SHARKS!!!

SHARKS!!! How we cleaned the boat and nearly got eaten 🙂 “After all, there are statistics! Far more people are killed by good-natured falling coconuts than by bloodthirsty shark attacks. And I’ve only grazed my skin a little—there’s no stream of blood, just a scratch...” I carry on scrubbing algae off the boat along the waterline while the captain scrapes the hull. We have hove to among the Galápagos Islands to get the yacht’s bottom looking halfway respectable. The nearest land is about 20 miles away. — Marina, look over there, underwater—the cap casually poked his head out of the ocean and dived down again. Wiping my fogged-up mask, I try to find out: — Andryukha, what prompted that advice? Silence in reply. Oh, I see... At last I dive down and discover that we are not alone. With us is a metre-and-a-half-long grey body (through the lens of the water it looks two metres long), with a distinctive dorsal fin, a pessimistic crescent of a mouth and a gloomy expression... A SHARK! And she is clearly here for us. The cap’s all right—he’s wearing a wetsuit. Eating him would be like eating a sweet in its wrapper—the wetsuit would get stuck in her teeth; sharks surely don’t like that. Besides, he isn’t tasty. What is there to eat? Nothing but muscle and bone. Whereas here I am, unwrapped, nice tender meat, no cleaning required. The children and I have read that sharks are the most perfect killers in the natural world. They accelerate from a standing start faster than a Ferrari, and can smell a drop of blood a mile away. Has she sniffed out my scratch, then? Just in case, I edge sideways towards the stern ladder without taking my eyes off the predator. ...Suddenly I really want to go home! I scrub closer to the steps, wondering whether I could soar onto the yacht with the grace of an aerial acrobat without taking off my fins. By all accounts—nope, I couldn’t; I’d cause a traffic jam halfway up the narrow ladder. And what if Andryukha comes bounding up after me? His fins are twice the size of mine. And later the young sailor will tell people: “When I was almost 7, my mum was eaten by a shark.” We had a laugh about that with the children when I finally lost my nerve. Consequently, we issued the cap with the GoPro underwater camera and snapped the grey shadows from above. Our guest is circling the stern. And the first mate is beginning to be tormented by guilt: I left the cap down there alone and didn’t finish cleaning the side! It doesn’t come out very well through the water... How time bolsters your courage! When you first encounter a difficulty, you despair: “Oh God, how are we supposed to live now?!” Then—bam!—a couple of weeks later, you’re used to it. It was quicker with the shark. She has been circling the boat for 40 minutes and still hasn’t eaten anyone—and I consider that sufficient grounds to get back in and finish cleaning the side. Especially since the scratch has stopped bleeding. ... Of course I’m scared. Just in case, I decide to wash my hair first (I was going to anyway) without letting go of the ladder, so I can leap aboard if anything happens. Then I dash over to the hull, wielding the brush and, tangled in my freshly washed hair, peer around through the lenses of my mask, fogged with terror. The cap’s all right—he’s wearing a wetsuit.... Lunch. Ours, not the sharks’ Andryukha crawled out to warm himself up with some tea and reported that half the job was done. Tasting the inside of my rubber swim cap, I record the beginning of Shark Day in the log and practise autosuggestion: “Weeell, an hour’s already gone by. She’s surely swum away.” ... The captain splashed into the ocean first: — No shark. At this news, I got my second fin on much faster. The work goes swimmingly; turning my head through 360 degrees reveals the blue abyss and a shoal of fish beneath the keel. And I transform from a panic merchant into a seasoned professional: I can hang upside down, lie with my stomach against the hull, work by the keel and under the propeller.... There is literally only a metre left to clean right beside the keel, and the cap is busy working his magic there. He’s all right—he’s wearing a wetsuit.... A glance towards the stern... There she is, the beauty! Heading straight for me. Ha-ha, and where exactly am I supposed to run? We are 4 metres from the ladder, and the shark is two. Our retreat is cut off. Soaring Above the Fir Trees When I was little, Mum read me a newspaper story about a polar aviator who, on seeing a polar bear behind him, leapt straight from the ground onto an aircraft wing at head height. With a howl of: Andryukha, shark at the stern!—I propelled myself out of the water with my fins, grabbed the half-open heads window, hauled myself up and, at twice the speed of light, soared aboard (more than a metre above the surface of the water). And remained hanging outside the guardrails, my knees clutched to my chest. Andryukha-aa!!! Shark!—my battle cry frightened off every other living creature. The cap took a breath and carried on scraping the keel. Children, come and look at your mother the mountaineer!—I keep hanging from the guardrails, gauging whether I have enough strength to swing my fins over to the inside. Two sharks now—the cap calmly surfaced, slapped his fins and disappeared beneath the hull. Dad, Dad, come back aboard! The fins slapped once more; still no bloodstains spread across the water.... Darling, are you still alive? Three now—the captain reported, without interrupting the cleaning operation. Our metre-and-a-half-long guests had gathered to enjoy lunch in congenial company. The only item on the menu was the captain in his wetsuit wrapper. The tender, peeled dessert had already scarpered onto the deck. Andryu-ukh... to hell with this cleaning! ...The next time the cap surfaced, he was already by the stern: Four! Right, that’s it, come back aboard—you have children. Joking aside, a pack of sharks is not the same as one. We haven’t got enough scrapers to stab them all in the eyes. While the captain climbed onto the deck, unhurriedly handing up his fins, raising the ladder and taking off his suit, the children and I counted the sharks: 7! 9! 11! 12!—Looks as if they’re having a corporate do here. Shame their lunch got away. Sharks, after it! 🙂 About fifty metres astern, a fur seal surfaced (or was it a sea lion?). I wonder whether sharks eat them? But our guests have no time for the seal: they are dancing in a circle around Lady Mary—clearly, we taste better. What are they expecting—that we’ll grab some pepper and jump in? “Ivashka in clotted cream”? We hoist the sails, dry the wetsuit and put the kettle on, while the indefatigable pack is still dogging our wake. NO BEER!—the first mate shouts at them. There it is, the magic phrase! At last the silly predators realise there will be no meat today, for it is Great Lent. The pack gradually falls behind. Mum, they were bloody enormous! And there were more than 12 of them by then...—Nastya sums up. Parents, it’s so good you weren’t eaten!—that’s Lada joining in. It really is. The sharks have gone P.S. : Incidentally, it’s only in films that people see a sharp fin above the water, then scream and run for it. In reality, throughout the whole of Shark Day, not one of the entire gang poked even the tip of its identifying marker above the surface. Judging by all appearances, they were blue sharks. They are dangerous to humans, according to the Wikipedia article: Blue sharks P.S .1: A little under twenty-four hours ago, we finally dropped anchor in a bay on Santa Cruz Island, Galápagos Islands. 🙂 To be continued!