I’ve always been attracted to big sharks ever since seeing Jaws as a little kid. Considering I can recite each and every line to that film, an impression was made knowing my love of the water. The image of such a large fish patrolling the open ocean and kicking ass at-will was pretty much everything I could ever want, as opposed to becoming an attorney…although they’re sharks, too.
It’s no wonder I didn’t become a marine biologist or captain seeking out one of the biggest fish in the ocean. I also imagined myself swimming the depths as a great white, how far I would come to the coast and what sort of trouble I could get into upon arrival, be it with pasty-faced tourists or gorging myself on rigid-inflatable-riding Greenpeace activists knowing all too well their disdain for seafood.
Would I be Mediterranean based or a South African resident? Would I prowl Southern California beaches looking for seals or egotistic Hollywood types before turning south toward Mexican beauties and Guadalupe Island? Or, would Australia’s famed Gold Coast be my hood?
These are all questions I would ask myself while daydreaming, bored out of my skull wherever I was. My thoughts clearly ocean-related with a bit of youthful mischievousness thrown in the mix.
I would, however, not even bother with the Northeast coast with all the New Yorkers in the water. Or, maybe I should, after all, leaving me to swim up to one such big mouth to say, You talkin’ to me?
My thinking was I would be very cunning and assertive like that infamous shark in the film, getting even with the police chief given all of my past traffic tickets and court appearances or battering that flimsy anti-shark cage which gave the experienced Captain Quint a fit of laughter. Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies…
I would be big, able to throw my weight around, measuring in at some 30 feet or more. My girth and physical stature would chase off any fellow bruiser or weekend angler. And, the sight of my dorsal resembling a sloop standing proud and upright cutting along the surface would close down beaches for miles. Indeed, a preceding reputation.
Exploration would also be on the agenda, as well as finding my mate amid the deepest of blue in order to provide the ocean with additional great whites to keep the species going. We might have been swimming in a loose family school while sharing my experience of mermaids consumed and hooks escaped, going from ocean-to-ocean lending more mystery to our closely-guarded migration and breeding patterns.
I would confound all as would my little gray offspring, conceived with a sexy female with a toothy smile only a dentist could love. With all of that, nothing could stop me from swimming on for a lifetime.
In becoming older with added experience underneath my street clothes, there’s not a day that doesn’t go by when thoughts confirm that life on land truly sucks. With all the crazed drivers one must endure simply riding a beach cruiser, or the back taxes owed to the IRS, the list gets longer as to this fish being out-of-water, flopping around on the South Florida pavement amongst the natives.
Consequently, I’ve told loved ones in detail and in the form of a Last Will and Testament that I want this body donated to science upon my demise with the stipulation that my remains be used in great white research. More specifically, being thrown into the jaws of one magnificent specimen as it reaches up, rows of unflossed teeth exposed, to swim on forever. Beat that, Discovery Channel!