Sighting

The sighting was THE topic of conversation at the cafe, and even the locals were buzzing with new excitement. Chuck said hello to his squad, gave a wink to Debbie behind the counter, but took his breakfast sammie to go (blaming an untrustworthy tingle at the back of his throat for the precautions he was taking). Driving out to the inlet and hiking to the blind jetty hidden by the ridge trees and the curve of the road, Chuck filled a seaweed feeder bucket with eels and fish heads and set the pulse to sound the sonar call. It wasn't long before the Great White poked up, snipping the feeder bucket off of the compostable line without so much as a tug; the thing had to be almost 30 feet long. "Barry, you are chapping my damn hide," Chuck chided the snout and the upper teeth - the one dull eye that watched him prep another bucket. "When I say lay low, I mean it. Just slow your damn roll and stop trying to be a Shark Week star." He tossed it in and it was caught just shy of mid-air (in a little game of catch they had from time to time). "I MEAN IT, BARRY," Chuck raised his voice slightly, fastening the last bucket onto the clip. "You keep this crap up and no more Honey Nut Cheerios for YOU, my friend." And the Great White slapped the water as if retorting and drew back slowly, obviously sulking.