A SUDDEN UNNATURAL HUSH FELL OVER THE crowd. All eyes were fixed on the pool below. It was the worst of their nightmares come to life. Just the thought of evil unblinking eyes, blood, and hundreds of sharp teeth was enough to scare the pants off even the bravest of bystanders.
“A boy’s fallen in,” a young mother shouted, covering her daughter’s eyes. “Call 9-1-1! Do something! He’ll be eaten alive!”
The woman’s daughter, who had been calm before, now tore from her mother’s grasp. She ran from the scene screaming, her arms waving wildly. The girl dashed straight into the mob rushing toward her. People were running to the aquarium’s shark pool, a dark curiosity drawing them like flies to roadkill. The commotion even attracted the local seagulls. About fifty flocked to the site. Their loud high-pitched squawking and a barrage of bird poop bombs added to the growing chaos.
“Tristan! Tristan!” the boy’s father called out. He squeezed his arm through the railing that ran around the pool. But even with his arm extended all the way through and his face mashed against the metal, he was still far from being able to reach his twelve-year-old son.
The boy’s mother stared at the scene with an oddly calm expression and she was strangely silent. Normally she was a nonstop talker, the Niagara Falls of words. She was clearly in shock. Her mind, body, and especially her mouth were paralyzed by what she saw.
“The sharks. They’re coming!” another man yelled, pointing to three large dorsal fins slicing through the water with deadly efficiency. They were headed straight for the boy.
At first, young Tristan Hunt did not know what had happened or where he was. One minute he was leaning over the pool’s railing to get a better look at the sharks swimming below. The next thing he knew, he was in the water. When he landed, it actually felt pretty good; a refreshing cool splash to escape the scorching south Florida heat. Then, suddenly, Tristan realized where he was and that he was not alone in the water. This was no neighborhood pool. He swam to the surrounding concrete wall; it was slick and smooth. There wasn’t a ladder, steps, or anything he could grab. That’s when he saw the first fin.
Tall and lanky, Tristan’s limbs seemed to grow too fast for the rest of his body to keep up. He was constantly tripping over the simplest of obstacles as well as his own feet. The kids at school made fun of him. At home his older sister teased him relentlessly with names like the “gangly green giant” or “trippin’ Tristan.” But this was the king of all trips, the captain of slips, the champion of stumbles. Tristan had fallen into a pool of sharks.
Tristan had seen enough movies and television to know he could never outswim even one shark. He’d seen at least five in the pool before he fell. Nearby, a couple of pierced, tattooed young men watched, rapt by morbid fascination. One leaned over to the other snickering, “He’s a goner for sure.”
A twenty-two-year-old aquarium worker with more enthusiasm than brains ran to the shark pool and extended a long pole out into the water. “Boy,” he shouted. “Grab it! Come on. Grab hold!”
Treading water, Tristan looked at the pole, and more importantly, at the dagger-sharp hook at its end. He thought: Is this guy nuts? I’m not a fish. No way am I grabbing that hook. There’ll be blood—sharks and blood, duh—can you say feeding frenzy?
Something bumped Tristan from behind, shoving him forward. He jerked around and saw the pointy tip of a shark’s tail swish in an S-shape as it swam past. He then saw two more sharks coming his way, their fins slicing silently through the water. The pole, even with its flesh-tearing hook, was looking a lot more appealing. Tristan reached out to grab it, stretching his arm as far as it could possibly go. Just a few more inches and he’d be rescued, pulled uneaten from the pool.
But before Tristan could grab hold of the pole, a sharp blow to his back again plunged him forward. He turned and saw a shark circling back, coming around for another go. Tristan paddled backward as best he could in the water. The shark was coming at him fast. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see its toothy grin up close and personal.
The shark’s snout touched Tristan’s stomach and he thought: I hope I taste really bad, like that disgusting cauliflower casserole mom made the other night.
Then the shark did something totally unexpected. Instead of tearing through Tristan’s flesh, it sort of nuzzled him—like a dog sideling up for a good scratch. Tristan opened his eyes. There was the shark, curled up next to him. Without thinking, Tristan reached out to feel it. It just seemed like the thing to do. He gave the shark a little scratch just behind its head, trying to stay well away from its mouth. The shark responded with a playful swish of its tail as it swam off. Then Tristan looked at his hand, because he still had a hand. He looked at his stomach—not a single tooth mark.
Onlookers at the aquarium’s shark pool were now jumping up and down, wiping the stinky gray-green seagull poop from their heads, and covering their eyes. Tristan’s mother had fainted and his father was frantic. “No! Tristan!” he screamed. “Son, grab the pole. Grab it!”
As the next shark came toward him, Tristan ducked underwater to watch it approach. It turned just before reaching him. The shark’s glassy eye stared directly at Tristan, but not in an evil or hungry sort of way. It almost seemed like the shark was trying to tell him something. Without thinking, Tristan kicked slowly in beat with the shark’s swishing tail. Soon they were gliding side by side. He became lost in the moment, forgetting where he was or his potential to become a shark Happy Meal.
The crowd of people watching from above couldn’t grasp what they were seeing. Someone yelled, “It’s chasing him!”
By now a group of the aquarium’s more senior staff had gathered at a ladder that went down into the pool about twenty yards from where Tristan had fallen in. An older man with a creased, weather-lined face and long, muscular arms climbed down the ladder. He leaned out over the pool and grabbed Tristan’s leg just as he swam past.
Startled, Tristan panicked. He tried twisting away from whatever had hold of him. He shouted, “Get off me.” But in the churning water it sounded more like he was calling for help, something more like “Geb me.”
The worker quickly pulled the boy out of the pool. He then half-carried, half-dragged Tristan through a hinged door in the railing that surrounded the shark pool. The crowd clapped and cheered madly. Even the seagulls seemed pleased. They stopped screeching and landed quietly nearby. Tristan’s parents ran to their wet, bedraggled son. His shaggy brown hair was a tangled mess. Water dripped from his straight narrow nose and his good blue polo shirt was ripped in two places, but otherwise it looked like he could have just climbed out of the local swimming pool. There was no crying, screaming, or running for his mommy as the spectators surely expected. In fact, and oddly, Tristan was smiling and there was a twinkle of excitement in his exceptionally bright green eyes.
Tristan and his parents spent what seemed like hours at the Sarasota Aquarium, explaining to the staff what had happened. The boy had simply slipped and
