SHARK WEEK

But soon enough I return to life and it’s time to take a dip in the beautiful turquoise bay. First we baste each other with industrial-strength sun block, fortified with zinc AND titanium. I’m looking like a greased albino mammal trundling down Pilokoa Street, leaving little doubt that this specimen is “a tourist.”

Craig and I lay our towels on the sand and head to the water. This time of year the bay looks like a great big blue bathtub with waves that are rubber ducky size. The water is on the cool side, well cool for me, and being a temperature-wimp, it will take ten minutes or so to completely submerge myself in the water. One body part, one joint at a time. On the other hand, Craig dives right in and swims “that-a-way” just as the salty stuff is lapping at my calves. You get the picture.

Except…

Just as we are dipping our toes into the ocean a man yells “SHARK!.” He’s standing close enough for me to guess his age… Fear smears across my husband’s face. Craig is channeling the movie “Jaws.” I just know it. As he makes a pitch-perfect U-Turn back to the sand.

I, on the other hand, just stand there, in mainlander shock. Or idiocy. (Craig reminds me that when we have an earthquake in Los Angeles, I run to the window “to watch” instead of ducking under a table.) Instinctively I turn to the lifeguard station, which is well within eyeshot, and there is Mr. Tan & Gorgeous, lounging nonchalantly on the ledge of his tower. Mmmmm.

By now the “Shark Town Crier” is pointing at shadows moving underwater about a foot from my foot. I count them. Three. Three little sharks. Maybe eighteen inches long and one of them gets so close to the sand that it grounds itself, flipping and flopping as curious tourists gather around and gasp. Until the next wave takes him back to his watery home.

The man announces to the small phalanx of folks “they are Hammerheads. Just babies. It’s okay. They won’t hurt you.”

“Re-e-e-e-ally?” I say, not entirely believing him as I glance back at the lifeguard who is now chatting with some girls. But there is no panic in the air. Or water. Retiree types, little kids, young couples, midlings, are bobbing up and down in the gentle waves. So what the hell? I begin my ritual of dipping ever so slowly into the wet. Craig finally relents and dives in. When he comes up for air I notice he’s casually looking over his right shoulder and then his left and then his right…

Long story short, we swim with sharks. Sort of. But I still have questions so I corral the lifeguard whose world-weary demeanor makes me think he gets “shark” questions all the time.

“They are juveniles. They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.” At this point I’m wondering what that would look like–bothering a shark? And why would anyone want to BOTHER a shark.

“But you know,” I continue, “I’m thinking that maybe since these are, like, shark children, maybe MOM and DAD are somewhere close by, like, hovering…you know…”

“Probably not,” he tells me matter-of-factly. Once sharks are born (or hatched or whatever), they are on their own, he reports. Mom and dad’s job is done. This news is shocking to me considering it takes, what, thirty, forty years to raise an adult human. So the baby sharks have to figure things out for themselves, just like that. (This brings up all kinds of abandonment issues for me…but never mind.)

Don’t sharks have a “reputation” for being predators and biters and mean fish? Mean mean fish? I’m sure that’s not the whole story, but nevertheless, popping into the world just as mom and dad are swimming away would not put me in a good mood.

I’m just saying…