XI
Rendezvous with Sharks
It was on a partly overcast day, with the sun breaking through at intervals, that Mike and I made our first dive off Heron Island. We piled our equipment into the Research Station’s dinghy, and rowed out across the reef flat until we had got clear of the dead, sandy bottom and were over live coral in about fifteen feet of water. The spot we had chosen was on the lee side of the island, well sheltered from the prevailing wind, and as far as we could judge through our waterscopes—glass-bottomed cans which gave a clear though narrow view through the surface—visibility was quite good.
We put on our face masks and flippers, adjusted our weight belts, blew the sand out of our snorkles, and dropped quietly over the side. Below us was a bewildering profusion of weird shapes; it almost seemed as if we were hanging above a forest of fantastic trees or giant fungi. By comparison, the corals we had seen while fossicking along the exposed reef were no more than withered, stunted shrubs.
The commonest variety was the branching staghorns, whose spikes formed an impenetrable thicket within which countless tiny fish would retreat for safety if we came too close. The larger staghorns resembled the giant cacti of the Arizona and New Mexico deserts, and it was hard to realize that they were animals, not plants. Or, to be accurate, the skeletons of animals, for a piece of coral is all dead limestone, covered with a thin and still-growing film of living polyps.
Less common, but equally unmistakable, were the convoluted domes of brain coral, forming massive boulders sometimes a yard or more across the base. The labyrinth of ridges and furrows covering them forms such an uncanny resemblance to the human brain that no other name is possible. Often, as I was swimming among them, I was irresistibly reminded of the “giant brains” imagined by Wells, Stapledon, and other science-fiction writers.
At rarer intervals there were wide, flat plates of coral, often growing one upon the other, and providing shelter for large fish which we could see lurking in their shade. Some of these corals were quite delicate, veined with intricate traceries like those which spring from the tops of the columns supporting the roof of an ancient cathedral. There were, however, none of the frail vertical fans common in the Caribbean and off the Florida coast. Probably the movement of the water was too violent here for such fragile structures to survive.
As a garden on land has its butterflies, so these coral groves had their legions of gorgeously colored fish. They were cautious, but not shy. We could get so close to them that it sometimes seemed easy to reach out and catch a handful. If we tried this, however, they would effortlessly elude our grasp.
The larger the fish, the more nervous they were—and with good reason. Neither Mike nor I approved of the indiscriminate piscicide which has wiped out the underwater populations in some areas of the world, but, when we were in Brisbane, Lyle Davis had given us the most powerful spear gun he manufactured and we were very anxious to try it out. Apart from indulging in what is one of the few sports where hunter and hunted meet on equal terms, we had good moral justification for what we were doing. Our unannounced arrival on the island had caused a slight food crisis in the Hasting household, and a few fish for dinner would be very welcome.
With his first three shots, Mike speared three fish totaling just over fifty pounds. We decided that was quite enough for one day, and heaved fish and gun into the dinghy while we started on the serious business of photography.
For the next few days, when tide and weather conditions allowed, we returned to the same spot so that we could test our cameras in familiar territory. We met no very large fish—above all, no sharks—but we did not expect to do so, for we were inside the boundary of the reef and in comparatively shallow water. When we were quite sure that we had a reasonably good chance of photographing anything that came along, we prepared to make our first dive over the edge of the reef. Mike had made one preliminary reconnaissance, under bad conditions, some days before. The water was still dirty after a recent storm; he had dived off the dinghy, just to have a look around, and had climbed hastily back into the boat with a very thoughtful expression.
“It’s weird down there,” he admitted, “and there’s some big stuff moving around. It won’t be safe until the water’s clearer—you can’t see what’s coming at you now.”
I was content to take his word for it; there was no point in running unnecessary risks by diving in water which was too dirty for photography—and photographs were, after all, the main object of our expedition.
It was about an hour after noon, and on a falling tide, that we rowed out to the reef and tried our luck for the second time. I slipped quietly overboard, with the Leica strapped round my neck, and found myself drifting twenty feet above a dense thicket of staghorn coral. The anchor of our boat lay supported in the topmost branches of the petrified forest, with a few small fish playing around its stock.
Visibility was excellent; when, a few seconds later, Mike followed me into the water we could see each other clearly when we were sixty feet apart. The sun, though it had passed its noonday peak, was still powerful enough to throw patches of dappled light on the coral beneath us.
There were some very large fish moving sedately over the sea bottom, but never venturing far from the shelter of some cave or cranny into which they could retreat if danger threatened. Keeping one eye on Mike, who was prowling around with his spear gun at the ready, I made several dives to the bottom to take closeups of interesting coral formations. After a while I decided that there was a better way of reaching my goal than swimming, which used up a lot of energy and air. The anchor line provided a convenient stairway into the depths, so I flushed out my lungs, then filled them to bursting, and pulled myself hand over hand down to the sea bed.
When I arrived at the bottom most of my reserve of air was still intact; I twined my legs around the anchor and relaxed in the water to survey the situation in comfort. I hoped that if I remained motionless for long enough, some of the larger fish would let their curiosity overcome their natural caution.
Nothing whatsoever happened for almost a minute, and I was just about to head back to the surface when the utterly unmistakable shape I had been hoping to see slipped into my field of vision. Thirty feet away a small shark, with a startlingly white tip on his forward dorsal fin, was sailing smoothly above the coral undergrowth. It was no more than five feet long—just about the right size for an introduction to the species. As soon as I had refilled my lungs, I began to stalk it with the camera, and had no difficulty in securing a couple of shots as it passed over sandy bottom and was silhouetted against the dazzling white of pulverized coral.
Then I surfaced and yelled to Mike, who was in the water some distance away. I tried to indicate with my arms the direction the shark was taking, and Mike set off towards it as if jet-propelled. When I ducked my head under the surface, I had lost sight of the beast, and regretted my missed photographic opportunities. Almost at once, however, there was a flurry fifty feet away, and Mike emerged momentarily to yell, “I’ve got him!”
Ignoring the excellent rule that one should swim quietly on the surface, without making too much of a splash, I stern-wheeled across to Mike at maximum acceleration. When I arrived on the spot, I found him using his gun to fend off a very angry shark, which was turning and snapping on the spear that had passed right through its body below the rear fins. Though its crescent-shaped mouth was only about six inches wide, I did not at all like the way in which its teeth kept grinding together in rage and frustration.
I took two hasty photos, then moved in close (or as close as I cared) with my own hand spear, to help push the beast away from Mike if it showed signs of coming to grips with him. He had swum slowly backward toward the boat, towing the spear with one hand and using the discharged gun to keep the still violently wriggling shark at bay.
We had an acquaintance in the dinghy, who had come along for the ride and seemed slightly taken aback when we drew alongside and yelled at him to help
haul our captive aboard. He reached down and tried to grab the tail, which was about the only thing he could do—though even this is not recommended in the best circles, since sharks can curl round to snap at their own tails with no trouble at all. They also have skins like sandpaper, which further discourages contact with the bare hand.
We had managed to get the shark halfway out of the water when, in a sudden paroxysm of fury, it succeeded in tearing itself loose from the spear. I caught a final brief glimpse of it shooting away across the coral, apparently none the worse for its encounter. When I surfaced again I found that Mike had climbed into the boat and was doing a dance of rage, accompanied by suitable sound effects, which were being greatly admired by another boatload of spear fishers who had now arrived on the scene. He stated, in no uncertain terms, what would happen to this particular shark if he ever met it again, with or without spear gun. He added several footnotes, containing information which would have surprised ichthyologists, about the ancestry and domestic behavior of sharks in general. In fact, he managed to convey the distinct impression that he did not, at the moment, feel very kindly disposed toward sharks.
When we had succeeded in calming him down a little, we went back into the water and did a search for the weight belt he had lost during the battle. After five minutes’ hunting, he was lucky enough to find it on a patch of sand, and this did something to restore his good humor. The loss of these weights would have been quite a serious matter, as without them it would have been difficult or even impossible for him to remain in effortless equilibrium at any depth. Though we had brought spares of all our other equipment, we had drawn the line at an extra ten or twenty pounds of lead, which somehow always seems to be even heavier than it actually is.
While engaged in the search for Mike’s belt, I had swum a considerable distance against the prevailing current, and had noticed that the water “upstream” was much clearer than in the region where we had been operating. So we pulled up the anchor, and rowed a hundred yards against the current to try our luck further round the edge of the reef.
The character of the bottom had changed greatly, even in this short distance. Huge coral boulders, ten feet high, were spaced at irregular intervals through the bluelit twilight. The water was also considerably deeper, and much richer in fish life. Horned rhinoceros fish, coral trout, and grouper swarmed beneath us, playing hide-and-seek around the submerged hillocks when we tried to get close to them. I noticed a fine grouper, well over a hundred pounds in weight, moving along a valley below me, and surfaced to draw Mike’s attention to it. As I did so, a large turtle, moving with surprising speed for so ungainly a beast, shot past me and disappeared into the depths. I had no opportunity of giving any of this information to Mike, however, for no sooner had I broken surface than he shouted “Shark!” and pointed back into the water.
For a moment I wondered if our earlier victim had been rash enough to return. It took only a second’s glimpse to dispose of that theory.
This was a real shark—a good ten feet of ultimately streamlined power, moving lazily through the waters beneath us. His body was a uniform metallic gray, with no trace of markings. He seemed aware of our presence, for he was cruising in a wide arc as if wondering what to do about us. I swum slowly above and behind him, trying to get a picture every time he was in a good position. If I kept moving steadily toward him, I felt quite sure that he would not come to me; indeed, my only concern was that I might make too violent a move and frighten him away. I was far too lost in admiration of this beautiful creature—the first large shark I had ever met in clear water—to feel the slightest sense of alarm.
But then I saw something that made my blood run cold. Mike, apparently thirsting for revenge, had reloaded his spear gun. He was getting into position to attack this monster who was bigger than both of us put together.
I shot up to the surface like a rocket, and as soon as Mike came up for air yelled at him, “For God’s sake—don’t shoot!” The spear fishers in the boat fifty feet away heard every word; mike, a yard from me, appeared to be stone-deaf. I followed him all the way down, making all the sign gestures I could think of to try and dissuade him, but it was no use.
Things sometimes happen so quickly underwater that often one can never clearly recall a sequence of events. I cannot remember the actual moment when the gun was fired; I can only remember my vast relief when the spear missed, and the shark veered away from its course. It did not, however, show any sign of fright as the steel arrow whizzed past its nose; indeed, it swept round in a great circle and swam toward Mike, who had now reeled in his spear but—luckily—had not had time to reload the gun. As the shark came slowly up to him, Mike suddenly realized that it was about time he did something, and began to shout into the water in the approved textbook fashion. The shark took no notice at all, but continued its leisurely approach. Mike jabbed his empty gun in its direction; still it came on. Not until it was about five feet away, and Mike could see its myopic eyes staring straight into his face mask, did it apparently decide that this was just another of those annoying and indigestible human beings, and swing contemptuously aside. I caught a last glimpse of it, a blurred torpedo lit by the slanting sunlight, as it vanished along the reef.
We climbed back into the boat, and recriminations continued as we rowed homeward. Mike swore, not very convincingly, that he thought I wanted him to shoot the shark. I produced all the witnesses within earshot to prove the contrary, and loudly lamented the masterpieces my camera had lost. “If you must shoot a shark,” I wailed, “at least wait until I’ve finished photographing it.”
Looking back on these events from the comparative calm of the present, I am inclined to believe that Mike never actually intended to hit the beast, but merely wanted to express his feelings. He is a dead shot at fish anything more than nine inches long, and it makes no sense at all for him to have missed something that occupied most of his angle of vision when he fired at it. At the crucial moment, his subconscious mind must have decided that this nonsense had gone far enough, and made him deflect his aim.
That evening, as soon as we could borrow the necessary ice from the tourist center, we set to work to develop the color film I had shot during the day. After two hours’ work, pouring liquids from one bottle to another and running round with lumps of ice to maintain all the solutions at the right temperature, we knew that our photographic efforts had not been in vain. There was our gunmetal friend cruising over the coral, the undisputed master of the reef.
Undisputed? Well, one day, Mike may decide to put that to the test again. I hope he does it when I am not around.
XII
Devil on the Reef
No two days under the reef are exactly the same. Tide, wind, water clarity, cloud cover, elevation of the sun—all these factors are constantly changing, and with them the whole aspect of the underwater world. It is a strange and wonderful sensation to go twenty or thirty feet down, when the sun manages at last to break through a heavy blanket of clouds. At one moment you are floating in a somber blue mist, able to see only a few feet even if the water is at its clearest. You will feel depressed and a little apprehensive, for out of that closely encompassing blueness anything may appear without a moment’s warning. The slopes of broken coral beneath you will be drab and colorless, the whole submarine landscape drenched in a twilight and autumnal gloom.
Then the clouds part, and the sun bursts forth. Though you can see neither sun nor cloud, at once everything around you is transformed. The coral hills and pinnacles become radiant with life; the constellations of tiny fish glitter as they turn in the sunlight whose slanting rays you can now see driving into the depths. Your horizon expands as if a fog had suddenly lifted; the dreary, monochrome gloom that had hemmed you in and oppressed you with its hidden menace now becomes a wide, enchanted vista glowing with soft colors, so lovely that any thoughts of lurking danger vanish at once.
This transformation is the most dramatic that the reef can know, for
it can happen literally in a matter of seconds. But there is also something else that can alter the whole mood and aspect of the underwater scene. The reef, after all, is primarily a background, a living yet immobile stage against which the multitudes of fish act out their little lives. After a few visits one gets to know them all, not only as types but even as individuals. There is that mournful and aptly named pipefish, the perfect underwater equivalent of the dachshund. Circling that rock is the dignified angelfish, who never strays far from his home and who flaunts his brilliant colors as if certain that nothing in the sea will molest him. Down there in the shadows is a splendid fifty-pound grouper who suspects that you have designs on him and watches you with a wary eye; the white scar below his jaw shows that he has encountered Man before....
These are the permanent residents, the actors who are always on stage. But ever and again there will come in from out of the ocean depths an intruder who does not belong here, an actor who dominates the scene so completely that all the other characters are forgotten. You may dive at the same spot a dozen times and meet exactly the same fish, haunting the same places in the coral garden. And then, one day—
The tide was falling that morning when Mike and I rowed out over the flat fringe of dead coral and came to the living edge of the reef, where the bottom shelves abruptly away into deeper water. Though there was some cloud, most of the time the sun was shining and the water was wonderfully clear. There was hardly a trace of wind, and the surface of the sea was so still that for long intervals we could observe every detail of the coral-encrusted slopes forty feet down.
The Coast of Coral Page 9
