Predators I Have Known - Alan Dean Foster [74]
I believe my precise and carefully considered response to this was, “Agghhh!” Not an especially scientific reaction, but a sincere one.
If you go anywhere in the world expecting to see something and do not, it is understandable to be disappointed, but you must also be accepting. The natural world is not Disneyland, and the animals do not run on tracks.
The initial assessment we received was less than encouraging. Recent shark action at Chris’s favored site, Seal Island, had been as sporadic and unpredictable as the weather. The second morning following our arrival at Simon’s Town dawned chilly and damp, but by the time we set out, the worst of the weather had broken. The intermittent clouds suggested we might make it to the island without encountering any rain. In any event, Ron and I had come too far to be put off by the prospect of a little inclement weather. There was, however, one aspect of our incipient adventure I had not thought to discuss in advance.
I saw that Ron was eyeing Fallows’s boat uncertainly. “You OK?” I asked him.
He nodded. “It’s just that I get seasick sometimes.”
Now he tells me. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I lied. “We’ll be inside the bay at all times. It’s not like we’re going out on the open sea.”
But, of course, we were. False Bay is huge, and completely open to the heaving, throbbing, great Southern Ocean.
The compact white cabin cruiser began to bounce and roll as Chris pulled away from the dock and gunned the engine. Ron immediately turned queasy and lurched toward a seat, but he handled his condition manfully. I’m not sure if he threw up on the way out to Seal Island or not. Having spent time around seasickness sufferers, I knew that the best one could do was leave them alone. It is of little use to ask someone who has turned green and is leaning over the side of a boat puking their guts out, “How are you feeling?” No matter how well intentioned, the attention is invariably not welcomed by the afflicted.
Sea the color of polished jade was churning to froth near the island itself where incoming Antarctic swells battered the bare rocks, but the sight of thousands of fur seals barking, arguing, nuzzling, and dropping in and out of the shallows was so engaging that Ron forgot he was supposed to be sick. The early morning clouds were now streaked a fiery red. As if in anticipation of what we had come hoping to see, the sky itself had been bloodied.
Chris and Monique had already apprised their passengers of what to look for. We had been joined for the day by a young couple and also by an American sound- and cameraman team who were shooting high-definition video for a nature film that had been commissioned by a wealthy Arab deeply interested in conservation. Familiar with the occupational travails nature photographers have to endure in their unending quest to get that special shot, I willingly yielded them the best viewing position on the boat’s stern. Unlike their equipment, my handheld video camera was considerably more portable. In fact, it was smaller than most of their camera’s lenses.
Every day in season the inhabitants of Seal Island perform the pinniped version of High Noon, except that it takes place early in the morning and late in the evening. The hungry seals know the sharks are out there, just offshore, gliding silently through the dark green water that surrounds the island. The hungry great whites know the seals are there, worrying themselves on the rocks, desperate to head out to their feeding grounds. The sharks are patient, the seals increasingly restless. Sooner or later every morning, a seal’s hunger overcomes its caution, and it becomes the first of the herd to make a mad break for open water.
Within moments after the first brave island dweller has bolted for the blue, it seems as if the rocks themselves have been set in motion.