What Will You Do If There’s A Shark?

After driving north for 13 hours to arrive at Coral Bay, Erin and I left four loaves of bread to sweat in the backseat of our 4WD and soaked our aching limbs in the glistening waters of the Indian Ocean.  As I kicked lazily in the shallows, I confessed to Erin that, of the extraordinary abundance of marine life off our northern coast, the animal I most wanted to see during our holiday was the humble turtle.  

Although Ningaloo Reef is famous for its whale sharks – creatures as big as buses with square mouths like slots for after-hours returns at libraries – I was confident that I would spot one on the whale shark tour I had booked.  The tour involved a crew of five (including a videographer), a plane dedicated to aerially stalking whale sharks, laminated diagrams showing the designated ‘safety zone’ for swimming with the sharks, whale shark stubby holders and certificates with our names on them to commemorate the experience. 

Turtles, on the other hand, were not animals that boatloads of sunscreen-slick tourists jostled to photograph.  A turtle sighting was more elusive, meditative and mysterious.  I needed to journey to the great beyond, further than my flippers could propel me, and wait in hope for a turtle to glide my way. 

My friend’s husband, Mike, had the unfortunate privileges of being the only man holidaying with his wife’s five female friends, as well as having a proven proficiency in wielding a paddle.  Fixing large, expectant eyes on him, I asked if he could take me kayaking.  He graciously agreed with a wistful expression like a father acquiescing to watch The Wiggles with a toddler when all he wants is to sip a glass of merlot and read The Financial Review. 

The man at the kayak shack narrowed his eyes at the thundering waves, shook his salt-encrusted almost-dreadlocks, and suggested that we wait until the next morning when conditions would be calmer.  In light of Mike’s reassurances though, he took our money and sent us paddling out to sea.  The wind resisted our voyage; it fought every stroke, jostled us, flapped our hair, teased our hats, snatched up our shouts and bounced the kayak like a basketball.  My biceps burned as I pushed my paddle through water that felt like porridge.  The distant mooring we aimed for seemed to shrink instead of growing closer.  We struggled on for almost three quarters of an hour, my stomach churning and my arms trembling like the legs of a newborn lamb. 

After Mike negotiated the kayak around to return to the beach, the wind transformed from foe to friend, propelling us back to shore faster than a phalanx of centurions pulling Madonna’s Super Bowl chariot.  I leaned over and submerged my underwater camera to photograph the murky shadows and Mike joked, despite my moratorium on “the ‘s’ word”, that the photos would reveal twenty sharks leering toothily at the lens. 

The surging swells had dampened my hopes for a turtle sighting but Mike urged me to hop out for a snorkel and let the kayak pull me back to shore.  He was right – we had paddled all that way and spectacular coral was beckoning its multicoloured fronds at me from just below the frothing billows.  My anxiety led me to interrogate Mike with questions that would have been highly offensive but for our treacherous conditions and the theme song from Jaws looping through my head.

“What will you do if I accidentally let go of the rope?”, I asked.

“I will turn around and paddle back for you,” he replied.

“What will you do if there’s a shark?”, I persisted.

“I will be very surprised.”

“Do you promise not to leave me behind?”

His sigh must have been drowned out by the whining wind.

I flopped my flippered feet into the water and surrendered my body to the ocean’s briny embrace.  My right hand gripped the edge of the kayak, which was behaving like a bumper car driven by a hyperactive boy.  When I dunked my head underwater, I found a peaceful, wondrous aquatic playground.  Fish of every description exploded like confetti around the coral.  It was like an unabridged Dr Seuss book – red fish, blue fish, fat fish, thin fish, flat-faced fish with sulky mouths, bright cobalt fish like glow sticks at a rave, black fish with drooping fins, fish with appendages resembling driftwood, and fish with plump, kissy lips. 

I was a child peering into a kaleidoscope for the first time as I watched the fish going about their little piscine lives, oblivious to my teary wonder.  I reached for my underwater camera and ducked under again.

Suddenly, a round shadow appeared right under me.  The kayak was still flying for the shore and I only saw the turtle appear as a flash, stretching its ancient, wrinkled head toward brown coral.  The segments on its shell looked like asymmetrical slate flooring and its speckled flippers waved gently in the water.  I clicked the shutter and burst out of the water. 

“Are you alright?” asked Mike, as my flailing caused the kayak to rock alarmingly. 

“I saw a turtle!”

“Well hang on, let’s turn around and find it again!”  He began to grapple with his paddle.

 

But I was content with a single sighting.  The glimpse kept me in a blissful, post-turtle haze as the kayak raced back to the hippie at the kayak shack; back to solid land where shapes didn’t warp with moving currents, to clattering noise and calendars, to routine and grocery lists and unopened bills.  One turtle was enough.