Something to Fear

                            SOMETHING TO FEAR

  Hooper (Richard Dreyfuss) gently enters the eerily calm water, reassuring Brody (Roy Scheider) that everything will be OK. Spielberg’s masterful soundtrack plays a haunting background. Brody nervously awaits Hooper’s return, adorned in his childlike orange life vest.

  Hooper carefully investigates the heavily damaged hull of an abandoned fishing boat. He has a flashlight in one hand and a large knife in the other. He finds a large hole in the bottom of the boat and notices an object lodged in the wood. He works the knife to pry, what turns out to be an enormous shark’s tooth, from the damaged wood. His efforts result in dislodging the severed head of the fisherman, and we get a close up of a mangled face, with any empty eye socket, (I’m telling you this as matter-of- factly as four decades make possible.) The music reaches a dramatic climax, and I shriek, and leap skyward like a frightened cat, and lodge myself with superhuman strength (especially for a ten-year-old) to the ceiling of the theater. I look to my right, and see a girl, about my age, also clinging to the thirty-foot ceiling. We hang like bats and look at each other in horror and amazement that our loving parents would willingly subject their precious offspring to such psychological trauma.

  Well – that’s how it seemed at the time and it’s how the event is emblazoned in my memory banks. It’s been forty-six years since my Dad took me to the prestigious Stanley Theater, in Pittsburgh, for the opening weekend of Jaws. He was under the assumption that it was a “nature” movie. And his son loved nature movies. Born Free being my favorite. Of course, Elsa, the lioness, didn’t roam around, methodically severing human heads and lunching on small boys leisurely floating on life rafts.

   That seemingly innocent, well intentioned birthday gift, would leave an indelible impression upon my psyche. I stopped taking baths and started showering. Any body of water, deeper than two inches, presented the possibility of shark consumption.

  My parents owned a boat, and my father was an excellent skier. His forte was the slalom. My mother, who couldn’t swim, drove the boat, and I sat facing the rear to notify my mother if Dad had fallen, or was tired, and let go.

 After several trips around the lake, they would find a quiet cove and anchor. My parents would then uncap the Styrofoam cooler, which contained a citrusy mix of gin and tonic, and leisurely drink the afternoon away. Meanwhile, to keep me occupied, I would be outfitted with the same orange life preserver that Chief Brody was wearing, and a ski rope would be harnessed to me, and I would be tossed out to bob across the wakes. I would stifle the inner screams, as I constantly searched below me for the inevitable hungry leviathan that would spell my gruesome demise.

  After six hours (probably fifteen minutes) they would grab the rope and pull me back across the surface like a topwater lure. This moment was by far the most terrifying, as I would be constantly looking over my shoulder, anticipating my last seconds before the razor-sharp teeth of an enormous Great White engulfed me.

    In my mother’s later years, she would vehemently deny that any of those events took place, chalking it up to my over-active imagination.

I’m sticking to my story.

 The positive that came from those traumatic experiences was my fascination with all marine wildlife, especially sharks, and in particular, Great Whites. I’ve studied the creatures passionately since my initial meeting in that theater. I’ve tuned in every year to Shark Week. I’ve read every major book and article published. I’ve followed the tracking of tagged sharks through programs such as OCEARCH. And it has all culminated in this trip to Guadeloupe Island, for my first live three-dimensional encounter with a Great White Shark.

  This excursion is the biggest bucket on my list. I’ve waited, saved and navigated my way across the United States and Mexico, and unto this boat. The Blue Neptune.

  The captain of The Blue Neptune, Sebastian Barney, is not what you conjure up when you think of a sea captain. Or a pirate. More like the Dude from The Big Lebowski, but more mellow. He wears his long stringy, sun-bleached hair, in a ponytail, and caps it off with a backwards trucker hat. His two-man crew is Felipe and Carl. Felipe is Mexican and speaks fluent English. Carl is mostly mute, but when he does speak, his utterances are anything but fluent. Mostly guttural and profane.

   Also, on board the vessel are three other guests. A couple from Texas, and a gentleman from Portugal. The man from Portugal’s name is Davi, and he speaks limited English. He uses Felipe for translation, but being as Spanish and Portuguese are similar, but not exact, this makes for some confusion -- and humor.

   We are all sitting in the boat, discussing what will happen when we encounter our first shark. The term that arose to our lips was, “shitting your pants.” We are laughing in agreement, except for Davi, who has a confused look upon his face. He then begins to laugh and says, “Ahhh…caguei nas calcas.” Felipe then turns toward Davi, and now he has a confused look upon his face. The two of them have a quick exchange, before more hilarity ensues. It seems that “calcas” in Portuguese means pants, but in Spanish means decals, or stickers. So, Felipe thought Davi was asking if there was a warning sticker on the cage that says, “Please Don’t Shit Your Pants.” As it turns out, there should have been.

   The second day of our expedition dawns the same as the first. The sky and water are so blue you have a hard time separating them. The sun rises and streaks the rolling Pacific Ocean with a golden glimmer. The seabirds skim and call.

      Though it is legal to chum the waters in Guadeloupe, Captain Barney, aka Seabass, opts not to. He believes that the blood and offal in the water creates an unnatural environment and also makes the sharks aggressive. He prefers the calm, natural state, and if you met Seabass, you’d understand. He takes a more spot and stalk approach, which pays off mid-morning of this second day. He spy’s the distinctive dorsal fin of a Great White, and motors toward it. Upon approach, he recognizes the animal as Trigger, a regular visitor to The Blue Neptune. Sharks have unique dorsal fins, that make them identifiable. Trigger’s has an indentation, that resembles the trigger of a gun. Hence the name.

  Felipe tells us that Trigger is a twelve-foot male and he’s been frequenting these waters for years. He is curious, and friendly – well—as friendly as a half-ton eating machine can be.

   Trigger circles the boat, and we deploy the anchor, and the cage is lowered into the water. Sandy and Dennis, the Texans, are first in the cage, by virtue of a numbers draw. I gladly lost this game of chance, as I want to see the expressions on their faces when they exit the cage.

    As a diver, I understand that you are encased in impenetrable steel bars. I am also aware that no human has ever died by shark attack inside a cage. But yet, my memories harken back to Bruce, the mechanical shark, exploding through the bars to get Hooper, causing him to spit his regulator and scurry to the bottom of the sea for cover.

   Sandy and Dennis are halfway through their twenty-minute dive, with Trigger lazily swimming close by, when he is joined by another shark. This one is much larger. And more inquisitive, nudging and rubbing against the cage, and tail slapping the surface. Trigger out of respect, pulls back, and keeps his distance.

   Captain Barney announces through the earpiece attached to the masks, that their time is up.

  The cage is only partially submerged, with the top foot above the surface. Felipe opens the hatch and the couple lift themselves out of the water. Once on board, they remove their masks and their eyes, saucer wide and full of amazement, damn near fall out of their faces.

  It’s our turn now. I’ve been waiting (fearing) this moment since I was ten. I’m partially paralyzed by my raging fear. Even though I’m encased in my wetsuit in ninety-degree sunshine – I’m shivering.

  Davi appears unfazed, an strides across the deck to the cage. I’m having a Hooper moment, as my mouth is so dry, I can’t spit. I conjure up a small wad of moisture and wipe my mask.

  It’s go time.

  Davi and I drop in.

  I’m new to this scuba diving thing. I’ve been doing most of my diving in pools and brackish lagoons. I’ve not fully mastered the breathing, even under controlled, calm, environments. This is not controlled, nor calm.

 As soon as I enter and get focused through the curtain of bubbles, I see the smiling, toothy grin of the world’s most efficient predator. Looking straight at me. Like I owe it money.

  My heart triphammers a beat that Keith Moon would not be able to replicate. I feel the pulsing in my ears and behind my eyes. My sense of time and space diminish and expand, simultaneously. I can’t catch my breath. I try holding it. I’m trying to concentrate on my instructor’s lessons.

  Bite down on the regulator. Breathe through your mouth – not your nose!

  As I finish that thought I instinctively breathe out – through my nose!

  Shit!

  Bubbles, bubbles – everywhere – and now there’s water leaking into my mask. My foggy mask. Water seeping in, seeping into my nostrils. I try to stay focused on breathing through the mouthpiece. Concentrate.

 WHAM!

The cage is violently tossed as the huge shark slams its snout into the steel bars.

JESUS CHRIST!

I scream, silently, as I take a huge breathe in – through my nose – and down my throat!

I’m drowning!

I gag and begin to flail and try to peel the mask off my face. Davi notices my distress and tries to help. I push him away and scramble for the surface. I break through, grab the top of the sealed cage and pull myself against it. I hold on to the bars and pull at my mask and spit out the regulator. I gasp for air, and I’m met with a wave of water that pours into my open mouth.

 I spit out half the Pacific and begin to yell. I passed panic three exits ago. I feel, then see the top of the cage being opened and Felipe and Carl reach out and I grab ahold of whatever I can. I’m lifted onto the boat, where I slide across the deck, like a gaffed tuna. I lay there, breathing, and look upon the two laughing faces of the mates.

I begin to relax and then I start to feel a strange uncomfortableness below my back. A soft, liquid feeling permeating my butt and upper thighs. As it dawns on me what I have done, Felipe reaches his nose with his right hand and pinches his nostrils, bending over with laughter. He looks at Carl, who seems unaware. I hear Felipe then tell him, “Cagarme los pantalones.” Carl then shakes his head and says, “I guess we do need a sticker.”

 After a thorough hosing down, and layers of good-natured humiliation have been applied, I raise my head.

  I’m well into my fifth beer and several mind-numbing shots of local tequila when a calm humor settles over me. I recall back to that movie theater, forty-six years ago, and realize that what was once figurative, is now literal.