This is his story. The story of a ceaseless, seagoing safari in search of monsters of the deep . . . especially the great white shark.

Hunting down monsters has been called the ultimate challenge. Mundus faced it with consummate daring when--a decade before "Jaws"--he caught the largest great white ever taken.

His story is brimming with adventure, danger, suspense and hilarity, and peopled with the most extraordinary characters you will ever meet." -- Robert F. Boggs.

With 16 full page illustrations by Frank Borth

**In the preface of this special edition, Frank updates readers on what he has been up to recently.

Excerpted from Monster Man : Master Hunter of the Deep by Robert F. Boggs. Copyright © 2001. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved
PART ONE

SIXTY-FIVE MILES off Montauk the continental shelf begins to dip into a vast unexplored and as yet unconquered piece of ocean. It is August 1975. The seas are flat calm. It is 95 degrees on shore, but out here the temperature is 82 degrees and the water temperature is about 72. The steady drone of the motor combines with a mellifluous wash of water as the 42-foot Cricket II dips her bow into the ongoing swells.

A spindly twelve-year-old boy has wrapped himself around the crossbar of the crow's nest and is peering out from under his cupped hand, watching for any signs of surface action. His father, Harry, takes a determined stance in the pulpit. At 42, he has the wiry strong look of a professional angler. A younger man with a similar build stands with feet spread apart for balance in the stern. He is twisting a 20-foot strand of piano wire leader that will attach a large hook to the fishing line. It will be strong enough to withstand the pull of a large fish. He is the mate. If you looked at his hands and the wrinkles beginning to form under his gunmetal blue eyes, you could estimate the years he has spent in the charter boat business, ten years to be exact. His skin is not as brown and leathery as his Captain's. The Captain's left arm is pocked with deep crater-like scars and his right arm has the strength of two.

The Captain is now leaning over the steering wheel on the flying bridge, squinting at the compass. As the boat rolls and pitches, he corrects his course by easing the wheel left or right. In his right hand he clasps a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee. He has on the standard gray uniform of the commercial fisherman except on the back in script are the words "Monster Fishing, Cricket II." Though he appears to be casually relating a story to a passenger, he clearly knows exactly where he is and what he is doing. The passenger only sees the gold earring, hatchet nose and twinkling brown eyes in the shadow of the Captain's shiny bill cap. His voice is slightly rough, almost musical, often rising to a high-pitched giggle as he remembers a funny incident that happened sometime in his career of over thirty years of charter fishing. The passenger stares ahead in disbelief. Fifty yards in front of the bow a huge brown torpedo breaches and slams down with an enormous eruption of white water. The passenger babbles a few incoherent words. The Captain missed seeing the fish but saw the "hole in the ocean" as he called it.