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Z-i-i-n-n-g! The starboard line screamed. The mate jumped off the bridge onto the deck below.

“Hold ’im!” he shouted as the day’s charter reached for the rod and gave it a mighty tug.

“Don’t let ’im loose!”

The men scurried about the deck, retrieving other lines, getting in the bait. The mate raced forward for

the shotgun.

All morning the crew had been sitting in silence aboard the massive Bertram rocking gently on a glassy Gulf

of Mexico.

Barely visible slicks of hog blood and bonito entrails stretched out toward the horizon. The men saw their mission as hollowed, even spiritual. They were participating in the only blood sport known to the Gulf Coast … at least the only legal blood sport known to the Gulf Coast.

Their boat had been floating in the same relative spot for over two hours, since they came upon a school of amberjack and bonito. Once on top of the school, lines were thrown overboard and the frenzy of hungry jacks chomping on the bait was sure to bring sharks.

Or so they reasoned.

By the time the frenzy was over, 14 huge jacks and nearly two dozen fresh bonito lay about the open deck.

“Cut up some of these bonito,” ordered the charter. “Sharks like bonito. They’re bloodier than most fish.”

The charter let loose a ferocious belly laugh as he cut into one of the fish and watched its deep red blood squire over the transom and into the water.

“This’ll bring some sharks,” he said. “They love it and I do, too.”

His lure worked.

“Pow!”

It hit like a ton of bricks, a creature so strong he thought at times it might pull him overboard, at which point the shark would have the clear advantage.

“I can see ’im,” the mate shouted from the bridge. “Oh, Lord, he looks like a big one.” “He feels like a big one,” grunted the charter as he continued to struggle, letting out line as he wanted, reeling in when he could.

The light-colored object slowly emerged from the emerald water. It was a big one, a dusky. It was thrashing about violently, trying to free itself from the five-inch steel hook.

“Gaff ’im,” ordered the charter as the mate reached for the shotgun.

“Boom! Boom!” he fired. “Boom.”

He fired again. Three times he shot as water and shark carcass flew into the air.

Once the monster was safely alongside the boat, a couple of gaffs in the gills finished it off. The beast was too big to bring onto the deck. It was tied off to the stern for the trip back inshore.

The anglers were satisfied. They had come and conquered one of the most feared brutes in the sea. They were proud of themselves, cocky in their virility.

That scene has been repeated so many times around the Gulf Coast that its days are numbered.

Men out to prove their manliness by attacking and capturing a fearless shark have spent so much time and testosterone on their quest that both are running out. Nobody ever thought we’d see the end of sharks. The ancient creature has provided fear, mystery and stories since the dawn of time.

But blood sport and the commercial attractiveness of shark meat have threatened a species once thought unconquerable.

Florida anglers are now allowed to take only one shark per day from the sea.

Even the mighty shark is not free from humankind’s interference.