Costa Valiente

It took all of three hours for my father to round up each and every one of Costa Valiente’s fishermen in the village square. Many of them came prepared, harpoons and nets already in hand, but all of them looked angry, practically frothing at the mouth.

Standing above the crowd on the edge of the fountain in the center of the square, my father looked at the gathering with pride, a toothy smile stretched across his weathered face. I stood next to him, his leathery tentacle of an arm wrapped around my shoulders. He looked down at me.

“Do you see this? This is community,” he said.

As the crowd stirred, my father raised his hands, quieting the din and luring every eye in the crowd toward him. He took a deep breath before addressing the undulating congregation.

“My friends,” he began, “as you may already be aware, the serenity of our small seaside town has been muddied by a vicious beast. The bloodthirsty creature has been threatening our small cove for some time, but now it has crossed a line. Just this morning, one of our young fishermen was attacked while bringing in his net.”

The mob let out a collective gasp at the revelation, many raising a hand to cover their gaping mouths. My father raised his hands again to quiet them once more.

“Do not fret, my friends,” he continued. “Diego Esperanza, the brave boy, survived with only minor injuries. He is at home recovering as we speak. But we, the brave fishermen of the great town of Costa Valiente, now have our own responsibility. We must exact vengeance for the good of everyone. And so I have organized this shark hunt. We have only an hour or two before sunfall, so we must act quickly if we are to capture and kill the vile monster that tried to take one of our young men, our future, from us!”

The crowd boiled with cheers and applause. My father continued.

“Take to your boats,” he said. “Let us save Costa Valiente!”

Another roar of approval burst from the horde, as the fishermen made their way toward the harbor. I looked up at my father, his toothsome grin even wider than before.

“Papa, I thought you said Diego attacked the shark first,” I said.

“That is not important, my child,” he replied. “This cove is ours. It is our home. We must protect it. Come now. We have work to do.”

“Yes, Papa,” I said.

Together, we glided through the crowd, down onto the dock, and arrived at my father’s small fishing boat. I helped my father detach the boat’s lines from the dock cleats and we both hopped inside the tiny wooden vessel and shoved off.

“Here,” my father said, “you stay at the bow and watch the water. I’ll row. If you see a fin, shout for me, yes?”

“Yes, Papa,” I replied, crawling to the nose of the boat.

I watched as dozens of other small rowboats joined ours, spreading out into the water almost aimlessly like driftwood on the rolling waves, sunlight glinting off the fishermen’s harpoons. It was peaceful.

Before long, one of the fishermen began to shout, waving his arms in the air and pointing at the water.

“¡Tiburón, tiburón!”

Quickly, the fleet of rowboats changed direction, moving together toward the shouting man’s vessel, paddles slapping chaotically upon the water as each man struggled to be the first to have a chance to kill the bloodthirsty beast.

My father maneuvered our rowboat through the crowded cove, vying for a position that met his inscrutable standards. After only a minute or two, he seemed satisfied and brought the oars onboard, swapping them for his tarnished old harpoon -- the one his father had given to him so many years ago.

He rose to his feet and leaned over the water, his eyes darting back and forth as a bead of saliva escaped the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

I gazed about the crowded cove to find that every fisherman in every boat had taken the same stance, each watching vigilantly for any sign of the shark, weapons in hand.

Like a lightning bolt, my father threw his harpoon into the water, sat back down, braced his feet on the side of the boat, and grabbed the line attached to the harpoon’s end. He glanced over at me and smiled that same toothy grin.

“Got him,” he said.

As he reeled the line in, wrapping each length around his elbow, I looked down into the water. The calm blue-green of the cove was now turning a dark crimson and spreading out below all the little wooden rowboats.

With one final heave, my father lifted the shark from the water, rose to his feet, and held the fish above his head with both hands, the harpoon still sticking through it.

He, along with the dozens of fishermen surrounding us, cheered and whistled with excitement and approval.

“Do you see?” he asked me. “We must protect our home from monsters.”

I looked around once more at the dozens of fishermen standing in their boats, their mouths frothing and teeth gnashing as they floated upon the sanguine waves.

“Yes, Papa,” I replied.