Predators I Have Known - Alan Dean Foster [40]
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Kay and several others had elected to skip this particular dive and remain on the boat.
I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I also knew that my sole task was to stay out of the way. While everyone else was positioning themselves, I retreated to a ten-foot-high bulge of coral well to the rear of both camera positions and stayed there, just behind the crest of the ridge. From this position, I had a clear view of both camera setups and beyond them, of Rodney.
Five minutes passed. Ten. A couple of humongous potato cod arrived and proceeded to check out the unusual activity as somberly as a pair of undertakers methodically taking the measurements of a new client. Having examined the bubble-blowing interlopers and found them unremarkable, these impressive fish then took their leave, utterly unperturbed by the human intrusion. Shards of shattered rainbow, small reef fish darted in and out of the chum cloud, glorying in the unexpected source of fresh food.
Fifteen minutes. Still nothing. Not even a resident whitetip shark.
After twenty minutes of this, a visibly disappointed Brent gave the signal to wrap things up. Rodney ditched what remained of the baitfish, and the cameramen started upward with their underutilized gear. Running as low on air as everyone else, I prepared to follow the others up to the waiting Nordon. As I did so, I happened to glance over my right shoulder.
Directly behind me was a full-grown tiger shark. It was maybe a dozen feet away. It was also maybe a dozen feet long.
I would not be surprised if the bubble I released subsequent to encountering this wholly unexpected sight registered on seismic detection equipment hundreds of miles away in Perth. I might have verbalized something short and pungent—I honestly don’t remember. Not that it would have mattered. Remember the advertising slogan for the classic science-fiction film Alien? To paraphrase it, underwater no one can hear you scream “Holy . . . !”
Whether it was the bubble, my sudden exclamation, the goggle-eyed look on my face, or the incredible velocity with which I began kicking backward, something startled the tiger. In a flash, it was gone; a blur of fins and teeth and tail. Collecting myself (just as on land, panic underwater uses air at an accelerated rate), I hovered there, up against the reef. The image of the tiger staring back at me remained imprinted on my retinas, like the colors you see when you squeeze your eyes very tightly shut.
For all I knew, the shark had been there the entire time, watching me watch the film crew watching Rodney. The perfect Gary Larson cartoon come to life.
Nobody else saw it. As soon as I made my turn and reacted, the shark took off. I’m not sure all of them believed me when, back on the boat, I related the story of my brief encounter. But some of them did. I think, for sure, Rodney did.
Maybe it was the look in my eyes.
VII
FLAT TIRES, OLD CANVAS, AND BIG CATS
Tanzania, July 1984
I COULD EASILY HAVE BEGUN this book with several stories about lions. When one thinks of predators, Panthera leo is often the first animal that comes to mind. Humans have been dealing with lions for a long time—usually to the lions’ detriment—but our admiration for them has never flagged. There are heavier tigers, but little in nature is as impressive as a healthy male lion in full framing mane or a pride of sleek, muscular females focused on a hunt.
Years ago, my wife and I were fortunate to encounter the latter activity during a visit to Ngorongoro Crater National Park in Tanzania. Ignoring the flanking safari vehicles, the females were wholly intent on stalking a herd of placid wildebeests. As the pride members padded forward,