Maybe you’ve heard of Air Jaws, or seen the shows of that name on the Discovery Channel. In South Africa’s False Bay, on the other side of the continental spine from the city of Cape Town, it was discovered some years ago that great white sharks regularly leap out of the water in pursuit of Cape fur seals, their favorite prey. It was there that Ron and I had decided to conclude our monthlong trek across the country in hopes of glimpsing this extraordinary predatory display.
Arrangements had been made in advance with Chris Fallows, the naturalist and photographer who had made the first serious studies of this remarkable behavior, to spend a couple of days with him and his fiancée (now wife) Monique as they pursued their efforts to document the sharks’ activities. As with any animal behavior, we knew there was no guarantee we would see anything, even though it was the appropriate season for the sharks to be feeding.
I was prepared to be disappointed. In New Guinea, I once spent time at one of the world’s foremost shore-diving facilities and saw practically nothing. Back in Port Moresby days later, my friend Dik Knight who owns Loloata Island Resort out in Bootless Bay informed me casually, “I know you had a bad time at Walindi. I just talked to them. This morning, their divers saw orcas and a sperm whale.”
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. Seals singly and in clusters avalanche into the sea. In less than a minute, the surface of the water is boiling with sleek bewhiskered shapes torpedoing at top speed for the feeding grounds of the southern Indian Ocean.
Below them, drawn upward by all the activity, the piscine equivalent of jet interceptors have begun to stir. Armed not with guns or missiles but with razor-sharp, serrated, triangular teeth set in multiple rows in jaws, the great whites begin working to single out potential victims. Ideally, they are looking for the younger, less experienced seals.
The deadly dance between predator and prey that takes place in False Bay perfectly exemplifies the great white’s preferred method of attack. In this eternal ballet, the initial advantage goes to the seal. Great whites can strike with incredible speed and force, but they cannot turn as quickly as a seal. Think of a power lifter trying to catch a gymnast in a game of tag, or a battleship attempting to run down a PT boat. One has the advantage of overwhelming size and strength while the other is far more agile.
Seals know they are safe when they can see the shark. So great whites essentially mug their prey, coming up on them from below and behind. Just prior to the moment of impact, the shark’s eyes roll back into its head. This is a protective reaction. Seals have big teeth and sharp claws. Like a raptor smashing talon-first into the spine of a rabbit, the shock of a great white’s initial strike is often enough to kill. In False Bay, this hit is also delivered with enough force to not only drive the prey completely upward out of the water, but to send the shark airborne along with it. Hence the name Air Jaws that has been applied to the hunting great whites in this part of the world.
But where to look to see the phenomenon, and how to observe a behavior that is as transitory as it is fantastic?
“Keep your attention near the horizon,” we were told. All very well and good, but drifting in a small boat in the middle of an enormous bay one sees an awful lot of horizon. We drifted and stared, stared and nibbled snacks. With each passing moment, the parade of departing seals moved farther and farther out to sea. Soon the island would be bereft of all but the youngest pups.
“There!”
At Monique’s excited shout, I turned sharply to my right. Off in the distance, a large gray-white shape was just falling back into the water. There was no mistaking the cause. A great white had taken a seal and having breached, was falling back into the water on its left side. The entire episode occupied a second, maybe two, of astonished time. Then, just like that, it was over. Eyes alight, adrenaline pumping, I looked over at Ron.
“Well, we got to see it, anyway.”
The only flush to his face came from the cold. Dejectedly, he held up a half-consumed muffin. “I was eating. I missed it.”
I felt terrible for him. Having come all this way, the long drive, the cold and soggy night—it just wasn’t fair. But that’s wildlife viewing. It never is fair or reasonable. A certain Australian tiger shark as silent as it was contemplative could attest to that.
The morning, however, was far from over, and our hosts had a surprise in store. I don’t know if they employ it o
n every trip, but they had a reputation to uphold, and they were not about to let a professional film crew depart without helping them to acquire the best footage possible. In the course of their extensive studies of great white shark behavior, Chris and Monique have developed a method of, if not ensuring a good shot or two, at least greatly improving the odds on behalf of the photographer.
In making their attack from behind and below, great whites rely on their excellent vision. Unable to catch a sprightly, far more nimble seal that’s able to turn on a sand dollar and dart off in any of three dimensions, they search for one that’s swimming or resting on the surface. This is a principal reason why surfers are sometimes attacked. From below, especially in murky water, a surfer or especially a boogie boarder sitting on his board with his legs and arms dangling over the side looks remarkably like the silhouette of a seal. A slick black wet suit only enhances the illusion. It’s why surfers who have been attacked by great whites speak of being literally thrown out of the water. Mistaken for seals, they’ve been struck from below.
Keen to avoid a seal’s thrashing teeth and flailing claws, a great white will often strike, bite, and then back off, circling a short safe distance away while it waits for its prey to expire from shock and loss of blood. This behavior is what allows many surfers who have been hit to survive—provided the shark’s initial attack takes a bigger bite out of their fiberglass board than their torso or limbs. No such option is available to the seal. A deep wound to the body almost invariably leads to death, though if the first bite is shallow or glancing, or primarily takes a piece of tail or flipper, the seal sometimes survives.
Later that morning, we encountered the victim of one such slipshod assault. Right flipper dangling, trailing blood through the water, it was fighting to make it back to the island. All of us on board followed its progress with a mixture of fascination and trepidation. All that blood—there seemed no way the seal, painfully working its way along the surface with only one functional flipper, could escape the notice of the patrolling sharks.
No matter how jaded one is to the indifference of Nature in the wild, no matter how many kills one has witnessed or come across, as humans, it is impossible to look upon such a scene without becoming at least somewhat emotionally involved. We found ourselves rooting for the seal until it was safely back in the shallows that surround the island.
I looked at Chris. “Do you think it’ll live?”
He pondered. “It lost a lot of blood, and I don’t see how that flipper can heal. But believe it or not, we’ve seen seals on the island with worse injuries and they seem healthy enough.” He smiled slightly. “So yes, it’s possible.”
Then he turned away, moved to the stern, and began to put out the surprise.
Cut from a piece of black neoprene, the decoy was life-size. No professional sculptor would have admitted authorship of the crude lure, but Monique assured me it had proven quite effective. The rubbery seal silhouette was tossed off the back of the boat and the line attached to its nose carefully played out. Soon it was bobbing along behind us, easily cresting the small waves stirred up by our wake. At a distance of ten yards or so, it didn’t look very realistic to me. I wondered what it must look like from below.
Chris headed the boat away from the island. Turning to Monique, I’m sure the reservations I was having must have crept into my voice.
“This works?”
“Not every time,” she admitted. “The sharks have to be in the mood, active, and hungry enough to bite.” She nodded sternward. “Just watch the decoy—and cross your fingers.”
I considered. “How often do you have to replace the decoy?”
“A few times each season.” She shrugged. “It can get pretty torn up.”
Her instructions were simple enough. Except that while they explained how we were to look for a striking shark, they failed to explain how we were supposed to photograph it. At least, I had a video camera. Even assuming the decoy did its job, to get a decent still picture of such abrupt, fast-moving, quickly-over-and-done-with action demanded the best efforts of the world’s most skilled wildlife photographers—such as David Doubilet and Amos Nachoum, both of whom owe their classic shots of leaping great whites to the shark-finding skills of Chris and Monique Fallows.
I’m no David Doubilet or Amos Nachoum. All I could do was point the camera in the direction of the decoy, let it run, and cross my fingers—no, couldn’t do that, because I had to hold and position the camera. Off to one side, Ron clutched his still camera and joined me in watching and waiting. So did the professional film team, who despite their thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment could do no better than sit and stare and wait together with the rest of us.
Time slogged onward. Though I feared setting my camera aside at just the wrong moment, I had no choice but to rest my hands and arms from time to time. I shot interminable footage of a piece of scissored neoprene banging and bouncing along behind the boat. I acquired excellent images of the occasional patrolling seabird. I . . .
The water erupted behind the boat.
With the decoy clamped in its jaws and its head and upper body facing toward us, the enormous great white came completely out of the water before slamming back in on its right side. It looked more like a whale breaching than a fish jumping. White water geysered in every direction as it smashed back into our wake. The noise of the colossal splash reached us even above the deep-throated hum of the boat’s engines. I gaped at the now calm patch of ocean that had been so briefly but violently shattered by the impossible leap. Had I actually seen what had just happened, or had I imagined it?
Standing nearby, Monique helpfully reconfirmed the stunning reality that had just transpired in front of me. “Did you get it?” she asked me when the cheering on the boat finally died down.
“What?” I turned to face her.
“Did you get it?” She indicated my camera. “The picture?”
I didn’t know. Retiring to the shelter of the boat’s small cabin, I rewound the tape. And there it was. It looked utterly unreal, as if I had imported a few seconds of footage from a television documentary. But I had indeed just seen a great white shark go completely airborne directly aft of the very boat on which I was still a passenger.
Subsequent to that one instant of experiencing Nature at her most spectacular, Ron and I would happily have returned to Simon’s Town, concluding our monthlong visit to South Africa on a note as high as any wildlife enthusiast could desire. Now that we had been granted the privilege of beholding a sight seen by only a few, we allowed ourselves to relax. If we saw another attack and breach, all well and good. It would count as a bonus. If not, well, we considered ourselves content. I had seen, with my own eyes, an airborne great white. I picked up a muffin.
Not even Chris or Monique could have predicted what happened next.
Like everyone else on board, I continued to watch the decoy. Occasionally, I would let the camera run, capturing yet more endless dull footage of dark water and our V-shaped wake. From time to time, I would take a bite of muffin or chew on a mouthful of crackers. The air was clammy and chill, but the cloud cover had finally broken for good. Above the bay, patches of blue sky struggled to assert themselves.
It is the times when Providence is not called upon that it often chooses to manifest itself most forcefully. I just happened to have the camera running.
I heard Monique let out an “Oh, my God!” This from Monique Fallows, who every year spends months at a time in the company of sharks, and whom you’d think would be jaded. There were gasps from the others on board.
Directly behind us, fifteen feet and more than a ton of great white had launched itself from the depths. Shooting straight up with the decoy in its mouth, it rose out of the water like a Polaris missile, seemed to hang motionless for a moment, and then did a complete flip before returning to the sea snout-first. It was the kind of jump a big game fish like a marlin might make—not a great white shark. I lowered my camera. As I did so, I happened
to catch the eye of the visiting cinematographer.
Though from the time we had left the dock he had been genial enough, we had exchanged little in the way of conversation. He was on assignment, had work to do, and was understandably more involved with his equipment than his fellow passengers. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had actually seen him smile. And a wide smile it was, too.
“Got it?” I asked hopefully, echoing Monique.
He nodded. His tone was restrained, but he was unable to keep the elation from his voice. “Got it.”
So had I, with my little hand-held consumer video camera. It is a wonderful thing to be able to freeze-frame such a sequence, to see a great white shark suspended in the air, completely out of the water, with its snout pointed straight down and its tail flailing at the heavens. I have no doubt a panel of diving judges would card it a ten across the board.
We had one more breach on the decoy that morning. I had deliberately set my camera aside, wanting to experience, to remember this remarkable sight without viewing it through a lens. The shark came at the decoy from an angle more shallow than its predecessors, snapped it up in its mouth, and for an instant was also completely out of the water, its belly and underside perfectly parallel to the surface and its snout pointed toward our stern. It looked as if we were being pursued by some lethal low-flying aircraft. When the shark splashed back down with the decoy, its visit became the third close breach of the day, including that astounding 360-degree leap. As a coda, on the way back to Simon’s Town, we came upon a pod of romping minke whales.
That particular day, by any standard, had turned out to be something much more than ordinary.
XIII
DRACULA IS A MUTE