The Shark Whisperer. Ellen Prager
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“But you would have been pulled out sooner. You didn’t jump in, did you?”
“No mom. I did not jump in.” But even as Tristan was saying it, he wasn’t so sure. He remembered stepping up onto the lower bar of the railing and leaning over to get a better look at the sharks. Strands from his brown mop-like hair had fallen over his eyes, so he’d flicked his head back. And then he was in the water. It had happened so fast. He must have slipped, but the railing was kind of high. No way he would have jumped. Would he?
Tristan’s father shook his head, looking sternly at his son. Tristan could see the disappointment in his eyes, as usual. Just another check on the long list of reasons why he would never be the mini-me son his father so badly wanted—the star athlete and A-student he could be proud of.
“Tristan, go take a shower and put on some dry clothes. We’ll talk more about this later,” he quietly told his son.
Tristan headed for his bedroom thinking there was nothing more to talk about. They’d never believe the shark seemed to invite him along for a swim or that just before he was pulled out it looked right at him. Tristan had the feeling the shark was trying to tell him something—something important. Then he shook his head. Naah, it was a shark and I was just lucky.
Dry and in a pair of black board shorts, Tristan searched through the Mount Everest of clothes on his bedroom floor for his favorite T-shirt. It was the red, ratty one with small holes along the seams at the shoulders. The one his mother hated. As he pulled one shirt after another off the floor, he had an odd feeling. Something seemed off in his room. He glanced around, but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He checked his laptop; there was nothing creepy or weird on the screen. He looked over at the open doors to his closet and under the bed; no boy-eating one-eyed razor-clawed monsters hiding out. There were a few birds sitting on the tree branch just outside his window, but that wasn’t all that unusual. Although from a distance they did seem much bigger and fatter than the birds he usually saw there, like sparrows on steroids. They almost looked like seagulls. And then Tristan glanced at the small aquarium sitting on the table next to his desk.
“Whoa!”
The tropical fish were usually swimming back and forth, hiding in the fake seaweed or nipping at the cheesy replica of a treasure chest on the gravel bottom. Now they were all huddled at the front of the tank, peering directly at him. Tristan was so startled he stumbled over his desk chair, which was not so surprising. He sat up on the floor, flicked back the strands of hair that were constantly falling over his eyes, and looked up at the aquarium. The fish were still clustered and still staring at him. They were angled so steeply to see him they were doing floating headstands in the water. Tristan shook his head, thinking he was seeing things. But when he got up and moved toward the tank, the fish moved with him. He shuffled to the right. The fish swam to the right. He took a step left. They swam left. The fish in his aquarium were tracking his every move and looking at him as if they were really looking at him.
“Okay, now I’ve lost it,” Tristan said out loud, wondering if there was such a thing as Post Shark Trauma Syndrome. Or maybe he hit his head and had a concussion. He heard that concussions made people confused. Maybe they also caused hallucinations—wacko sea creature hallucinations to be exact.
The fish then swam to the bottom right-hand corner of the aquarium, staring at a pamphlet sitting on the table’s edge. It was a brochure that had come in the afternoon mail about a summer camp in the Florida Keys. Tristan grabbed the brochure and stared at the logo on the front. It was a shark curled beneath a wave.
The smell of dinner wafted into Tristan’s bedroom making his stomach growl. He grabbed the pamphlet and headed for the door, really hoping they were not having fish for dinner. He took one last look at the aquarium. All the fish were now swimming about like normal, as if Tristan weren’t even there.
TWO WEEKS AFTER TRISTAN’S FALL INTO THE shark pool, he was headed for summer camp at the Florida Keys Sea Park. Ever since the incident—as his mother liked to call it—Tristan had become obsessed with all things shark. According to Susana, his sixteen-year-old sister, it was not an obsession at all. Rather, it was a clear case of possession by sharks. To Susana, the ocean was a dark, malevolent abyss. It contained only creatures that could eat, kill, or at least, seriously maim you. She was now convinced that sharks could also take over people’s minds, or at least her klutzy brother’s.
Tristan drove his parents crazy with questions. How many sharks are there? Where do they live? Do all fish think and see alike? Can sharks tell what we are thinking? Tristan’s computer became shark central. He Googled, Binged, and Yahooed sharks, shark life, shark types, shark history, shark food, and anything else shark-related. His mother took him to the local library to find books on sharks and the ocean. They even went back to the aquarium to learn more. Tristan was not allowed anywhere near the shark pool and several staff followed them for their entire visit, like security guards watching a convicted jewel thief at Tiffany’s. But nothing seemed to quench Tristan’s new thirst for knowledge about sharks. The opportunity to go to an ocean and marine life-themed summer camp seemed heaven-sent.
Tristan’s parents packed a duffle bag and backpack for their son, wrangled their uncooperative daughter into the car, and headed to the Florida Keys. They drove south through the vast swamps of the Everglades, making a game of counting alligators in the canals next to the highway. They passed forests of green, bushy mangroves that had long, crooked, and orangey roots hanging down into the water. Tristan thought they looked like gigantic drinking straws. There were wide shallow bays the color of milky pea soup. Tristan and his family looked for herons, egrets, and the truly peculiar, but beautiful roseate spoon-bill—an astonishingly pink bird with pink feathers, pink legs, and a long gray spatula for a bill. Sometimes the road was just a narrow strip of land with the ocean to the east and Florida Bay to the west.
They reached Cranky Key in the late afternoon, after some six hours of driving. The island was about four miles long and three miles wide. The only thing on it was the Florida Keys Sea Park. At the entrance, Tristan’s parents stood wide-eyed and openmouthed. Susana even shut off her iPod.
Tristan stared ahead. “Awesome.”
The summer camp was part of the Florida Keys Sea Park—a water park, botanical garden, and aquarium all in one. At the entrance there was a beautiful archway built of white stucco, eco-friendly forest-green bamboo, and dark hardwood beams. It was heavily draped with the rich purple and pink flowers of bougainvillea plants. The blooms hung down like colorful garlands at Christmastime. In front of the arch was a fountain. At its center were three jumping dolphins carved out of shiny green stone. Every few minutes, water shot from the dolphins’ blowholes. Looking through the archway into the park, Tristan’s family could see winding streams, shallow blue pools, and trails amid lush tropical gardens. Several people were climbing up the zigzag stairs of a tower to jump onto a curving waterslide or ride a zip line across the park.
Then Tristan heard the screaming. It brought back some recent and not-so-fond memories. But this time the parents and children were yelling with joy and laughter, not shark-induced terror. At the park office, the Hunt family was given Tristan’s welcome packet and directed to a walkway leading to the summer camp bungalows.
Tristan’s mother read from an information sheet as they walked, “Welcome to Sea Camp. You’re in the Seasquirts bungalow. After unpacking there’s a camp briefing at the dining hall, the Conch Café. Then . . .”
Susana leaned over to Tristan. “You’re