigational capacities and memory-engram imprinting in great white sharks.
That is, as long as there were any great white sharks left to study.
"She's goin' down again," Tall Man called from the cabin.
"I guess she's one fickle lady," Chase said, disappointed. He looked toward shore. Napatree Point was abeam, the town of Waterboro just beyond, "Where to now?"
"She's off to Montauk, looks like. But not with any great purpose. She's strolling."
Chase walked forward into the cabin, hung up the camera and wiped sweat from his eyebrows. "Want a sandwich?" he called to Max.
"Not one of those gross sardine-and-onion things."
"No, I saved you a peanut-butter-and-jelly."
"Crack me a beer," Tall Man said, looking at his watch. "This watch may say it's nine-fifteen, but it doesn't know diddly about what time it really is." They had been sleeping in erratic four-hour shifts for the past forty hours. "My guts tell me it's straight up on beer o'clock."
Chase took a step toward the ladder that led to the galley below, when suddenly the boat lurched, lurched again and lost forward motion. The bow seemed to heave up, the stern to drop.
"What the hell's that?" Chase said. "You hit something?"
"In a hundred feet of water?" Tall Man frowned at the Fathometer. "Not hardly." The engine seemed to be laboring.
They heard a sound, as of rubber stretching—a complaining screech—and then the television monitor and the signal receiver began to inch backward on their mounts. The connecting wire was stretched taut through the doorway.
"Reverse!" Chase shouted as he ran to the door.
Tall Man shifted into reverse; the connecting wire went slack and drooped to the deck.
Outside in the cockpit, Chase saw that the coil of rubber-coated wire was gone; three hundred feet had spooled overboard. "The twine must've broken," he said. "The sensor's hitched in something on the bottom."
Chase took the wire in his hand and began to pull, and Max coiled it on the deck behind him. When the wire tautened again, Chase jigged it, pulling it left and right, giving it slack then hauling it tight. There was no give; the sensor was caught fast.
"I can't figure out what it's hitched in," he said. "Nothing down there but sand."
"Maybe," Tall Man said. He put the engine in neutral, letting the boat drift, and joined Chase and Max in the stern. He took the wire from Chase and
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