He coaxed the fire back to life, ready to lay the fish on the coals. Something caught his eye. He straightened and squinted across the distance to the end of the spit. Yes, there was definitely something else in the water. A dark speck intermittently popped up between the undulating waves. At first he thought it was Margaret surfacing and dipping down again. His fingers splayed and he dropped the fish in the sand. Horror filled his heart and lungs and he shouted hoarsely, "Maaaargaret!" "God, no, no, no..." He snatched the other makeshift spear that poked out of the ground beside the campfire and raced to the end of the spit, scrambling and almost tripping over the pitted boulders. She was about thirty feet offshore; face down, scanning for fish. She didn't see the triangular dorsal fin cutting through the surface another thirty feet away from her, zigzagging, searching for the source of the irresistible scent of blood. He shouted, "Maggie!!" as loud as he could, and her head poked out of the water, turning toward the sound of his voice. He screamed, his voice breaking with the effort, "Shark!!" He frantically pointed behind her and waved her in, swinging his arms in wide arcs. She swung to look over her shoulder, and then turned to kick furiously toward him, abandoning her spear. The triangle ceased to zigzag and sliced straight through the water toward the splashing. She was still about ten feet from his outstretched hand when the shark struck. |
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