There is a boat on the water, a small white boat of the kind used for fishing. It has the look of a fishing boat of the kind that takes charters out to the sea, where men will drink beer and catch fish. The beer is cold, the fish less so. A man is at the prow of the boat, as men will be, and he is listening to a radio. It tells us of a squall that happened the night before. As the man listens, three other men sit in chairs under the hot sun and drink cold beer. The men are drinking, but they are not relaxed. One checks his watch, the kind of shiny and expensive watch that men who sit in offices, not in chairs in the sun drinking cold beer, wear. He comments, "I'm not working on my tan here." The other men nod. A man in an orange shirt and a blue baseball cap and black sunglasses tosses the chum in the water. It lands in the clear blue water, trailing black blood. Behind, a fishing line flies taut and metal, and it is also covered in chum. It is a good line. On the small white boat, the good fishing line goes tense and the reel begins spinning, and the man leaps to his feet. He is no longer drinking beer, and he is not working on his tan. We see the line pulling down in the water, which is not blue anymore but dark, and we know that it is dark as death and on the end of the good line with the black blood chum there is a shark.

And then my headache intensifies as I realize I just don't have what it takes to recap this entire episode Ernest Hemingway-style. So much for my dream of winning the International Imitation Hemingway contest. I can still hope for the Bulwer-Lytton. A woman's got to have dreams.

Enough about me: the next shot is of a shark hanging by its tail in a hangar while the men stand around a joke about how macho they are. Frankly, I'd be more impressed with shark fishermen if they met their sharks in the water -- it strikes me as inherently more fair, as the sharks get to use their natural defenses -- but I suppose it would be harder to feel macho when something's chomping on your femur. Anyway, one of the deckhands passes the fisherman a knife and tells him to gut his catch, which the man does after a moment's squeamishness, saying, "That's gonna look nice on my wall." The deckhand gives instructions ("Just give it a good jab and enjoy the ride up"), the fake fisherman follows them, and out flops a severed human arm. Well, that's not going to look nearly so nice on his wall. The fisherman rears back, disappointed that the human is already dead, thus robbing him of a chance to kill another living thing, and his friends discreetly hoarf into the wharf.