Great Whites

On fear and gusto. Noticing kids, recalling fascinations and impressions left by a random surfer boy.

One table over, a young girl sits across from her mom, she signals to the glass of water in front of her, “this is the entire ocean.” She’s pretending that the ice cubes are fish. Fishing with her chopsticks, she makes her way through the catch of the day. When she slurps up the last ice cube, she resorts to sipping the water. “Guess I’ll have to drink the ocean,” she says. She declares that the floating lemon wedge is the shark. “Should I try it?” Her mom nods, amused by her pretend. The lemon wedge is sour and her lips pucker. She drops it back into the ocean. “It’s not ready yet.” 

This young girl, who I later find out will turn 9 on Monday, has her hair slicked back and held together in a large clip, just like her mom’s. She is wearing cleats and shin guards suggesting that she’s been at soccer practice. Her knees are covered in loose grass suggesting that she played well, giving her all in an afternoon outside after school. I never played soccer. I went to ballet after school, but on sunny afternoons my dad would take me to the park to kick a ball around or play badminton. I gave it my all.

At 8 years old, I became obsessed with predatory creatures. The likes of sharks, piranhas, crocodiles. I met a professional surfer in the summer while on a trip to Santa Barbara with my best friend and our moms. We were in the hot-tub at my grandparents’ condo, when the young, tan surfer – probably hitting on our moms – started talking about the exotic nature of his profession. He touted the places he traveled, oceans he surfed. “Aren’t you scared of sharks?” my mom implored. He wasn’t. He had even been attacked, he explained, pointing out various scars across his body. We were stunned, each more amazed than the other by his fearless nature. He was so casual in recounting what I imagined to be a vicious attack.

I never thought I would one day be in the water on my own board. I think of the surfer from time to time when I step back and observe where my life has led me. He ignited a curiosity in me about shark attacks. Sharks, piranhas, crocodiles. I became fascinated with mysterious malevolent creatures in the water, that I believed were ready if not waiting to attack. My fear fueled my hunger for knowledge. If I knew everything I could about the forces that might hurt me in this world, I thought maybe I’d be able to outsmart them. I’ve heard girlfriends use the same logic to explain their obsession with murder and abduction documentaries. 

“They attack from below,” my boyfriend explains to me one afternoon when we’re surfing out at Santa Cruz Islands. I find this reassuring. Great Whites surprise their prey, hunting strategically. They follow their strong sense of smell and once they’ve found a target, they rise from below swimming up to 35 miles per hour, propelled by their tail, often jumping out of the water, catching their prey in their 300 sharp triangular teeth devised in 7 rows. He too was obsessed with sharks around 8 years old. It turns out, there is no outsmarting these creatures, and maybe they don’t want to hurt me.

Dissatisfied with the option of avoiding the water all, I won’t deny my draw to the ocean. I’m reminded of the girl sitting at the table next to me at the restaurant, giving her all in an afternoon soccer practice. She dons loose grass and mud on her knees like a badge of honor, proud of her effort. I wonder what the Great Whites would think of her going in for a taste of the lemon shark. She, like the sharks who accidentally attack humans, promptly spit it back into the water displeased with the taste. I think of the surfer boasting about the joys of flying down a wave, donning scars from his own shark attack. He didn’t know it was coming. The scariest thing I could imagine at 8 years old, happened to this surfer, and he still surfs. He knows what there is to be afraid of, and it hasn’t stopped him from giving his all.