Shark Bait

I reached down to grab the man’s hand to pull him out of the boat wreckage. Shark fins occasionally sliced through water ripples just beyond where the man had been floating on wooden debris.

I pulled him into my boat. His skin was blistered and oozing. He’d been languishing in the sun without cover for quite some time, I guessed.

“Those sharks near the surface usually don’t attack,” I assured him. “Now the ones circling below you, well, those are ambush predators, and they sure looked like they were getting bolder, judging from your toes.”

Two of the man’s toes were nicked. “Hardly life threatening, your little shark-nibbled toes, but the fresh wounds and gently dripping blood would have made you into chum had I not gotten to you when I did.”

The man rocked back and forth, hugging himself tightly with his scrawny arms, and probably would have been pissing himself from fright, had he not been dehydrated.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

The man only trembled and shook. His mouth was open and his teeth chattered. He stared at the cooler in the corner, grunting and panting.

I went over and took out a bottle of water and gave it to him. His hand shook so violently, and he was in such a state of shock, that he could not grasp the bottle. The bottle fell, spilling cold water onto the floor of my boat. The man fell forward and began lapping up the water like a dog.

“I’ll get you another,” I said soothingly. I placed another bottle in his hand, and wrapped my hand around his, until I was sure he could hold it steady.

“Bob,” he sputtered, between gulps of water.

“You sure were bobbing,” I chuckled, “like an apple. I think I’ll call you Apple.”

Apple eyed me with annoyance while chugging water. “Bob is my name,” he said, finally gathering enough strength to form words.

“Sorry,” I smiled, “just trying to lighten the mood.”

“I’ll put you in my book,” he said, with a cragged voice.

He must have blown out his voice screaming at overhead planes, I figured. “Why don’t you rest quietly, and I’ll get some crackers for you. You don’t want to eat a big meal, or drink too much water immediately, or you’ll get sick. You have to ease your body back slowly.”

Bob held up his water bottle in a silent toast to me. He nodded his head, then drank the rest of the water.

I radioed for help and the coast guard and paramedics arrived quickly.

“Are you ok, sir? Do you feel pain?” The paramedics swarmed Bob. I had never rescued anyone before, and wondered if they were this concerned over every stranger they rescued.

Bob looked like a race car with its pit stop crew. The paramedics, all of them, gathered around him, and lifted his arms, checked inside his mouth, poked him, listened to his heart, called out vitals, and shined lights into his eyes.

At the dock, reporters scrambled over each other like breeding gerbils in a small cage. They shoved microphones forward, while cameramen stood leaning over the dock ropes with their cameras aimed at Bob.

“Robert! Robert Briggs! Were you under the influence of any drugs or substances when you took off in your plane?” One reporter screamed her question above the many other questions being shouted.

I looked over at Bob. I had no idea who this man was, although everyone else seemed to think he was famous.

Bob wearily hung his head, trying unsuccessfully to hide his face from the throng of news cameras.

“Robert, were you released from rehab on your own recognizance, or did you escape against your doctors’ advice that you should remain in rehab?” A man stumbled over a camera tripod as he yelled his question.

“Were you attempting to commit suicide, Robert, when you flew your airplane without alerting anyone to your hastened departure?” Another reporter shouted from atop her news van’s roof.

I tossed Bob my jacket to put over his head. The guy was almost shark bait, and now he was again shark bait, except the sharks circling him here on land, were reporters.

Bob caught my jacket. “Thanks,” he graciously mumbled, then quickly covered his head with my jacket.

A giant dog tore after Bob, tackled him, then pinned his neck to the dock with its fangs pressed into Bob’s jugular.

“Shit!” I whispered under my breath. I walked faster, away from the ensuing chaos, and toward what I hoped would be an easy escape back to my car parked just beyond the marina. I’d been smuggling drugs in international waters and forgot about my private stash I’d tucked away in my jacket pocket. Thankfully, the rest of my important cargo was sealed inside my daughter’s inconspicuous toy camera I’d stripped and modified. The drug dogs must have been preoccupied with the stronger smelling, unsealed drugs in my jacket pocket.

I escaped unharmed, and laid low for a while, at my country home with my wife and daughter. As it turned out, Bob was indeed famous, though I had always heard of him as R. A. Briggs, the author. His next book was all about me, which gave me a good chuckle. I got the feeling he was pretty pissed off that he had gone from shark bait to dog bait within hours. While relaxing with my family at our pond, I read Bob’s newest novel, knowing full well that I was the evil antagonist. The main character in Bob’s book was named Richard, nicknamed Dick, and was a boat captain who was choked, beaten and stabbed to death, and I mean repeatedly strangled, bloodied, and beaten with a baseball bat, a tire iron, and finished off by shoving an apple down the throat of the character clearly modeled after me. Talk about overkill. Quite the imagination Bob had.

Later, I learned that R. A. Briggs was nearby at his book signing event. I left a copy of Bob’s book at the front desk of the luxury hotel where he was staying. I gave explicit instructions to the clerk that the apple must remain on top of the book when given to Mr. R. A. Briggs. Inside I wrote, ‘Sorry about that, Apple. That was quite unplanned. I had forgotten about that thing in my pocket when I gave you my jacket. You are apparently, extremely livid, but, nevertheless, you didn’t rat me out. In fact, you made millions off my character. I saved you, you saved me, and now you’re richer. All my best, Lifesaver.’