Scuba Dive

Upon arrival at the dive site, the captain anchored the boat while the divemaster jumped up on the boat’s bench seat and prepared to deliver his briefing.  The divemaster was long and lean, with flowing hair bleached blond by the sun.  He appeared confident, even cocky, an attitude fueled by the successful execution of hundreds of shark feeds without any noticeable loss of his body parts.

“Okay, who has done a shark feed before?”  No one raised their hands.  “Okay, so who has gone diving in Moorea before?”  Again, no one raised their hands.  We were a really impressive group.  “So, has anyone actually done any scuba diving anywhere?” 

“We just got certified in Bora Bora,” I said proudly, an admission met with congratulations from the other divers.  The divemaster’s face fell. 

“Okay, so we will keep this easy.  Descend directly to the bottom.  I will show you where to go.  Do not move around.  Do not gesture or hold your hands out towards the sharks.  Do not make erratic movements.”  Do not pass go.  Do not collect $100.  Do not feel bad about pushing the diver next to you towards the shark’s open mouth if it looks like it is going to attack.

As the other divers suited up, I peered over the side of the boat into the bottomless cobalt abyss.  The sky had clouded up, causing the water to appear murky and foreboding.  Off the back of the boat I noticed fins breaking the surface, lots of them.

“What are those?” I asked the divemaster.

“Reef sharks.  Small ones,” he said.  “They know they’re gonna get fed, so they’re waiting for us.  They’ll leave when the big guys show up.”

This endeavor began to look less and less like a great idea.  Clearly we were expected to jump into the water with the sharks swirling on the surface, like lobsters dropped into a boiling pot of water.  I envisioned the sharks heating up some drawn butter in anticipation of our entry.  We geared up, preparing to take the plunge.  I lingered while putting on my scuba vest, cleaning my mask, and slipping on my fins in hopes of being the last diver to jump into the water.  The shark “feeder,” one of the crew members, donned a suit made of heavy woven chain designed to protect him from shark bites.  The chain mail suit covered him from head to toe in medieval scuba chic.  He looked like a tropical Knight of the Round Table.

The moment divers entered the water, the surface sharks disappeared.  I took a giant stride off the back of the boat and instantly felt more relaxed as I soaked up the warm, 80 degree water.  As we descended the visibility improved and I realized the depth was only 35 feet.  The sloped, rocky sea floor undulated with deep grooves like mini canyons extending out towards deeper water.  The divemaster guided our group to a point at the shallower end of one of the grooves and gestured for us to stay put.  Holding a stationary position would be difficult, however, because the significant waves at the surface created a surge of water down below.  With each passing wave, we floated forward and back five feet.  Despite our best efforts, we could not control it; the water moved each diver with a force that flailing arms and legs just couldn’t combat. 

I heard the splash as the heavily-weighted shark feeder entered the water.  As he sank to the bottom about 25 feet in front of us, I noticed he held a large bag full of fish bits for feeding.  A tsunami of small fish engulfed him, greedily eyeing up his bag of food as he prepared for the feeding frenzy.  Sir Fish Head took a chunk of snack out of his bag and placed it on the end of a long, pointed stick, which could double nicely as a jousting lance later in the day if needed.  Appearing suddenly from the blue, as if by magic, was a small black-tip reef shark.  It snatched the piece of fish then like a shot disappeared back into the blue.  The surrounding small fish went crazy picking up the bits of fish flesh the shark left behind. 

Although that early shark caught the proverbial worm, the rest of the shark flock was not far behind.  Reef sharks started appearing from all directions, replacing the fish swarming around the feeder.  The sharks were anywhere from two to five feet long, not huge, but impressive because of their sheer numbers.  I counted at least 20 of them, though there could have been more.  Sharks streaked in and out of view, grabbing, tearing, and stealing the bits of food offered, working their way into a true feeding frenzy.The surge grew worse, and I could no longer hold myself upright and face-forward because of all of the water movement.  I leaned at a 45 degree angle to my right, my left leg thrust awkwardly high in front of me like I was trying to clear an invisible, aquatic hurdle.  The other divers were also having trouble.  My husband floated on his stomach, his legs steadily rising up and threatening to flip him over.  Another diver had already achieved the flip and stared upside down between his legs at the fish feeding spectacle.  Our collective lack of underwater skills made us look like a deficient Cirque du Soleil troop knockoff.  Our attention, though, was focused on the amazing display of power in front of us, our various acrobatics all but unnoticed.

Then, as abruptly as they arrived, all the fish and sharks left.  The silence was eerie, no swishing tails, no crunches of fish bones.  The only animals I could see were us awkward humans suspended in the water.  Clearly the other fish knew something we did not.  The divemaster pointed to the distance, behind us and to the left.  Divemasters, in general, tend to be a jaded bunch, having seen almost everything there is to see underwater.  If one points to something there is a high likelihood that it is something amazing and so it’s wise to take a look.

An enormous shark swam towards Sir Fish Head who looked surprisingly at ease despite the pelagic dragon barreling towards him.  No wonder all the other sea creatures left the area; this shark could have easily eaten anything that had previously been swimming around us.  The ten-foot lemon shark bulged around the middle, having clearly indulged in a whole lot of fish.  So corpulent, in fact, that I suspected one might find several masks and fins in its stomach.   The brown-hued creature had yellow overtones and two large dorsal fins.   It grabbed the proffered fish head without chewing; one gulp swallowed it whole.

A second lemon shark appeared, chunky as the first, but not as long.  Sir Fish Head barely had time to pull another fish piece out of his bag before hungry jaws closed near his hand.  I wondered what would happen when the fish bag grew empty.   At the end of a meal I usually need a little desert.  With all my gear I hoped I didn’t look too much like a tasty wetsuit filled with rocky road ice cream.