Surrounded by Sharks

by Michael Northrop

  As the sun continued to crawl across the sky, Davey went back to looking for boats or land. He went back to listening for helicopters or planes. The report came back the same each time: none, none, none, and none.

  The only subject that was even half as interesting to Davey as rescue was this: What had he done wrong? He kept picking at the question like a scab. And it was a big scab, because he’d made a lot of mistakes.

  Should he have stayed in bed? Yes. Could he have read his book there, even with the snoring and toxic gas? Yes. Did those things seem like dumb reasons to sneak away now? Of course.

  But he had.

  So should he have left a note in the room? No, he decided. He’d meant to be back before anyone woke up. And he wouldn’t have known about the beach then anyway, so what good would a note have done?

  Should he have stayed out of the water? One thousand percent yes. Had the sign told him to? Yes! Duh! Oh my God, I’m an idiot! For a while, that seemed like his biggest mistake. He beat himself up about it pretty badly. And then, just floating there and feeling like an idiot, he thought of a bigger mistake.

  He was remembering the moment he gave up, how he’d been thinking about his dad giving up in that river. It reminded him of something, and then it was all so obvious.

  A few months after the family had gotten home from the tubing trip, his dad tried to buy something called a never-ending pool. His mom had said it was because he was embarrassed that he “couldn’t swim to that stupid tube.” His dad would only admit that he “needed more regular exercise.”

  He still remembered the exact words because it had been one of his parents’ first big fights. It had still been a new thing. Davey and his brother — still Brandon then — could hear it all, even though they were upstairs and their parents were downstairs.

  The business had just started to go bad then, to “slow down.” That was another thing he knew from those first arguments — and from a lot of the ones since then. In any case, things weren’t going well, and they’d just gone on a vacation. His mom wouldn’t let his dad buy the little pool.

  Tam had gone to the showroom anyway, one day when Pamela was out. He’d taken Davey and Brandon. Even at the time, Davey knew his dad was trying to get them on his side. They brought their swimsuits and tried it out. Except for Brandon. The salesman said he was still too young. Anyway, it was kind of cool.

  It was like a little tiny pool, not much bigger than a person. It had a motor at the front that created this powerful current, like one continuous wave. And you just swam against it and swam against it and swam against it for exercise. You could swim for an hour and not get anywhere but healthy. Well, if you could swim for an hour you were probably already super healthy, but that was the point of it. Davey had only lasted a few minutes, and that was after the salesman had turned the motor down for him.

  He hadn’t thought about it much after that day. He was pretty sure they’d never get one. His mom had only said they’d talk about it “once the business came back.” They’d never talked about it again.

  But now he wished they’d gotten the stupid thing. He wished they’d sold the minivan to pay for it. Because if he’d done it more than once, he would’ve remembered. You could swim forever and never reach the end of that thing. That’s why they called it a never-ending pool. But all you had to do was take a few quick strokes to the side to reach the edge. That’s how you got out.

  He felt so stupid.

  He’d swum against the rip current, trying to reach the end. He should’ve swum sideways. That’s how you got out. He felt like someone had just kicked him in the stomach. And worse, he felt like he deserved it.

  He tilted the bottle down. He watched the fish for a while, trying to distract himself from himself. He found three of them quickly and was looking for the fourth. That’s when he saw it. It was farther down. It was hard to say how far. Maybe twenty feet, he thought. It was the quick flick of a tail, the black flash of an eye.

  This was no little fish.

  Holy cow, they’re calling the cops, thought Brando.

  A wave of hot panic nearly knocked him down. They’re going to question me. They’re going to find out that I knew he was gone and went back to sleep. Should I just tell them now? Should I just tell Mom and Dad before the police arrive, before it’s … He searched his head for the phrase, the one they used on TV. Before it’s a criminal matter?

  He looked up at his parents. If either one of them had looked down at that moment, he would’ve told them. But they didn’t. They were both busy. His dad was taping another picture of Davey to the wall. It was a digital picture Pamela had emailed to one of her friends. It was the first and best one they could find, and they’d cut it in half to crop out Brando. Now the oddly shaped photo — a tall rectangle with one sloping side — was centered on plain white paper. Underneath it read:

  MISSSING BOY

  DAVEY TSERING

  PLEASE CALL!

  The hotel’s main number was under that, followed by their room number, since there was no cell phone service out here. No one had noticed the extra S in misssing before they hit print. Fifty pages later, no one cared that much.

  Brando looked over at his mom. She was talking to the hotel manager, Marco. He’d resurfaced as soon as they’d started taping up the flyers. Brando could tell he didn’t like it. Every time they put one up, Marco gave them a look like they were spray-painting swear words onto the wall. For a while, Brando kept a close eye on him to make sure he didn’t take the flyers right back down.

  “The island doesn’t have any police,” Marco was saying.

  “You have to have police,” said Pamela.

  “The island doesn’t have its own police,” Marco clarified. “We call Key West if there are any …” He let his voice trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.

  “Well, that’s good!” said Pamela.

  Why is that good? thought Brando. In what possible way could that be good? Then he remembered: Key West. That’s where they thought he’d gone. That was their new “theory,” because of what the big English dude had told them. That he’d seen a boy waiting by the boat dock early this morning.

  That didn’t sound right to Brando. It didn’t seem like something Davey would do. He looked around. He could see close to a dozen of their flyers from where he stood. There were four on the front doors alone: two facing out, two facing in. If he’s still on the island, that oughta do it, he thought.

  “Do I just dial 9-1-1?” asked Pamela, holding up her phone.

  “That won’t work here,” said Marco. He let out a long breath. “You can use the phone at the desk. I’ll get the number.”

  “I could just dial 9-1-1,” said Pamela as they headed toward the desk.

  “Please don’t,” said Marco.

  They kept talking after that, but Brando couldn’t hear them. Everyone in the lobby was talking. Every time Brando looked around, he caught people staring. He knew what they were talking about.

  His dad finished putting up a flyer. He’d used long strips of Scotch tape on all four edges, with extra strips in the corners. If a hurricane came through, the roof would blow off, but these flyers would still be up.

  “Where’d everyone go?” said Tam.

  “To call the cops,” said Brando.

  His dad nodded his head. “Good.”

  If Brando was going to tell him anything, this would’ve been the time. But he didn’t, and the time passed. Ten minutes later, they were heading back to the little dock. Tam and Pamela looked at the ground carefully as they approached, as if they were tracking a wild animal, as if they knew how. Finding no Davey tracks, they stepped onto the dock.

  Tam tried to put up a flyer on one of the thick wooden pilings, but it was too breezy and the wrong kind of tape. They headed for the far end of the dock. There were no other people waiting because another boatful had just left.

  Marco stayed behind on the sand, talking quietly into a little walkie-talkie. Brando was sure he
was telling someone to take down all the flyers. He stared hard at the little yellow walkie-talkie. He wished he had Magneto’s powers, or Jedi powers maybe. He’d crush the thing with his mind. He tried anyway. Nothing. Marco kept whispering, and the thing kept delivering little bursts of static in response.

  Brando headed down the dock to join his parents. He looked over at the bar guy’s battered, lopsided boat as he passed it. He wished he could just take it and go searching for his brother, but he knew that wouldn’t end well. Instead, he waited with his parents. They didn’t have to wait long.

  Brando sat down on the end of the dock. He let his legs hang over the end and wasn’t even all that curious why he felt his butt getting wet. It was a dock, after all. As soon as he looked up, he saw the little powerboat heading their way.

  It knifed through the water in a straight line at first. Then it began arcing toward the dock, like an arrow on the way down. The boat bounced crisply over the little six-inch swells and left a long white wake behind it. Despite everything that was going on, despite all the bad things, Brando couldn’t help but think: That’s frickin’ awesome.

  As the police launch got closer, Brando could make out more details. It looked like an inflatable orange boat made permanent, with a metal frame reflecting the sun and a little cockpit in the center that looked just big enough for a person to stand up in. Soon, he saw the outline of the man’s head and shoulders through the little window.

  The man cut the motor and the boat drifted the last fifty yards to the dock. The launch bounced lightly against one of the tires hanging down along the pilings. The man stepped out from the little cockpit, picked up a line, and secured the boat. He pulled himself up onto the dock.

  “Morning,” he said.

  Tam and Pamela said hello, but Brando didn’t respond. He’d never seen a police officer in shorts before. He looked back down at the boat, just to make sure it was an official police boat. The words stenciled on the side in white spray paint seemed to leave no doubt about that, and there was a flasher and siren on top of the cockpit.

  He looked back up at the guy. He looked young. Not like a kid, but not 100 percent like an adult, either. His shorts were hitched up too high, and he had a sunburn. It wasn’t a tan, like Marco and most of the other people who worked on the island. It was a burn, like he was a tourist himself. A spray of messy blond hair stuck out from under his police cap. This is the guy they sent? thought Brando. He looks like a Cub Scout troop leader.

  Marco thumped loudly down the dock, his dress shoes pounding the wood. He was still stuffing the walkie-talkie into his pocket with his left hand as he reached over with his right to shake the young cop’s hand. “Hey, Jeff,” he said. “Sorry to drag you out here on a Sunday.”

  Oh, great, thought Brando, they know each other.

  He tried to use his mind powers again, even though he was pretty sure he didn’t really have them. This time he was going for less Magneto, more Professor X. Jedi would still work, too. He thought as loud as he could: Come on, Davey. Where are you? This isn’t funny anymore. It was never funny. You need to get back here.

  The adults began to talk all at once. Brando stood alone on the edge of the dock. All he could see was clear blue water.

  Where are you?

  Davey was two and a half miles offshore, drifting to the southwest in a countercurrent. It was a bad situation, and it had just gotten worse.

  That was a shark. He was sure of it now.

  He replayed the images in his head. There was the first quick one, just a blur as it turned quickly and vanished. If that had been it, he could’ve told himself it was something else. It could’ve been some other big fish, a tuna maybe. But then he’d seen it again. It was moving slower this time. It was in no hurry at all, and why should it be? This was its home, not Davey’s.

  It glided slowly by, ten feet down. He saw its pointed head and its knifelike body. The water and plastic between them warped its shape slightly as it slid by, but he followed it and got a good look. He could see its fins, as clear as any nightmare he’d ever had. The dorsal fin angled straight up like a sail; the pectoral fins projected out like wings. Its mouth hung just slightly open, a line of black in all that blue.

  He lost sight of it. He turned the bottle, tugged it through the water, tilted it farther down. Nothing, it was gone again. He began to see stars and realized he’d been holding his breath the whole time. He gulped in air and tried again. This time he dunked his head under the water and tried it without the bottle. He opened his eyes, but all he saw was water.

  The little fish had scattered, not because of the shark but because Davey was moving the bottle all over the place. He saw them now, just off to his left. They were four little gray blurs, moving in unison. They skittered a few feet farther away as he watched them. It’s behind me! he thought.

  He jerked his body around, kicking his legs and pushing through the water with his right arm. His left arm was draped over the top of the water cooler bottle, and it was slowing him down. By the time I see it, it will have its teeth in me.

  But when he completed his turn, there was nothing there. The endless ocean faded to a featureless blur in front of him. The ocean pressed in. He let out a few bubbles to keep the salt water out of his nose. He looked to his left, to his right, and then down past his feet. He surfaced, blowing out air as he went.

  He checked to make sure no water had gotten into the bottle during the commotion. He wanted to climb up on top of the thing. He wanted to stand on it, like a lumberjack rolling a log. But he couldn’t. It would sink, and then where would he be?

  He told himself to calm down, not to panic. Yes, it was a shark, but it was small. It didn’t look much more than three feet long. There was no way to be sure at that distance, but that’s what he decided: three feet. Four feet, tops. He was taller than it was. I’ll punch it in the face if it tries anything! That made him feel better.

  For a while, he alternated between scanning under the water for the shark, scanning the horizon for boats, and scanning the sky for a plane or helicopter. He made them Official Survival Tasks and kept himself busy with them. He thought about how he’d signal if he saw a boat: He’d wave the bottle, splash around, shout as loud as he could. Same for a plane, he decided, except there wouldn’t be any point in shouting.

  The worst of his panic subsided, but his nerves were still stretched as tight as guitar strings. He heard a splash off in the distance, and it was like someone had strummed those strings with a hammer. He whipped his head around but saw nothing.

  He wanted to scream, more out of frustration than fear. He had no idea what had caused the splash. Had something jumped out of the water? Why? He forced himself to go back to his Official Survival Tasks. Task 1: Look for shark. Task 2: Look for boats and/or land. Task 3: Look for planes and/or helicopters. Task 1: Look for shark…. Half an hour later, he had one other task to take care of.

  Davey was the kind of kid who got out of the water to go to the bathroom under normal circumstances. These were not normal circumstances. The little fish had returned, and he apologized to them as the water got ever so slightly warmer.

  It’s hard to say he’d just made an enormous mistake. What choice did he have, really? Still, sharks are legendary for their sense of smell. Less well known: the fact that urine in the water is nearly as intriguing to them as blood.

  Eventually, there would be that, too.

  “You’d be the family of the boy, then,” the officer was saying.

  Brando noticed that he didn’t say missing boy. Everybody noticed that.

  “Yes, I’m Tam Tsering, his father.”

  “I’m Pamela Marcum Tsering, his mother.”

  The officer pulled a notebook out of his pocket. Brando had seen a hundred cops do that on TV. They’d pull a little notebook out of the back pocket of their pants or, if they were detectives, the inside pocket of their sports coat. This guy pulled it out of the side pocket of his cargo shorts.

  “Well,
I’m Jeff Fulgham. Deputy Jeff Fulgham — always forget that part. You can call me Jeff, Deputy, whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  He was fishing around in his pocket again. This time he came up with a pen, but he didn’t write anything. He turned toward Marco and asked, “What time’s the next boat?”

  Marco looked down at his watch. “Twenty minutes,” he said. “Or whenever Zeke gets here.”

  “Yeah,” said Deputy Fulgham. “This isn’t the best place. People are going to start lining up, anyway. Let’s go somewhere to talk.”

  “We can go out back by the pool,” said Marco. “Nice place to sit. Should be quiet.”

  Who cares if it’s a nice place to sit? thought Brando, but no one was asking him. The deputy hadn’t even asked him his name.

  They were all rumbling back down the dock now. Marco and the deputy were in the lead, talking low. Brando picked up his pace a little. He wanted to get close enough that he could hear what they were saying, but not close enough that they’d notice him. He watched the handle of the deputy’s gun move back and forth as he walked. The gun was black, and so was the holster. When Brando looked closely, he could see the long rectangular edge of the magazine.

  But he couldn’t hear what they were saying. The footsteps, the breeze, the distance … They all conspired to keep things secret.

  It took them just a few minutes to arrive at the pool. Deputy Fulgham looked around and pointed at a table. It had a glass top, a beach umbrella built right in, and five seats: just the right number. Tam and Pamela filed past and took seats next to each other. Brando took a few steps and then knelt down next to Marco and the deputy and pretended to tie his sneaker. He listened closely and heard the last words Marco said: “… no divers. Please. Not yet.”

  No divers? What does he mean by that? But Brando barely had time to think about it, because Marco nearly tripped over him on his way to the little table. Deputy Fulgham headed over, too. Brando had untied his lace for his act and now he really did have to tie it. When he finished, he pulled out the last chair and sat down. The interview was already in progress.