It was a typical Isla Vista party. The coastal campus crowd
was packed like sardines in the tiny apartment, throbbing to the music of Eat a
Peach and Sticky Fingers. A few of us surfy guys were yakking on our favorite
subject, and the talk turned to sharks. ”I had my leg bumped once”, said a
friend. “Don’t know what it was…don’t really *want* to know.” Another fellow
freaked when he saw “the fin”, but it turned out to be a dolphin.
“I’ve never seen a shark out in the ocean,” I said, “not
that I’m complaining.” This other guy, I could see, was just hanging back,
waiting to tell his story. “I was diving with some friends up at Point
Conception. I had just jumped off the boat and was coming back up to the
surface when he hit.” He smacked the palm of one hand against the heel of the
other. “Pow!”
“He came up out of nowhere, his jaws went right up both
sides, caught me under the arms and lifted me clear out of the water. I’m sure
if he had wanted to, he could have chomped me in half. But he must not have
liked the taste of my wetsuit. He just launched me into the air. I landed in
the bubbles, and scrambled my butt back into the boat.” He paused for effect.
“Two hundred forty stitches.”
Okay, we’re all, “Right, great story. Sure you didn’t spend
some time camping out in his belly?” So this guy smiles, slowly pulls down his
pants for the world to see and there’s a set of train track scars running on
both legs from his calf to his boxers. Then he pulls up his shirt and the
tracks run up to his pits.
True story.
The National Safety Council has a fascinating web page
called “What Are the Odds of Dying?” (www.nsc.org/lrs/statinfo/odds.htm).
No, smartypants, it’s not the inverse of the odds for immortality. Rather, the
site lists the average lifetime odds of dying from a wide variety of causes,
ranging from execution (1 in 40,420, higher for low-income non-whites living in
Texas, I’m sure) to contact with hot tap water (1 in 69,745). Suicide by
firearm is the highest at 1 in 214, followed closely by car crashes and
“falls”. The closest thing I can find to shark attacks is “Other and
unspecified animate mechanical forces” at 1 in 273,613. I suppose those odds
improve when you surf in the infamous “Red Triangle” off the Sonoma Coast,
where we refer to the seal pups as “appetizers.”
Still, shark attacks are big news, like the story of the
Santa Rosa surfer who was bit and spit on Thanksgiving Day at Salmon Creek.
Humor writer Dave Barry clearly understands why the media loves sharks: “The
human race has been fascinated by sharks as long as I can remember… the shark
reveals to us yet another of the infinite and wonderful facets of nature,
namely the facet that can bite your head off.”
I think there is deeper (heh heh) significance to this than
the drama of a life threatening attack. Behold, homo sapiens sapiens, the
self-appointed dominant planetary life form. As a species, our narcissistic
culture informs us, we are the climax (if not the termination) of earthly
evolution. Yet we can be regarded as no more than a happy meal for a creature
that achieved it’s evolutionary perfection *one hundred million years ago*. I
hope the big sharks remind us that despite our efforts to exempt humanity from
natural laws, despite our embalming and our deep-casketed burial, we are still
just a link in the food chain.
I didn’t quit surfing after that party night, however, or
any night since. Like the next guy, I want to live to the proverbial ripe old
age. But I’ll take the odds in the water, riding waves.
---------------------
Pull quote: I had just jumped off the boat and was coming
back up to the surface when he hit.