The Shark Whisperer (2 page)

“Tristan! Tristan!” the boy's father called out. He squeezed his arm through the railing that ran around the pool. But even with his arm extended all the way through and his face mashed against the metal, he was still far from being able to reach his twelve-year-old son.

The boy's mother stared at the scene with an oddly calm expression and she was strangely silent. Normally she was a nonstop talker, the Niagara Falls of words. She was clearly in shock. Her mind, body, and especially her mouth were paralyzed by what she saw.

“The sharks. They're coming!” another man yelled, pointing to three large dorsal fins slicing through the water with deadly efficiency. They were headed straight for the boy.

At first, young Tristan Hunt did not know what had happened or where he was. One minute he was leaning over the pool's railing to get a better look at the sharks swimming below. The next thing he knew, he was in the water. When he landed, it actually felt pretty good; a refreshing cool splash to escape the scorching south Florida heat. Then, suddenly, Tristan realized where he was and that he was not alone in the water. This was no neighborhood pool. He swam to the surrounding concrete wall; it was slick and smooth. There wasn't a ladder, steps, or anything he could grab. That's when he saw the first fin.

Tall and lanky, Tristan's limbs seemed to grow too fast for the rest of his body to keep up. He was constantly tripping over the simplest of obstacles as well as his own feet. The kids at school made fun of him. At home his older sister teased him relentlessly with names like the “gangly green giant” or “trippin' Tristan.” But this was the king of all trips, the captain of slips, the champion of stumbles. Tristan had fallen into a pool of sharks.

Tristan had seen enough movies and television to know he could never outswim even one shark. He'd seen at least five in the pool before he fell. Nearby, a couple of pierced, tattooed young men watched, rapt by morbid fascination. One leaned over to the other snickering, “He's a goner for sure.”

A twenty-two-year-old aquarium worker with more enthusiasm than brains ran to the shark pool and extended a long pole out into the water. “Boy,” he shouted. “Grab it! Come on. Grab hold!”

Treading water, Tristan looked at the pole, and more importantly, at the dagger-sharp hook at its end. He thought:
Is this guy nuts? I'm not a fish. No way am I grabbing that hook. There'll be blood—sharks and blood, duh—can you say feeding frenzy?

Something bumped Tristan from behind, shoving him forward. He jerked around and saw the pointy tip of a shark's tail swish in an
S
-shape as it swam past. He then saw two more sharks coming his way, their fins slicing silently through the water. The pole, even with its flesh-tearing hook, was looking a lot more appealing. Tristan reached out to grab it, stretching his arm
as far as it could possibly go. Just a few more inches and he'd be rescued, pulled uneaten from the pool.

But before Tristan could grab hold of the pole, a sharp blow to his back again plunged him forward. He turned and saw a shark circling back, coming around for another go. Tristan paddled backward as best he could in the water. The shark was coming at him fast. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see its toothy grin up close and personal.

The shark's snout touched Tristan's stomach and he thought:
I hope I taste really bad, like that disgusting cauliflower casserole mom made the other night
.

Then the shark did something totally unexpected. Instead of tearing through Tristan's flesh, it sort of nuzzled him—like a dog sideling up for a good scratch. Tristan opened his eyes. There was the shark, curled up next to him. Without thinking, Tristan reached out to feel it. It just seemed like the thing to do. He gave the shark a little scratch just behind its head, trying to stay well away from its mouth. The shark responded with a playful swish of its tail as it swam off. Then Tristan looked at his hand, because he still had a hand. He looked at his stomach—not a single tooth mark.

Onlookers at the aquarium's shark pool were now jumping up and down, wiping the stinky gray-green seagull poop from their heads, and covering their eyes. Tristan's mother had fainted and his father was frantic. “No! Tristan!” he screamed. “Son, grab the pole. Grab it!”

As the next shark came toward him, Tristan ducked
underwater to watch it approach. It turned just before reaching him. The shark's glassy eye stared directly at Tristan, but not in an evil or hungry sort of way. It almost seemed like the shark was trying to tell him something. Without thinking, Tristan kicked slowly in beat with the shark's swishing tail. Soon they were gliding side by side. He became lost in the moment, forgetting where he was or his potential to become a shark Happy Meal.

The crowd of people watching from above couldn't grasp what they were seeing. Someone yelled, “It's chasing him!”

By now a group of the aquarium's more senior staff had gathered at a ladder that went down into the pool about twenty yards from where Tristan had fallen in. An older man with a creased, weather-lined face and long, muscular arms climbed down the ladder. He leaned out over the pool and grabbed Tristan's leg just as he swam past.

Startled, Tristan panicked. He tried twisting away from whatever had hold of him. He shouted, “Get off me.” But in the churning water it sounded more like he was calling for help, something more like “Geb me.”

The worker quickly pulled the boy out of the pool. He then half-carried, half-dragged Tristan through a hinged door in the railing that surrounded the shark pool. The crowd clapped and cheered madly. Even the seagulls seemed pleased. They stopped screeching and landed quietly nearby. Tristan's parents ran to their wet, bedraggled son. His shaggy brown hair was
a tangled mess. Water dripped from his straight narrow nose and his good blue polo shirt was ripped in two places, but otherwise it looked like he could have just climbed out of the local swimming pool. There was no crying, screaming, or running for his mommy as the spectators surely expected. In fact, and
oddly
, Tristan was smiling and there was a twinkle of excitement in his exceptionally bright green eyes.

Tristan and his parents spent what seemed like hours at the Sarasota Aquarium, explaining to the staff what had happened. The boy had simply slipped and fallen into the shark pool. How could anyone possibly think otherwise?

After a while, Tristan's father threw up his hands. “Why are we still talking about this? You'd have to be bonkers to jump into a pool of sharks! And my son is not crazy, definitely clumsy, sometimes smart-mouthed—but
not
crazy. It was an accident.”

The aquarium's director was a thin sixty-something man with short graying hair. His white, button-down shirt and khaki pants were extremely well pressed and heavily starched. Tristan stared, thinking the man's clothes were so stiff they could have stood up on their own. The man ran his hand nervously through his perfectly styled hair, causing sections to stick out at odd angles. He addressed Tristan's father, “We have
an excellent safety record here. Nothing like this has ever happened.”

Looking sternly at Tristan, the aquarium's director continued, “Are you sure young man, that you did not jump over the railing to take a little swim?”

“Oh for God's sake,” Tristan's father said. “I don't have time for this. We are leaving.”

By the time they got home, Tristan just wanted to go to his room. But his mother's silence-inducing shock had clearly worn off. “Tristan, you didn't jump, right? But, why didn't you grab the pole? You could have been killed. Those were sharks. How did you fall in? You have
got
to be more careful. So, why didn't you grab the pole?”

“Mom, did you see the hook on the end?” Tristan asked calmly. “There would have been blood and ya know—sharks and blood.”

“But you would have been pulled out sooner. You didn't jump in, did you?”

“No mom. I
did not
jump in.” But even as Tristan was saying it, he wasn't so sure. He remembered stepping up onto the lower bar of the railing and leaning over to get a better look at the sharks. Strands from his brown mop-like hair had fallen over his eyes, so he'd flicked his head back. And then he was in the water. It had happened so fast. He must have slipped, but the railing was kind of high. No way he would have jumped.
Would he?

Tristan's father shook his head, looking sternly at his son. Tristan could see the disappointment in his
eyes, as usual. Just another check on the long list of reasons why he would never be the mini-me son his father so badly wanted—the star athlete and A-student he could be proud of.

“Tristan, go take a shower and put on some dry clothes. We'll talk more about this later,” he quietly told his son.

Tristan headed for his bedroom thinking there was nothing more to talk about. They'd never believe the shark seemed to invite him along for a swim or that just before he was pulled out it looked right at him. Tristan had the feeling the shark was trying to tell him something—something important. Then he shook his head.
Naah, it was a shark and I was just lucky
.

Dry and in a pair of black board shorts, Tristan searched through the Mount Everest of clothes on his bedroom floor for his favorite T-shirt. It was the red, ratty one with small holes along the seams at the shoulders. The one his mother hated. As he pulled one shirt after another off the floor, he had an odd feeling. Something seemed off in his room. He glanced around, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. He checked his laptop; there was nothing creepy or weird on the screen. He looked over at the open doors to his closet and under the bed; no boy-eating one-eyed razor-clawed monsters hiding out. There were a few birds
sitting on the tree branch just outside his window, but that wasn't all that unusual. Although from a distance they did seem much bigger and fatter than the birds he usually saw there, like sparrows on steroids. They almost looked like seagulls. And then Tristan glanced at the small aquarium sitting on the table next to his desk.

“Whoa!”

The tropical fish were usually swimming back and forth, hiding in the fake seaweed or nipping at the cheesy replica of a treasure chest on the gravel bottom. Now they were all huddled at the front of the tank, peering directly at him. Tristan was so startled he stumbled over his desk chair, which was not so surprising. He sat up on the floor, flicked back the strands of hair that were constantly falling over his eyes, and looked up at the aquarium. The fish were still clustered and still staring at him. They were angled so steeply to see him they were doing floating headstands in the water. Tristan shook his head, thinking he was seeing things. But when he got up and moved toward the tank, the fish moved with him. He shuffled to the right. The fish swam to the right. He took a step left. They swam left. The fish in his aquarium were tracking his every move and looking at him as if they were really
looking
at him.

“Okay, now I've lost it,” Tristan said out loud, wondering if there was such a thing as Post Shark Trauma Syndrome. Or maybe he hit his head and had a concussion. He heard that concussions made people
confused. Maybe they also caused hallucinations—wacko sea creature hallucinations to be exact.

The fish then swam to the bottom right-hand corner of the aquarium, staring at a pamphlet sitting on the table's edge. It was a brochure that had come in the afternoon mail about a summer camp in the Florida Keys. Tristan grabbed the brochure and stared at the logo on the front. It was a shark curled beneath a wave.