‘Ben Gardner’s Final Journey’ (A Short Story)

(This is a missing chapter from the JAWS story focusing on what happened to Ben Gardner.-ed)

The wind whispered doom over Amity Island, threading through dune grass and rusted boat chains with the breath of something ancient. It carried the briny scent of the Atlantic, thick with the sting of salt—and something else. A sour undercurrent. The sharp, metallic reek of blood. The rank stink of fear.

Beyond the shoreline, the sea stretched out in a sullen sprawl of iron-gray, its waves frothing like bile beneath a sky the color of old ash. But for the people of Amity, it wasn’t the storm clouds above that weighed on their souls—it was what swam below.

Alex Kitner was gone.

Ripped from the world in a blink. His absence, a raw wound carved into the heart of the town. One minute, he was a boy on a yellow raft. The next, the sea turned red. And then—nothing.

It was grief that tore at Amity’s heart. But it was fear that festered.

And fear demands action.

A bounty was posted: $3,000 for the killer’s head. Enough to spark a frenzy. They came in droves—fishermen, drunkards, opportunists. Amateurs with dreams of glory and no sense of the nightmare they were courting. They came with rusted harpoons and rabbit traps, with beer coolers and bravado, their boats creaking beneath mismatched gear and delusions of heroism.

The docks became a circus. Chaos incarnate.

Ropes snarled. Boats collided. Tempers flared and fists flew.

“Outta my way! This is my catch!”

“You couldn’t catch a trout in a bathtub, you old lush!”

Beer sloshed, egos clashed. Men stumbled over each other, eyes wild with a cocktail of terror and greed. Old-timers gripped harpoons they hadn’t used in forty years, while young fools bellowed about courage with shaking hands and vomit on their shoes. It was madness disguised as justice.

And in the eye of the storm stood a man who neither shouted nor shoved.

Ben Gardner.

Ben didn’t care for noise. He was a man of the sea—weathered, quiet, forged by tides and time. His face was a tapestry of lines carved by salt and sun, his gaze steady, cautious, resigned. His boat wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. It was solid. Reliable. Like him.

At his side stood Al Cutter—his longtime mate and only true friend. Cutter was tall, wiry, with windburned skin and reddish hair always matted by sea spray. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to.

They worked like a single organism—two halves of the same heartbeat.

Ben had watched the dock erupt into madness. He’d shaken his head at the absurdity.

“Holy Jesus H. Christ,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Look at this bunch of nuts. Got gear for trout fishing, clam digging, rabbit hunting, bass chasing—everything but what they really need. The more that come, the worse it gets.”

Chief Brody had tried to restore order, but he was drowning in chaos. Ben respected him—mainly because Brody knew when to leave him the hell alone.

“Ben,” Brody called, forcing his way through the fray. “You’re not going out too, are you?”

Ben met his eyes, deadpan. “Three thousand dollars is a lot of money, Chief. And I’d like to have it. I could use it.”

Brody didn’t argue. He just nodded. Because deep down, he knew—if anyone had a shot, it was Gardner.

Only one other man might’ve been a match for what lurked out there.

Quint.

But the grizzled shark hunter was nowhere to be found. Maybe out on a charter. Maybe off the grid. Maybe watching from afar with a grin and a bottle. Either way, he wasn’t competition today.

Ben and Cutter were on their own.

But this wasn’t a hunt. It was a reckoning.

Their boat peeled away from the docks, cutting through the chop with a familiar rhythm, its small engine growling beneath them like a tired dog with one last job to do. Behind them, Amity dissolved into the haze—gray rooftops swallowed by the sea mist, the shrill chaos of the bounty hunters muffled until it became little more than a memory. The din of shouting, crashing, and drunken bravado was gone. Replaced by nothing.

Just wind. And water. And waiting.

The further they traveled, the more the world narrowed to a quiet line where sea met sky. The coastline was long behind them now, and the water deepened from green to black-blue. The shallows where tourists waded and children screamed in the surf were long forgotten. Out here, there were no swimmers. No laughter. Just the creak of weathered wood and the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull.

“Strange quiet,” Cutter murmured, leaning against the rail, his arms folded, his eyes scanning the horizon with the narrowed look of a man trying to see something that wasn’t there.

Ben didn’t turn. He kept his hands on the wheel, guiding them through the swell with muscle memory and instinct. “Too quiet,” he replied, the words drifting on the wind.

The minutes stretched.

Then the hour.

Time passed, slow and sticky, like honey poured into cold water. The adrenaline from the dock was gone now—bled away with each mile. The thrum of anticipation faded into the dull ache of endurance. Out here, the world didn’t care about vengeance or bounties. Out here, time sagged.

The men moved in practiced silence, their boots thudding softly on the deck as they checked lines, adjusted gear, and stowed supplies. Cutter opened a small cooler and handed Ben a thermos of coffee. They drank without speaking. No toast. No bravado. Just the slow ritual of preparation.

Rod tips sat still. No tugs. No bites. No sign of life, save for the occasional gull arcing above, screeching once, then disappearing into the gloom.

The boat rocked gently, a cradle in the arms of something far older and far less kind than any man on shore could imagine.

Below deck, Cutter did a gear check—harpoons, lines, bait buckets. Above, Ben stared at the horizon. Sometimes he’d glance down at the compass, though he hardly needed it. These waters were in his blood. But today, something felt off. Not wrong exactly. Just… expectant. As if the ocean itself was holding its breath.

The wind slackened, and the waves dulled to a slow pulse, like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant. The sky, low and brooding, pressed down, a slate-colored lid on an ink-black pot. The sea mirrored it perfectly—flat, glassy, deceptive.

Then came that moment mariners learn to fear more than storms.

Stillness.

Total, suffocating stillness.

No wind. No swell. No current.

Just an eerie calm, as though the sea had gone slack beneath their feet. As if they were sitting atop the mouth of something ancient and waiting.

Cutter emerged from below and stopped short, sensing it immediately. “You feel that?” he asked, quieter now. Like his voice might break something sacred.

Ben gave a tight nod. “Yeah.”

They both turned, slowly, scanning the horizon. But it wasn’t sight that warned them—it was instinct. Something in their bones. An old, primitive knowing that made the hairs on the back of their necks rise.

The air was too thick. The sky too low. The water too still.

Nothing natural stayed this quiet for long.

Ben lit a cigarette. His hands were steady, but the flame sputtered in the damp air. He took one drag, then flicked the match overboard and watched the ember hiss and vanish.

“Feels like the sea’s listening,” Cutter muttered, barely above a whisper.

Ben said nothing.

Because he agreed.

Out here, an hour could stretch into a lifetime.

And this one wasn’t over yet.

The rods stayed untouched. The bait untouched. The ocean, a dark mirror, reflected nothing but dread.

Then it came.

Stillness. An unnatural calm. No breeze. No ripple. Just dead silence and the far-off cry of gulls, circling low and fast like harbingers.

Ben was below deck when Cutter’s voice shattered the hush.

“Ben! It’s here!”

He burst topside, heart in his throat—and saw it.

A shape, impossibly large, cut through the water beneath them. Not a shark. A shadow. A leviathan. The fin that surfaced sliced the sea like a blade, dark and tall and wrong.

Then it passed beneath them, blotting out the light.

Ben grabbed a harpoon. Cutter followed suit. No words needed. They moved in practiced rhythm—decades of experience in every motion.

The first harpoon hit, slicing into the beast’s side.

The water exploded in a fury.

The shark thrashed, snarling the sea into chaos. The boat bucked wildly, lines whipping like snakes. Cutter gripped the taut harpoon line, muscles straining, boots skidding across blood-slick wood.

“Hold it!” Ben shouted over the roar.

Then the monster rose.

The sea heaved, and from its belly came horror—jaws wide, teeth gleaming like broken glass. It burst from the depths, smashing into the boat’s side with a thunderous crash. Water surged over the rails.

Ben screamed something—but it was lost.

The shark struck again.

And Cutter—

Cutter was gone.

Snatched in a blur of red and foam. A gurgling scream, a flail of legs, and then nothing but blood in the water and the echo of his name.

Ben fought the line—fought the ropes now wrapped around him like tendrils. One snapped across his face, ripping through skin, gouging out his eye in a flash of white-hot agony.

Ben’s scream was lost in the roar of water and wind.

Blood poured hot down the left side of his face, thick and blinding, the socket where his eye had been now an open wound. The world tilted. Pain lanced through his skull, his pulse thundering in his ears like a war drum.

The boat lurched again, boards cracking beneath the force of the beast outside. Lines snapped taut around his arms and legs—ropes slick with saltwater and blood. One coiled tight around his waist. He grabbed at them, slipping, cursing, trying to free himself.

Too late.

With a violent yank, the harpoon lines connected to the wounded shark dragged taut—and Ben was pulled down. His body slammed against the deck, and then he was under—beneath the floorboards, beneath the splintering hull, into the dark where the water surged in through a jagged, gaping hole.

The Atlantic rushed up to meet him.

Freezing saltwater filled his mouth, choking him, flooding his lungs as he was dragged into the boat’s belly by the beast below. He thrashed, reaching blindly, his good eye wide with panic. His lungs clenched, begged, screamed.

No air. No air. No air.

His hands clawed at the wood, the ropes, the cold. But the pull was relentless. The shark dove—and so did he.

The light above blurred, smearing into gray.

His one good eye flicked upward, searching for surface, for salvation. But the world was dimming. The pressure crushed him. His chest heaved against the water, seeking breath and finding none.

Ben Gardner was drowning.

In his final moments, something flickered in the periphery of his failing vision—movement.

Through the rush of salt and blood, he saw it:

The great white.

It moved with terrible grace, circling back toward the wreckage, toward the shattered boat, toward the place where it had fed.

Its black eyes stared at Ben. Ben felt the salt water fill his lungs. Painful pressure.

And then—darkness.

And silence.

Ben Gardner was gone.

 

 

ABOUT J. MICHAEL RODDY:
J. Michael Roddy is a writer, filmmaker, and creative producer with a lifelong passion for storytelling. His work spans documentary filmmaking, live entertainment, and immersive experiences. Michael was a producer on the acclaimed documentary The Shark Is Still Working, a deep dive into the enduring legacy of JAWS, a film that captured his imagination as a child and helped spark his creative journey. With years of experience bringing stories to life across multiple mediums, Michael continues to explore the intersection of art, culture, and personal passion. www.michaelroddystoryteller.com