Into The  Deep
by Al Honig

Life was good. That’s right, life was good. You’re asking…so I’ll tell you.
We, my wife and I, hired a driver to take us to the airport—why the hurry? —To escape what’s proven to be the coldest winter in modern history. We surrendered our plane tickets, undressed our way through security, and carried our onion and cheese sandwiches —even water cost two dollars on the plane now— crossed our fingers to ward off a plane crash, and were on our way to Florida inside this giant tin bird. Final destination— the beach condo that laps the surf of Hutchinson’s Island.
The flight was uneventful. No fireball explosion, no river miracle landing. We picked up our car, highwayed sixty miles, drove over the bridge, smelled the sewage plant below, turned on the curved coastal road and headed south. The sparse beaches seemed as empty as 200 years ago, when Osceola and the Seminoles rowed from the mainland to fish and hunt ducks.
Even though the cold forced the farmers to spray a water coat over their strawberries and oranges at night, we had left nineteen degrees in Philadelphia. As we approached West Palm Beach airport, the moon was full and the ocean gleaned bright. I wondered what lurked below the sea,
Today, I got my rods ready. I hoped the pompano were running, and if so, I could gather a measure of sand fleas to bait the hook. 
The first week, the sea was rough and it wasn’t warm. When the temperature registered twenty-nine, the planes from the North were no longer full. The television reported: sheets of ice six inches thick made driving treacherous in Hartford, Connecticut. On the tube from Palm Beach an economic guru pained with his listeners as they cried about being wiped out by Bernie Madoff.
CNN HAD BREAKING NEWS…Obama’s stimulus package was nothing more than a giant welfare give away screamed the House Republicans.  Conservatives in the Senate will lend little support. “Old ways run deep and will be hard to change,” said the president.
The cold nights became moonless. Too dark and too windy to launch a spacecraft from Kennedy. I looked at the black ocean and smelled death.
A guy jumped off the Causeway Bridge, hoping this would bring him fame and make him eligible for some daredevil contest in France. He knew the bridge was only forty foot high. A jump over sixty feet breaks bones causes the heart to fail, and kills. Our guy at forty feet got two police boats, a yank out of the swift current, and five lines in the back of The Fort Pierce Tribune.
Day after day the north winds blew like the Hamadan of Africa. Loose sand speckled the air like black pepper. My rods and reels gathered sand and rust, as they lay idle on the balcony facing the sea. I tired of writing, chatting with neighbors, and exchanging emails. My restless, electrically paced heart craved change—something more physical.
Then the sun broke free. Sensing short relief, I rummaged the surf for sand fleas, but found none. In desperation, I threaded three hooks, two with shrimp and one with squid, all frozen. I wrapped this bait with elastic cord, as would a chef wrap a hot dog in bacon. Then the long cast into the angry sea. Baited for bluefish, I secretly longed for something larger. A snook, tarpon, perhaps a hammerhead.
The line swirled, the reel zinged. I locked the drag and slowly wound everything toward the shore. A tug of war, as the stupendous creature hugged the ocean bottom.
I held steady. Soon the sands were more than the water. Out of its element and trailing tracks, the creature gave up the fight. Fresh bluefish was to be supper’s menu.

Such a struggle and timely tug can become everyman passion. I was obsessed in wanting bigger game—but not without second thoughts. Hunting warm-blooded animals akin to our own anatomy was cruel slaughter, but marine authorities say Pisces feel no pain when hooked. 
I hungered for bigger prey. To test line and reel as never done before. A largest swordfish, great hammerhead, 500-pound clam, cow nose ray—some monster of the deep.
I bribed a captain to tease a boat into the warmer waters of the Gulf Stream two miles out —seventy-seven degrees, light emerald green, clear as quartz crystal.
I was paralyzed with pleasure… and fear, by it’s magnificence. Flying fish glided quickly bye, as did blue marlin, mahi-mahi. Other boats passed, some large, others larger. “Thumbs up” they signaled. “Thumbs up to you”, I signaled back.
Then from nowhere, a super wave shook the boat high and I was in sea. At first I laughed, pantomimed other fishermen on the beach and they, in play, imitated my gestures. I blew sea bubbles and giggled. Why not, the swim was delightfully warm.
Were the warm winds steering me into deeper waters?
Yes!! My toes reached down for the bottom. I filled my lungs with air and breast stroked down ten—then twenty feet. No bottom. I needed air so up I came. I panicked 
“Help!” I cried out. More cries of “help, please!”
I watched myself lose control as I saw my fellow fishermen, unconcerned—reeling in small catches of silvery, withering whiting on to the beach.
Strokes of arm motion reduced my reserves of energy. I breathed to my fullest taking in gulps and more gulps of air. With powerful kicks, I could ride the large waves rolling toward the shore—I thought. But my right leg wouldn’t move. The ankle was lassoed. Not by a bullwhip, but the legs of a giant octopus. Luckily, I still had my rod and reel—sixteen feet of strong flexible fiberglass. With all my strength, I hammered the reel against the tentacles below. The octopus, like the python of the Amazon, tightened and then rolled me on my back—floating—again filling my lungs with reserves of clean air. Crimson water was all around. The rod had torn a tentacle; but the pain I felt meant the blood was mixed. The powerful grip on the leg, loosened. The bulbous head floated past my face. I pushed the wounded powerless animal further away.
Now free, I doggy paddled toward the beach where a small crowd had gathered. So small and nearly out of sight, they resembled a cluster of grapes. They were cheering me on. I swam faster followed by a stream of blood.
Grayish fins, sharks—I counted four, then eight began, circulating like Indian braves.   Thus they weakened their prey with fear—and built up their own courage.
When they struck, I struck back. With a twenty-foot weapon—sixteen feet of fiberglass rod with right arm over left for reinforcement. Hurrah, it was working.
Until the pain became excruciating. Both my left arm and rod were gone. More blood and the attack stopped. The left arm, still gripping the rod among a mass of shark teeth was moving rapidly away.
Would I now be safe? With my weakening eyes, I saw two helicopters hovering above. I found some threads of a shirt that still graced my back, ripped it with my teeth and created a tourniquet, tied it around my the stump of my left arm and reached for a bobbing rope. My strength returned. 
Objects were no longer identifiable on the beach. I was now in international waters. I waved to the loyal helicopters above. A sailor calmly aimed a doughnut buoy toward me.
Life can only be lived one second at a time.
That’s all it took.  Five seconds and I was gone.
Dr. Fujiyama Alisota directed the inquest.
A Japanese fishing boat had taken pictures. It had on its deck an open bellied fifteen-foot bull shark.
The elegantly dressed Professor Alisota projected the films on a screen.
My bloodied head, one testicle, and right leg were lying there in the dissected shark’s stomach.
Gone was the left arm gripping the elongated rod and Penn surf reel and the rest of me—forever into the deep.