We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat

Peter Benchley died of complications from pulmonary fibrosis on Sunday. Seems kind of sad, since it would have been much more poetic if a great white would have eaten him in a bite or two, but life is rarely as poetic or graphic as we might like.
Still, I remember the summer of "Jaws." 1975 was the beginning of the blockbuster summer movie craze. "Jaws" came before "Star Wars," and just like the story of Luke and Leia and Darth, I read the novel by Peter Benchley before I saw the movie. The thing I remember most about the novel was the feeling I got (at age thirteen) as I read the scenes in the book that detailed the tawdry affair between ichthyologist Matt Hooper and Chief Brody's wife. What was this doing in the middle of a murder/suspense/adventure novel? As I am sure that my retarded sexuality was not the targeted audience for the novel, I remained perplexed at the notion of Richard Dreyfuss seducing anyone. This was Curt from "American Graffiti" sidling up to some tall blonde woman and working his prep school mojo on her - I just couldn't see it.
I was relieved to find that the movie adaptation (co-written by Benchley and Carl Gottlieb) left that episode out, and focused on fears even more primal than sex: being eaten by a shark as big as a station wagon. I read this book in the mountains of Colorado, and I felt the same terror of open water that "aquaphobic" sheriff Martin Brody feels.
I tried a few of the other Benchley books. "The Deep" had its treasure guarded by vicious barracuda (or was it eels?). "The Island" had pirates, but no eyepatches. "The Beast" was a giant squid - scary, but just not vicious enough. I will, however, always cherish those nights with "Jaws," squished down in the bottom of my sleeping bag, flashlight under my chin, waiting for the next big bite.