Don't look now, but there's a shark at your feet

When it comes to vacations, everyone in the family has their role. One person takes on the planning and then vets suggestions with other family members. Then there’s the complainer and the enthusiastic participant. All roles must be carried out, regardless of how much someone likes the vacation. It’s tradition.

My role is to be initially cautious but then enthusiastic when I’ve committed to something. Diving with sharks, however, was not supposed to happen at all. My sense of caution outstripped any sense of adventure I had in any corner of my body. I mean, come on. I’ve seen those National Geographic videos and David Attenborough documentaries. The dramatic closeups, the thrashing seals, the slow motion shots of a gray head rising out of the waves with a snout and a gaping mouth revealing multiple rows of impossibly pointy teeth.

Only when I learned that we would descend in a cage to view the sharks did I relent. This must be safe, I reasoned, since I had seen other documentaries, too, where sharks bang up against the side of the cage to try to get at the divers. The bars always held strong.

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