by DAN MONTY
From the year 1990 to the year 2011 there have been a total of one 139 unprovoked great white shark bite incidents, only 29 of which resulted in deaths. Jerry and Connor had worked with great whites long enough to know they weren’t what the movies and tabloids called them. Provoked or threatened, any animal would attack but to say these creatures were cold-blooded man-eaters was scientifically inaccurate.
An hour later, the two men were aboard their boat, a fishing boat that had been converted into a research vessel. Computers and charts lined the walls of the interior cabin, as well as several notebooks, a makeshift bookshelf lined with books and DVDs, some of which were episodes of the Bo Landers series The Wild, and other aquatic instruments. Scuba gear, oxygen tanks, cameras, and recording equipment were scattered about. There was even a book called Shark by Peter Benchley, a non-fiction book on the truth about sharks he had encountered in his diving adventures. Benchley's book Jaws was nowhere in sight, but the boys did have a ratty old poster on the wall from the Spielberg film.
The guys were taking down notes when the call came. Jerry had answered, half listening to the voice on the phone and half listening to Friday I’m in Love by The Cure on the radio. After listening to the German voice for a few minutes he looked up, catching Connor's attention. “Who is it, Jerry?” Connor asked and Jerry held up his hand to silence him. “Wait, the Hans Strucker? The billionaire? You gotta be shitting me!” he said and Connor covered his mouth excitedly. The two guys from Columbus, Ohio had been waiting for a call like this their whole lives. “Yes! Of course we’ll be there!” Jerry said, hanging up on his cell and turning to his best friend. “Dude! We’re going to Isla Santa Maria!” Jerry laughed excitedly. Connor smiled and nodded along, before replying, “Awesome. Ah, where the fuck is that?”
2
The ocean... it was a place to escape. A place to feel safe, at peace, and yet peace was not what Abigale Channing was feeling when she stepped off the boat and onto the dock at Isla Santa Maria.
It was an island that very few knew about given it wasn’t on any map, but it rested between Jamaica and Aruba, was private... and therefore few people had visited. Anyone else might be excited, even over the moon, but for Abby – feeling okay was pushing it. She liked the sun and didn’t mind the water, but Abby was from Melbourne, Australia, and she was very much a city girl. The bayside wasn’t really her scene and a mysterious Jamaican island owned by a wealthy scientist she’d read about in Australian Geographic only mildly captured her enthusiasm. She was there for one reason – money.
Abby was a photographer – in fact a remarkable one - and her talents had captured the interest of the wealthy industrialist scientist that owned the Island of Santa Maria. It was that simple. She wasn’t holidaying or sipping cocktails at the Copacabana or anything quite so luxurious, it was just work and work was what Abby did best. She had a keen eye (some people thought she had two) for capturing the perfect moment. She wasn’t just good with a camera, she was patient, precise, and artful. Photography was her passion and in an era of modern technology, she refused to even buy a camera. Every photo she took was snapped with an android Samsung phone. High-resolution snapshots that were crisp and clear enough to be blown up to fill a billboard on the side of a building. Of course, so far she had no need to concern herself with such idyllic dreams, but one day she’d be up there. Until that day, Abby simply went to where the action was, and where the money was. Abigale had travelled around Australia and snapped images all over, from Uluru in the Northern territory, which changed colour with the time of day, to the skyscrapers of central Sydney that shot out of the ground and climbed towards the heavens like gargantuan ladders. Celebrities had walked red carpets from Hugh Jackman to Cate Blanchett and Geoffrey Rush. Abigale had been there - snapping every smile, wink, and wave. Her long dark hair blowing in the breeze as she took shot after shot from the cliffs of Bondi Beach. She’d covered the madness of riots, and the melancholy of homeless men in rainy alleys. Her phone captured moments in a time when technology had evolved and the great engine of the world churned on and on.
A picture is worth a thousand words, and Abigale was snapping pictorial novels. Her photography teacher had called her Eagle Eye – a nickname which followed her career around the world, and even in the galleries she’d often sign her work, love you all, Eagle Eye. She’d had several lovers but no rock on account of the fact she was always taking off on another adventure, and there didn’t seem to be many adventurous men in the Melbourne CBD. Lots of travellers though and backpackers became her best friends, though such friendships were all-too-oft short-winded. Romance was out there somewhere on the horizon, but the tide kept coming in and with it came more distractions and no Prince charming. Had she given up? No, surely not but for now her eyes were all that mattered and all she saw was the next great photo opportunity.
Three days before her departure she had bought a Superdry backpack, and wandered around Melbournes Queen Victoria Market amidst the hipsters, vendors, and travellers looking for a unique bargain or random antiquity. She wandered the marketplace with her backpack on her back looking like a travelling gypsy. Several beaded necklaces adorned with shells and beads strung around her neck and bangles chimed around her arms as she walked seeking nothing but something to offer some kind of momentary inspiration. Her flights were booked, her travel visa and bags good to go. This was a simple farewell for now, just one last look around the market before heading off to the Caribbean for God only knew how long. Maybe a month, or only a week. As long as her flights were being paid for she didn’t really care.
It was on this final waltz around the market that Abigale spied a curious thing at one of the stalls; a little thing, but enough to capture her curiosity for a moment. There, hanging from a stand among other hanging necklaces and trinkets, was a jagged shark tooth. She ran a slender finger down one edge of the tooth, taking in the texture almost in a trance until the indigenous vendor spoke, his Aussie accent sweet and calm. “It’s a great white tooth," he said in a matter-of-factly voice that told her he knew his stuff. “They wash up on the beach sometimes, though nothing else much does. A shark doesn’t have bones, you see? Only cartilage but the teeth... they always show up. The rest of the body is taken by the sea."
He gave Abby a grin and she couldn’t tell if it was intended to be politeness or just know-it-all. She smiled politely and cleared her throat, shyly replying, “How much?” And the man rubbed a dark hand through his grey beard. “Ten bucks, but I reckon a girl like you could have it for six," he said politely with a wink. She paid the man and added the great white shark tooth necklace to her collection around her neck. She smiled and bid farewell to the man, a man that she would remember for quite some time.
The market was always busy, full of people of all cultures, and from all walks of life. Abby appreciated diversity and would talk to anyone with an ear to listen but she could also be shy and somewhat introverted so she generally kept to herself. There were times though, where the wild woman broke out, especially when she drank.
She ate a German sausage while she watched a bizarre busker playing spoons and singing a terrible Kylie Minogue song, just outside the main entrance on Elizabeth Street. There was a small gathering of shocked onlookers as this strange tone-deaf man conducted his bizarre, drug-fuelled, one-man show, oblivious to the laughter of observers. He wore an old matted wig, a towel branded with an Australian flag over a shirtless body and a crazy pair of rainbow trousers he probably stole from a charity bin. His eyes were blank and filled with confusion, but he could sway those hips like Elvis Presley. “...can’t get you out of my head, for your loving's all I think about... “ He sang, banging spoons on his chest and whooping as he swung his hips.
Abigale munched on a mouthful of German sausage amusedly. This was Melbourne. This was her life and she took a long, last big whiff.
◇◇◇◇
Abigale stood on the dock handing her bags over to the two Jamaican porters as they held out their pa
lms for dreaded tipping, a custom Abby first encountered on her travels to America. She gave them both a five and they made their way to the island resort, which was a rather small, two-story beautiful white building reminiscent of a Spanish fort.
She took a deep breath, as a man, maybe in his late-sixties, dressed in white, with short greying hair, and a German accent called out to her; not by name at first but merely, “Frauline Channing! At last!” The man approached her and Abby adjusted her Dior sunglasses.
“My name is Hans Strucker and it’s such a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance!” he said, taking her hand and shaking it so hard she was certain it might fly off. He was a jolly man, excited, and all smiles. For some reason, Abby was reminded of the German sausage she had enjoyed at the market back in Melbourne. “Mr Strucker. Thank you for your... rather odd invitation. You have a beautiful island," she responded politely. He smiled again with a nod, and plucked a rose from the lapel of his white jacket - giving it to her. “My dear girl, you have no idea how much more beautiful it has become since you have arrived,” he said with a grin. Abby accepted the rose, nodding in thanks. “Come with me," he said, offering his hand - and she accepted it.
It wasn’t long before Hans led her to a white building with glass windows and a steep staircase that led them underground. Hans pointed to her chest and smiled. “Carcharodon Carcharias,” he said with a knowing look. “I beg your pardon?” Abby quizzed looking somewhat startled. “Oh forgive me... “ Hans began, “...your necklace. The shark tooth. It’s from a great white," he said. “Oh yes, the vendor told me that at the market. I thought it was cool,” she went on, as they continued going down stairs. “Indeed. In fact, it serves as an excellent introduction as to the topic of why you are here. Do you know anything about sharks Ms Channing?” he asked with an intriguing tone. Abby considered the question and shrugged. “About as much as anyone else I suppose. They are hunters of the sea and man-eaters... ” But Hans held up a hand: “No,” he said. Hans seemed to sigh, taking a minute to collect his thoughts. “Forgive me, frauline, but that is not entirely accurate. There are around 400 species of sharks and there are many that do not eat man. Sharks are not monsters, Ms Channing, and more importantly they have been here a lot longer than us. There are shark fossils that date back 400 million years. They outlived the dinosaurs, and yet they may not outlive us. Why? Because we are its most vicious predator. And why do we hunt them? Their meat and their fins. Often, their bodies are just stripped of their fins and dumped overboard. They literally sink to the bottom of the ocean unable to swim. Why? Some rich bastard wants to eat shark fin soup, which is repulsive by the way.”
He paused before continuing, “...What these hunters don’t get is that these majestic creatures are crucial to the natural order of marine ecosystems. Our oceans are degraded and restoring sharks is the most important key to improving the depleting resistance of our oceans to climate change. If sharks die, the oceans die. If the oceans die, we will too. Tell me, Ms Channing, who are the real predators?” he asked rather casually, reaching the bottom of the stairs, and pushing open the white steel doors below. Abby was in awe, not only because of the question – but the sight before her.
The massive room beyond the white steel doors was a long glass chamber – at the centre of which was a massive forty-foot model of a monstrous shark, the jaws of which you had to walk through to pass through the central tunnel. “...Um is that a... ” Abby began, but Hans cut her off. “That would be a Megladon, Ms Channing. Don’t worry, it isn’t real,” he said casually, stepping through the massive jaws and into the tunnel built through the middle of the giant shark. On either side of the massive shark tunnel were glass walls that looked out into the ocean blue. Reluctantly, Abigale Channing followed the strange German scientist in white through the jaws of the Megladon, their shoes tapping on the tunnel floor. The tail end of the tunnel led to another steel white door, which was heavy, and took a bit of effort to shove open.
The next room was entirely made of glass, floor to ceiling -a triumph of modern underwater architecture and all around them was water. Cool, blue ocean teeming with marine life. An aquatic zoo – a wonderland of glowing jellyfish and gliding monsters. Beautiful sharks, mostly hammerheads and Mako sharks, glided gracefully over their heads and below their feet. At the centre of the room was a table dressed for lunch. “I hope you’re hungry, Ms Channing. Lunch is served and our other guests will arrive shortly.”
His manner was gentle and professional as he pulled out one of six chairs around the table and motioned her to be seated, pouring her a glass of red wine. “This place... “ Abby began, “...it’s overwhelming! You built this place?” she asked, and Hans chuckled, “Well I didn’t build it myself, but I did pay for it. I designed the foundations. It was my dream and my father always said that a dream is nothing if it is never realised. This is my island of aquatic wonders, Ms Channing. More than that, it’s a nursery for the future. Sharks are a necessary, nay vital part of the ocean. My dream is to ensure no species of shark ever becomes extinct. So I breed them. I raise them and in time I will release them all into the open ocean”.
He poured himself a glass of red wine and sipped, taking in the fruity bouquet.
“My sharks will not only thrive, but be completely immune to disease. They will be faster to avoid capture. They will be more powerful than ever before. I’m not just breeding them, Abby. I’m improving them! Heightening their senses and speed. These sharks all around you are, but a piece of the puzzle, to protecting our reefs from climate change.”
There was a long silence, and Abby seemed intrigued, perhaps a little cautious. “Improving them? But isn’t that a little like... playing God?” she asked, trying her best not to sound pessimistic. Hans only grinned, sipping his wine casually.
This was a man that could find his way around an argument. A man who unbeknownst to Abby had been to Hell, bested the devil, and returned remarkably unscathed. A man whose father had been a Nazi who drowned in his own drink. Hans had seen bloodshed in his father's shadow – read his father’s journals and his research. Hans had known all about men who played God, how they fell, and more importantly he understood where they went wrong. He had also watched as a world he loved gradually fell into chaos. Lost his daughter, his wife, and quite nearly his mind.
He had no intention of mentioning any of it to his guest, but rather smiled and nodded calmly. “God has already done his part. I am just a simple man with a dream to keep his creation intact.”
3
Bo Landers had arrived on the island only a short time after Abigale, though he had stopped for a cigarette by the docks and wandered along the beach. His Hawaiian shirt and unshaven stubble made him look like he had crawled out of a bar at 2 am, and it might’ve been true.
Bo may have tossed the weed, but the drink was still an occasional friend. Whiskey was his poison, and if he had the dough, he was well known for having the odd wink and nudge.
He removed his sunglasses, and unbuttoned his shirt, sliding his glasses into the pocket of his denim shorts. He always looked like he was on holiday, his blonding, shoulder length hair always looked wet – as though he’d just stepped out of the ocean. He considered sparking another Marlboro, but thought better of it, striding along the beach in the direction of the Spanish-style resort which looked like it had once served as a fort for the Navy of old.
A dark man with braided hair approached him, tapping him on the shoulder and startling him. “Hey! Holy shit!” Bo exclaimed, pushing aside his sudden fear at the realization that it was a friendly looking guy. “I’m sorry man, me didn’t mean to be scaring ya!” he said laughing. The man was Haitian, tattooed and muscular. He wore Rastafarian pants, coloured red, black, green, and yellow. He was shirtless, and had a tattoo of a manta ray across his chest.
“My name is Ray," he said, offering Bo a hit from a joint. “Ganja?” he offered and Bo politely refused, shaking his head. “I quit," he said with a smile and Ray nodded, takin
g another hit. “Just as well man, this shit make you see ghosts!” he replied, laughing madly and slapping Bo on the back. “Voodoo magic, man!” he added, motioning Bo to follow him in the direction of the compound, the long staircase that would take them into the structure below the surface.
The two men paused at the foot of the stairs in front of the steel white doors. “Welcome to Santa Maria, Bo Landers,” Ray smiled, shoving open the white doors.
◇◇◇◇
Jerry and Connor were by now sitting at the table in the middle of the glass ocean room and Hans was making introductions. “Jerry and Connor, this is Abigale Channing... “ he began, just as Bo Landers entered the room looking around like a schoolboy. Jerry and Connor shook Abby's hand and were all smiles. Abby was 37, younger than them but no doubt more mature.
“We love your work!” Jerry said, cutting off Hans, “...The lesbian fashion parade, Sydney 2010! My God! I still have a hard-on!” Jerry said grinning like an idiot. Abby tried to smile and shook off the embarrassment. It had been a popular shoot, but had led many to think she was a lesbian herself. “Right, well that was some time ago," Abby replied in embarrassment. Jerry turned to Connor grinning. “When Lady Gaga came in riding that horse! It was delightful!” he went on. Connor shook his head, “Dude! That was like ten years ago!” he said, and Jerry smiled, “In my mind, it’s still going on," he concluded as Bo Landers stepped up to the table.
Connor saw him first, carrying on like he was a crazy fan. “Oh my God! Bo fucking Landers! Dude we’re like your biggest fans!” he exclaimed and shook his hand wildly. Jerry was like a schoolgirl meeting a Backstreet Boy. “Oh man! You’re here too? Fuck, I thought you’d be wrestling 'gators in the Louisiana bayou or something...” They shook hands and Bo smiled politely, his Southern accent sparkling as he spoke, “a'right now, settle down boys. I’ been living in California. All that bayou ‘gator crap is behind me now. That was just for an episode of The Wild... “ he began, turning to Abigale and winking obnoxiously before turning back to the guys and continuing “...An’ that’s all ancient history,” he finished, pulling out a chair at the table, spinning it around and straddling it backwards, resting his arms on the top of the rear of the chair. Hans nodded at him and Bo nodded back.