SHARK WEEK

Ocean Swimming – SHARK WEEK

I hate Shark Week. Some of you might like kicking back and switching on The Discovery Channel to watch those bad boys munch, but a shark tearing into flesh is not something an ocean swimmer wants to see. When August comes to New England the ocean is flat, and clear, and warm enough that you can ditch the wet suit, but then Jaws swims up the coast to spoil the party. Great White Sharks follow the seals north, with both species protected by law, while Homo sapiens are on their own. But is that going to keep me out of the water? What’s the worst that could happen? Most people think I am crazy to swim in the ocean before the sharks get there, so why disappoint them by finding a pool with an open lane just because a hungry apex predator might be hungry just off shore? This is an easy call, so I throw on the swim trunks, and head down to the beach.

I calculated how long it might take to drive home for the wet suit when I saw the wind blowing from the shore, which peels the warmer top waters back to expose the cold underside. Brrrr. My toes didn’t like it. The good news is I did not get a full ice cream headache on diving in, just some pain along the line where the swimming cap left my head exposed. I knew that would fade quickly, and so focused on relaxing into my stroke as I got started. The one thing you don’t want to do in August is waste time in the water. The chances of a Great White being this close to Boston harbor are slim, but they exist. The more time you spend in the water, the greater your chances of an encounter. Logic tells me that on high surf, high fog conditions in June, my risk of injury are significantly higher, but try applying logic to fear of a shark.

I have not been able to banish fear from my August swims, so I apply logic everywhere else I can. My arms get shorter on my stroke, allowing me to swim in water no more than three feet deep, and at the bottom of a wave, even less. My toes, at times, touch the sand, and I use this to help navigate the proper swimming depth. Curiously, if my toes accidentally touch sand it brings a strangely uncomfortable sensation. Perhaps this is because it seldom happens, and so startles me. It causes me to think about how a great fish might feel if its belly touches sand. If I get washed up on shore, I am safer than before. If a fish washes up, that could be the end. I hope they have an instinct that keeps them in deeper waters. I don’t know if this is true, but I work hard to convince myself it is. Prior to August, my toes touching sand would cause me to head into deeper waters. Today, I instead used mind over matter. Logic. There is no risk in washing up on shore, so stay where you are.

Earlier in the season I enjoyed getting to the beach early, when I had it mostly to myself, especially on colder days when beach walkers were few. Now I try to delay my swims until I know there will be clusters of shark spotters on the shore. Most folks at the beach this early are so old they may not be able to see past the sand at the water’s edge, but it makes me feel better to know that others are there. I swim in such shallow water that there’s even a risk of bumping into the few others who dare tempt the sharks by wading in past their knees.

I had decided to keep the swim to an hour, partially to limit my exposure in the water, and partially because I knew I would have breakfast waiting at 8:30. I allowed myself a brief feeling of celebration at my turn around spot, lying to myself that if there were a shark around, it would have already eaten me. That logic does not work with jelly fish, who were just as likely to sting me on the way back even if I swam the first half unscathed, but so far, no shark attacks, so I will cling to it. Still, I could not erase the thought of sharks on my way back, except for the brief moments where concern for the numbing of my toes, and more significantly, my fingers, warned me that I was losing body temperature. And then my toes would hit sand, and I realized that I didn’t even need to know how to swim to save myself in water this shallow. I could roll myself onto shore. Far from bringing comfort, this ‘allowed’ me to worry about sharks again. Some of you may have heard of the tragic shark attack in Maine a few weeks back, in a harbor I had enjoyed several swims in just two years back. The water had been freezing, which had assured me there were no sharks. No one had ever been killed in a shark attack in Maine. What was there to fear?

I saw it directly below me. An instantaneous terror was just as quickly tempered by an understanding that it was already past me, swimming with just the slightest movement of body and fins. I could have reached down and touched it, not now, but in that instant. The brain is an amazing organ. I knew so much in that one moment it could have filled a book. It was smaller than me, sharper teeth, so much better in the water there could be no contest. It glided right along the sand, perhaps actually scraping the bottom. It had to be a Sand Shark, perhaps three of four feet long. Hard to tell, and now it was gone. Had it seen me at all? It had passed directly under the centerline of my body from toes to head, so relaxed it might have been whistling a tune, had relaxed sharks been wont to whistle. Imagine how quickly I stood up. I looked to the beach, but scolded myself about quitting. I don’t like to quit. It was only a Sand Shark. Might he be less relaxed if he knew there were a Great White about? He would know before I would? But nah. I wasn’t any safer for having seen a shark. Still, no one has ever been killed in a shark attack in Boston Harbor. I delude myself with this fun fact, like I had in Maine, and dip back into the water. No one has ever been killed. It is all I can think about now, other than the woman in Maine who met her untimely end, and the thought that the shark had come up behind me with no warning. My toes feel tingly. The tingles work up my body as I reach the end point of the swim. I can never stop thinking about how ironic it would be to get this far, and then get attacked on my way out of the water. OMG. My belly is just about scraping the sand at this point. I swim past an old man in up to his ankles. He must wonder how I can glide through such puddles. Short arms, my man. Short arms.