same shark, different day

Abalone diver Muriel Sanguinnia felt his chest squeezed in the dark. His left shouldered punctured and pinned between serrated teeth, his calm never left him. The shark spasmed and released--in a split-second--Muriel's 32-year old body, so as to better haul him in, to snugly fit his torso inside the Great White's mouth.

Muriel's chest heaved, quickly drew in more air from his respirator, and saw in a blink the corrals dimly lit by what noon sunlight was prismed underwater. He was just picking up abalone; he was just doing his job, picking off the undersea ecology to sell that rare delicacy to Pauly's Beached Up Front Restaurant near the shoreline. He knew, and he had no gripes about it, that the Great White snapping its jaws at his shoulders was doing its job.

Another spasm and a great deal more pain. His respirator's line flung out, and he lost feeling in his left shoulder. Can't reach for his knife sheath on his right leg. Some ribs broken. His years of diving told him he had maybe fifteen seconds more to live, assuming the shark forgot to chew and just let him wriggle in its mouth.

Right arm can still move. Gills. Feel for them outside the mouth. Nothing. Blacking out. Grab up, further up. A ball of jelly. Membrane. Dig in, claw it up, squeeze hard. Muriel felt the tunnel he was inside shake a bit, and then flung him out. Corrals, schools of small fish, bubble rising from... his respirator. He grabbed it and inhaled, scissoring to spin himself in the clear blue sea murked by blood that was his own, to see where the shark was.

There. Gliding in a circle with him as the center. Can't feel left shoulder, left arm won't move. There's my spear gun snagged on the sandy bottom. Grab it, scissor to spin, face the shark... where's the... was that a shrug? Do sharks shrug?

A second later and Muriel kicked against the sandy bottom and ascended calmly above water. Limping to shore, he leaned on a surfer who came to help. Murmurs from the thick crowd. Crashing waves behind him. His right hand tight on his spear gun.

What happened? Fred, the life guard asked. Muriel's diving suit was punctured, but the suit's dark color hid the shark bites. To all appearances, he just staggered in pain from a dislocated shoulder, except that he was bleeding.

Oh, you know, Fred. Once a month, on a quiet Thursday, he said.

Muriel sat down on the sand and Fred helped him take his diving suit off. The life guard saw the bite punctures on Muriel's hairy torso. Fred reckoned from size of the arc of teeth, it was the same one.

Can't be that many Great Whites who just want to gobble you up whole, ey, Murry?

Muriel grunted.

So why don't you ever spear him, do him in, end the misery? Fred said, signaling to the surfer to get help.

He looses interest after spitting me out.

Hmmm. Gills or eye?

Eye, this time. If I kill him, someone less forgiving might take over.

Right, right.

Same shark, different day.