Swimming with Sharks

I hoist on my scuba tank and perch on the stern of the boat to put on my fins. Looking down into the gin-clear water, I see great, gray shapes moving in slow circles. Sharks have appeared as if lured by the sound of our motor, offering a Pavlovian display of fins and tails. The show has begun without us.

Omar settles down beside me in his scuba gear. He is carrying a long metal pole. "Omar," I ask, as casual as can be, "if this dive is so safe, why are you carrying that big stick?"

"It's my cover-your-ass stick, mon," he explains, before putting his regulator in his mouth and slipping into the sea. Like a true believer, I follow him. This will work, I tell myself, because Omar has done it many times before and he isn't even mildly scared. Then again, he has that stick.

"A good scare is worth more to a man than good advice." - Edgar Watson Howe, late-19th-century essayist

A dozen Caribbean reef sharks are circling me. I concentrate on trying to fin about in slow, even strokes, just as I would if I were on the reef without sharks. I check my air-pressure gauge, neutralize my buoyancy, and then - reminding myself that this is perfectly natural - drift down to the sandy bottom.

A lone seven-foot shark swims straight toward me. I want to run but I can't, and for the most fleeting of moments, I feel as if I'm trapped in an all-too-real B-movie. Remembering the old adage about not showing fear to a mad dog, I stay my ground. At a distance of three feet, the shark turns abruptly, as if pulled by an invisible chain. The shark repeats its run-and-dodge several more times and then resumes swimming overhead.

Norbert Wu, who seems completely fearless underwater, signals for me to ascend to the circling predators, so he can photograph me with them. I rise, ever so slowly, and the sharks widen their circle just a wee bit to avoid bumping me.

I reach inside myself for something - anything - to help me keep my cool. Breathing, which I take for granted back on the surface, becomes a tangible, auditory event down here. In comes the good air in a long, sustained suck; out goes the exhaust air in a stream of exploding bubbles. To control my nerves, I control my breathing, turning it into a meditative exercise. As I do so, the environment seems to absorb me.

And then something magical happens. I see the sharks more clearly. Their gill slits, eyes, and mouths come into focus. The grace of their swimming begins to awe me. They barely twist their bodies to make a turn; in their movements, they expend hardly any energy. Far from being mindless eating machines, they are elegant, even beautiful beasts. I begin to admire them.

My fear slips away with the exhaust bubbles. I drift back to the bottom and settle down on my knees. Omar gives a signal to Smitty, who is back on the boat, watching the action through a glass-bottom bucket.

Down into the water comes a plastic can full of fish heads and guts. Sharks I have not seen before dash to the can from somewhere just beyond my range of vision. There must be 30 of them. They are fired up. That can of chum is theirs.

The sharks attack the chum, slashing and biting at it, like panthers on a feeding rage. The can drops in slow motion, sharks slamming into it from every which way. As it settles on the bottom, the sharks' thrashing kicks up a storm of sand that spreads toward me. Sharks veer in and out of the sandstorm, their eyes ablaze. I back off gingerly, careful not to overreact.

As quickly as the feeding frenzy started, it is over. The chum bucket, now scored with teeth marks, is empty, lying next to me on the sand. Slowly, deliberately, I ascend.

Midway to the surface, I pause and listen closely to my breathing for signs of alarm. But there are none. There is only the steady, confident rhythm of my inhale and exhale. Never has it sounded so reassuring.

Coordinates: Stella Maris Resort, 800-426-0466; www.stellamarisresort.com

Freelancer and veteran diver Bill Belleville billybx@gate.net lives in Sanford, Florida.