We are already perilously close to killing off the top of the

Host: The sea roared beyond the cliffside, each wave a thunderous heartbeat against the bones of the earth. The sky hung low, heavy with salt and storm, its color somewhere between steel and sorrow. A lighthouse stood at the edge — weathered, solitary, its light sweeping slowly across the churning waters like the last breath of something ancient trying to remember its purpose.

Inside, the air smelled of seaweed, coffee, and loneliness. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath the rhythm of two souls who had long since run out of easy words.

Jack stood by the window, the ocean wind tugging at his shirt. His grey eyes followed the white caps of the waves as if tracing invisible wounds. Jeeny sat on the old bench near the fireplace, her hands wrapped around a mug, her hair damp from the rain, her expression both tender and fierce — like someone who loved the world too much to give up on it.

Jeeny: “Peter Benchley said once, ‘We are already perilously close to killing off the top of the oceanic food chain — with catastrophic consequences that we can’t begin to imagine. Let us not, in the heat of anger, reduce the already devastated population of great white sharks by one more member.’”

Jack: (turns slightly, smirking) “Benchley. The guy who wrote Jaws. The irony writes itself.”

Host: A flash of lightning spilled through the window, painting Jack’s face in a momentary flare of white and shadow.

Jeeny: “He regretted it, you know. He said if he could rewrite Jaws, he’d make the shark the victim, not the villain.”

Jack: “That’s the thing about regret — it always comes too late. You can’t unmake a myth once people start fearing it.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound inevitable. Like we have no say in the stories we tell.”

Jack: “We don’t, not really. People need monsters, Jeeny. Sharks just drew the short straw.”

Host: The fire flickered, throwing restless shadows against the walls. Outside, the waves climbed higher, raging against the rocks with the force of something ancient and misunderstood.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We made them monsters. We created fear because it gives us control. Kill what scares you — that’s humanity’s oldest reflex. But fear doesn’t make you right.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But it keeps you alive. The ocean’s not a fairy tale, Jeeny. A shark doesn’t care about your compassion. It’ll tear you apart the same way it tears into a seal. You can’t reason with nature.”

Jeeny: “And yet nature keeps reasoning with us — feeding us, sheltering us, forgiving us, again and again. And what do we do? We strip it bare. You talk about survival — but we’re the only species that kills what keeps us alive.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not with weakness, but with the weight of conviction. Jack’s eyes softened briefly, as if some part of him wanted to agree — but pride, or maybe despair, held him back.

Jack: “You’re talking about sharks. Not children. Not famine. There are bigger things to fight for.”

Jeeny: “That’s the lie, Jack. That’s the comfortable delusion. Everything’s connected — the shark, the coral, the plankton, the climate. You pull one thread, and the whole sea bleeds.”

Host: The storm began to swell, wind battering the windows, rain slicing across the glass like the sea was trying to get in. Jeeny stood, setting her mug down, her eyes blazing in the half-darkness.

Jeeny: “We’ve already hunted them close to extinction — great whites, hammerheads, makos. For trophies. For soup. For fear. Do you know what happens when the top predator disappears? The balance collapses. Jellyfish take over. Fish stocks die out. The ocean becomes a graveyard of slime and silence.”

Jack: “You sound like a documentary.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like denial wearing a clever jacket.”

Jack: (snapping) “What do you want me to do? Mourn a shark while people starve? You talk like morality’s a luxury, but most people are just trying to survive. You can’t tell a fisherman to save the sea when the sea’s all he has left to sell.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “I don’t want him to stop fishing, Jack. I want us to stop pretending the sea is infinite.”

Host: The thunder cracked overhead — a sharp, living sound that filled the room. The light from the fire flared against their faces, the orange glow catching Jeeny’s tears before she wiped them away.

Jack: “You think saving a few sharks will save the world?”

Jeeny: “I think every small act of mercy teaches us to be human again. We’ve turned the ocean into a mirror — and all it shows us now is greed. When we kill what we fear, we’re just killing what we refuse to understand.”

Jack: “Fear isn’t always a choice.”

Jeeny: “Neither is compassion. But we can choose which one rules us.”

Host: The fireplace hissed as a drop of rainwater fell onto the flames, the sound sharp as a heartbeat. The lighthouse beam outside swept past the window, cutting across Jack’s face. In that brief light, he didn’t look defiant anymore — just tired, and lost.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my father took me fishing off Cape Cod. I saw a shark once — big one. He told me to grab the harpoon, but I couldn’t. I froze. Everyone laughed. Said I didn’t have the stomach for it. I guess part of me never forgave that moment. The weakness.”

Jeeny: “That wasn’t weakness, Jack. That was conscience.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe. Or maybe it was the first time I realized I didn’t understand the world I lived in.”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to understand it to protect it.”

Host: The wind had begun to slow now, the storm easing into a rhythmic drizzle. The sea still moved restlessly, but softer — as if listening. The fire had burned low, glowing in slow, patient embers.

Jeeny moved closer, her voice gentler.

Jeeny: “Benchley wrote Jaws and watched the world turn his fiction into a massacre. He spent the rest of his life trying to undo that fear — advocating for sharks, teaching about ecosystems. He couldn’t change the past, but he tried to heal the wound he made. That’s what trying looks like, Jack — not perfection, but repentance.”

Jack: “You think humanity’s capable of that? Of repentance?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. In moments. In people. You, maybe.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You always think too highly of me.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I just think too deeply about what we’re still capable of.”

Host: The rain outside turned into a gentle mist, the lighthouse beam now steady and slow. Jack walked toward the window, his reflection merging with the endless dark water beyond. For the first time, he looked not like a man arguing with the world, but like one listening to it.

Jack: “Maybe we’ve been killing more than sharks. Maybe every time we destroy something wild, we erase a piece of what made us brave.”

Jeeny: “And what made us belong.”

Jack: (nodding) “We’ve forgotten that the ocean doesn’t need us. We need it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A long silence filled the room — not empty, but sacred. The kind that makes you aware of your own heartbeat. The sea outside calmed, its surface silver under the faint glow of the moon breaking through the clouds.

Jack turned to her.

Jack: “You know, if Benchley were here, he’d probably tell us that the monster was never the shark.”

Jeeny: (softly) “It never was.”

Host: The fire flickered one last time, its light soft and forgiving. Jeeny smiled — not triumphantly, but tenderly, like someone who’d finally been heard.

Outside, a distant splash echoed through the night — something large, alive, and free. Both turned toward the sound, and for a brief moment, the world felt possible again.

The camera pulled back slowly, the lighthouse beam sweeping across the vast ocean, touching the waves like a blessing.

Host: In the end, it wasn’t about the shark — or the sea — but about the part of us still capable of mercy. The part still willing to believe that understanding, not fear, is what keeps the world alive.

And as the storm passed and the ocean breathed, the light kept turning — steady, eternal, watching over both the hunters and the hunted.