“Sharks!” I bark, darting my eyes back to their circling bodies. “They’re everywhere! We need to tell someone!”
The woman peers over the edge, then throws her head back in a single-syllabled laugh. I tense, not sure what could be funny about a circle of toothy predators.
“These little fellas?” she asks incredulously. “They’re just reefies, hon.”
The woman looks to be in her mid-fifties, with skinny arms and a knockout smile. Her wild hair spirals out in all directions, forming a tangled halo around her head.
“Reefies?” I repeat back to her, wondering by what stretch of the imagination these things are ‘little.’
“Reef sharks!” she says, setting down the bag that’s almost as big as she is before lowering herself to sit. “Black tips, to be specific. They’re more or less harmless.”
I look at her sideways, trying to ascertain the significance of ‘more or less.’
“If they’re not dangerous, what are they doing circling around the barge?”
“Someone’s probably been throwing them scraps,” she tells me, darting a look at the kitchen. “It’s bad practice, but it explains why they’d be hovering in a group like this.”
The woman crouches down, reaching into the mesh bag and pulling out two salt-streaked snorkel masks. She motions for me to sit down beside her, and I hesitantly lower down, fully aware that my long legs mean my dangling feet are much closer to the water than hers are.
“Have a closer look,” she says. “Trust me, they won’t bite.
The reef sharks dart in repeating patterns around the back. They look like they’re about five feet long—the size of a very,verylarge dog.
“Are all the sharks in Fiji… er… ‘harmless’?” I say in quotes. Just because these guys aren’t great whites doesn’t mean they don’t still have dozens of razor-sharp teeth.
“Not exactly. We’ve got our share of bronze whalers, but they usually ignore you unless you’re carrying a bloody fish.”
“Good thing I left my severed fish heads in Chicago.”
“Ay, smart girl. Now, the tigers—those are the ones you have to worry about.”
“Tiger sharks?” I ask, thinking of a YouTube video I saw once of a ten-foot tiger shark taking a big chunk out of a surfer’s thigh.
“Reckon you won’t see one this trip, though. I’ve spent almost every day in the water since I was a little ‘un, and I’ve only seen two!”
I swallow. For all my phobias, I know better than to be afraid of sharks—more people are killed every year by toppling vending machines. But still, something about the thought of a toothy car-sized predator sneaking up on me in the water has me ready to run back to my lounger.
“So,” she asks. “You ready for a swim?”
“Very funny,” I giggle nervously.
“I’m not joking. It’s not every day you get the chance to get up close and personal with a couple of reef sharks!”
I shake my head vehemently. Ten feet away is close enough.
“If you say so,” the wild-haired woman shrugs, then winks at me before launching herself over the edge. I gasp, waiting for the blood bath to ensue as she plunges into the water. But the sharks don’t attack. In fact, they don’t seem interested in her at all.
She pops her head above water.
“See? Harmless!”
“That’s what Grizzly Man said before his bear friends ate him alive,” I remind her.
“Aw, c’mon. As long as you don’t do anything stupid, they’re of no danger to you,” she says.
“How do you know?” I ask, my stomach clenching each time one of the grey bodies darts towards her treading feet. “Are you a shark whisperer?”
The woman laughs, exposing her startlingly white teeth.
