“Toss me that old water bottle, would you?”
I look back to the empty plastic bottle on the bench behind me. She wants me to throw plasticintothe ocean?
She motions for me again, and I hesitate before throwing it in.
“These sharks are just curious—they’re hanging about in search of food,” she informs me. “But they’re not hunting. You can tell because their fins are splayed out parallel to the surface instead of tucked in at their sides. But watch.”
She ducks under the water and begins squeezing the bottle, making a crunching sound I can hear even above the surface. Instantly, the sharks’ behavior changes. They press their fins to their sides, darting forward with sudden speed towards her in an erratic swimming pattern. I hold my breath. If these sharks start taking bites out of her, I’m the last person she’ll want help from.
She stops squeezing the bottle and resurfaces. Within seconds, the sharks calm down and return to cruising mode.
“See? The crunching sound of the bottle agitates them, but as long as a shark’s fins are in a docile position, you can tell you’re safe.”
She tosses the bottle to me and I catch it.
“Well?”
My heart starts pounding. I’ve been afraid of sharks as long as I remember, but I was terrified of bees before I tried beekeeping at Marianne’s bachelorette. Now I love bees. Do I really want to come home from Fiji and remember the time Ididn’ttake the opportunity to swim with sharks? Didn’t Ialready prove to myself once today that I can face my fears and come out (relatively) unscathed?
Plus, how jealous will Will and Mer be when I tell them what I did?
I take a deep breath before pulling the extra mask over my head, shimmying forward and plopping unceremoniously into the sea.
The water is warmer than I’m expecting, but being five feet away from the shifting predators sends a jolt of ice through my veins. I’ve made a mistake. From above the water, these sharks looked sosmall, like I could maybe even take them if it came down to it. But down here at their eye level, I can tell they very much have the advantage. The reef sharks are easily as long as I am, and I can see the razor-sharp teeth waiting in their jaws. Their vertical eye-slits screamback off, bitch.I swear my heart stops for a good four seconds. But then, I feel a gentle squeeze on my hand. My shark-whispering friend is right here with me, and she doesn’t look afraid. I squeeze back. And then, somehow, I start to breathe.
We float for a few moments like that—suspended in fifty feet of water, six sharks gliding past us like butterflies. Huge, very toothy butterflies. But soon, I feel my fear dissipating. The woman is right—theydon’twant to attack us. Just because they have rows and rows of blade-like incisors and lightning quick reflexes doesn’t mean they want to use them. They’re as curious as we are, and maybe just as afraid. I’m probably safer here than I am driving down the freeway.
After a few moments, we pop our heads back out of the water, my heart slamming like the bass from the bar speakers. My new friend shows me a swim ladder we use to climb back up to the dock.
“That was wild!” I gasp as soon as I can pull my snorkel out. “I can’t believe I did that! Am I insane?”
“You’re brave, is what you are!” she tells me, beaming. I shake my head.
“I can promise you thatno onehas ever used that word to describe me.”
“C’mon, give yourself some credit! It’s not every tourist who’d face certain death on the advice of a complete stranger.”
My mouth drops open.
“I thought you said they were harmless!”
She winks.
“Just messing with you. But you know, bravery isn’t beingunafraid. It’s training yourself to take that fear in your gut and use it as motivation. To turn off the lizard brain that tells you youcan’t.I’ve been surfing Cloudbreak for fifteen years, and each time the breakers roll in, I still feel that old shake starting in my gut. But I decided a long time ago I wouldn’t let my fear do the choosing for me.”
“You surfCloudbreak?” I ask incredulously, taking in her diminutive form.
Maybe she’s right. But this woman is a total badass. For all I know she was born bombing thirty-foot waves and slow-dancing with sharks.
“I’m Stella, by the way,” I introduce myself.
“Joanna. It’s a pleasure.”
“How do you know so much about sharks, Joanna?” I ask her, ringing my hair out on the deck beside me.
“It’s part of my job! I help run the Fijian Marine Conservation Center.”
“No way!” I practically shout. “Are you a marine biologist?”
