Bismarck Sea, September 1997
I’M OFTEN ASKED WHICH OF all the places I have visited is my favorite. The question is impossible to answer because one inevitably ends up trying to compare apples to oranges. Actually, apples are more comparable to oranges than Italy is to Indonesia, or Brussels to Burkina Faso. I can contrast Rome with Madrid, or Yekaterinburg with Chicago, but not Peru with Prague.
Every place I have ever been has something to recommend it; every person I have ever met something to commend them. Or as my wife succinctly puts it, “You have no taste: You like everyplace and everybody.” To this assertion, I must plead mostly guilty.
While it is impossible to offer an all-inclusive answer to the query, it is possible to break down encounters into categories. For walking, my favorites would be Manhattan and London. For history, Prague and Rome. For sheer surprise, Istanbul. For animal life, South Africa. For Nature in the raw, Namibia, Gabon, and Peru. The most beautiful natural places I have seen on Earth are the immeasurably vast Grand Canyon of Arizona, the Tolkienesque Lofoten Islands of Norway, Venezuela’s otherworldly Canaima National Park, the untouched underwater marvels of West Papua, and my number-one choice, the incomparable Iguazú Falls on the border between Argentina and Brazil.
But for an all-around, utterly fascinating, highly diverse step back in time, the prize goes hands-down to Papua New Guinea.
This is a land replete with spectacular sights both above and below the water. Vibrant with amazing human cultures that have survived largely unchanged for thousands of years, swarming with remarkable animals, it can boast whole regions that have yet to be touched by Western civilization. There is simply no place like it left on Earth.
Among its unrivaled attractions, up in the Bismarck Sea north of the large, lush island of New Hanover, there used to be a place of magic called Silvertip Reef.
Sharks, I try to explain to the querulous who know them only from what they have seen in film and on television, are no different from dogs. Leave a shark alone, and it will behave very much like any neighborhood pooch. Encountering a stranger, it sizes them up, tries to take a sniff or two, attempts to ascertain if you qualify as either a danger (swim away!) or potential food (sniff harder), and eventually reaches a decision based on these observations. Dump a tub of blood and fish guts into the water in close proximity to curious sharks, and you sometimes are rewarded with what has melodramatically been labeled a “feeding frenzy.”
Now try this. Go to your local butcher. Buy twenty pounds of raw hamburger, complete with juices. Find an alley. Look for a pack of dogs. Toss the hamburger into their midst. You’ll get the same reaction impatient photographers do when slopping chum to sharks, only with a frenzy of legs instead of fins.
Regrettably, because of the way they look and are perceived to behave, certain creatures have always had a bad press. Sharks unquestionably. Among other similarly cuteness-impaired species can also be counted spiders, snakes, and rats. If not for spiders, we would be drowning in insects. If not for snakes, the planet’s pesky rodent population would be far more difficult to deal with. As for rats, they are intelligent, family-oriented, and make excellent pets. I’m sure if you asked them, not one would speak up to declare proudly, “Hey, we like being infested with fleas that carry bubonic plague! Chipmunks do, too, and they aren’t subject to universal condemnation!”
That’s because unlike run-of-the-mill rodents, chipmunks are perceived by humans to be . . . cute. Even though they’re just rats with racing stripes.
As if we humans didn’t carry diseases of our own. If gorillas understood biology well enough, at the sight of every approaching cluster of camera-wielding human tourists, they would immediately begin screaming, “Run, everybody, run! It’s those filthy measles-transmitting humans again!”
Perception is not the same as understanding. Therefore, spare a thought for the poor shark, which performs its role of top predator sans the kudos and admiration the handsome lion and sensuous tiger claim effortlessly as their birthright.
There are 360 species of shark, from the ten-inch-long spined pygmy shark to the largest fish in the ocean, the forty-foot, fifteen-ton whale shark. As if further proof was needed that Nature indeed has a sense of humor, the pygmy shark will bite while its gigantic cousin will not. In fact, I can attest that if you scratch a juvenile whale shark under its enormous, plankton-swilling mouth, it will go vertical in the water and hang there like a contented puppy until you tire of caressing it. Just don’t try to catch a mature one by its tail, which will knock you aside as effortlessly and indifferently as a teenager flicking a half-eaten Cheeto at a friend in history class.
Below the whale shark and considerably above the spined pygmy shark in size are a number of strikingly attractive sharks that boast of no-nonsense dentition. I’ve already spoken of the great white. A step down from this master of the seas are the hammerhead, the tiger shark, and Carcharhinus albimarginatus, the silvertip shark. Growing to a length of more than ten feet and weighing in at more than 350 pounds, the silvertip is virtually a poster child for everyone’s idea of the classic shark: sleek, beautifully proportioned, and active. Silvertip distribution is worldwide in many of the tropical seas.
Silvertip Reef in northern Papua New Guinea got its name not only because the eponymous shark could frequently be encountered there, but because the occasional scuba operation to reach this isolated corner of the ocean discovered that the sharks could be acclimated to recognize when they were about to be fed by visitors. So along with the usual assortment of victuals intended to keep their passengers properly nourished, the infrequent dive boats that visited this location developed the habit of including among their supplies a suitably attractive mishmash of tasty shark snacks.
In our case, this consisted of a steel oil drum full of frozen fish parts too rank, slimy, tasteless, bony, or organ-rich to meet the minimum specifications of even the most undiscriminating pet food manufacturer. In other words, to a shark, chateaubriand.
Every one of us on the Tiata had heard about Silvertip Reef long before we anchored there. For several of the divers on board, it was the principal reason they had signed on for the current itinerary. Though we had enjoyed superb diving for more than a week in the vicinity of the main islands of New Ireland and New Hanover, including a rare visit to the remote Tingwon Islands, the promise of Silvertip Reef and everything we had heard about it had never strayed far from our thoughts. And now, we were there.
As we assembled in the dining room for the usual predive briefing, it was clear from Captain Dave’s uncharacteristically somber attitude and expression that the forthcoming dive would be different in a number of respects from those that had preceded it. His usual jauntiness was absent, his gaze noticeably more intent. We were not going into the water to look for sea horses or to take pretty pictures of batfish and purple chromis. Not this time.
“The sharks may already be here,” he told us. “They’ve learned to recognize the sound of the boat’s engines and connect it with a feed. They might well be right under your fins as you jump in. Once you’re in the water and have checked out your gear, ignore them and head straight down to the reef. Find yourself a spot and settle in. No hanging around in mid-water.” He paused for emphasis. “That’s where they expect to find the food. As soon as everyone is in place, we’ll drop the barrel’s contents.” He scanned the cabin. “Any questions?”
We looked at one another. Nobody said anything. We were eager and anxious in equal measure. The captain nodded, gratified that we understood.
Cameras were prepared, checked, and passed sternward in silence. One by one, we slipped into our bc’s (bouyancy compensators—the gear-laden vests you see on scuba divers), hefted our tanks, and executed giant-stride entries off the edge of the stern dive platform. The instant I hit the warm water, I let go of my mask and regulator and looked down.
There they were: three big, husky, gorgeous silvertips, circling effortlessly directly beneath us. No gray reef sharks
these, no nervous little resident whitetips. Had they been great whites . . .
Had they been great whites, of course, no one would have been jumping into the water.
We sank down, everyone trying to look in three dimensions at once. As we descended, more silvertips arrived. Five, six—within minutes of our hitting the water, there were eight of them carouseling around and among us. Our presence was noted—you could see the golden eyes with their black pupils following your every move. But otherwise, we were ignored. Edible we might be, but our shapes were all wrong, as was our smell. Shark wary of human and human wary of shark, together we infused the ridgelike reef with an almost palpable aura of mutual respect. With each diver locating a place where there was little or no live coral, we settled down and waited for the show to begin.
When dumped over the side of the Tiata, the frozen-solid contents of the chum barrel made a much bigger splash than I expected. Recognizing the by-now familiar sound, the sharks instantly homed in on the slowly descending and rapidly defrosting cylindrical mass and began to tear it to pieces. The faster it thawed in the eighty-three-degree water, the more swiftly it was consumed. Not every shark attacked the sinking glob simultaneously. They were excited and somewhat agitated, but methodical in their assault. There was no panic among them, no fighting, and certainly no “feeding frenzy.”
After a while, two things became clear to those of us looking on: The sharks were in no great hurry to feed or had already consumed a share of the spoils, and they were quite comfortable with our proximity. Perhaps more so than several of us with them. During the briefing, we had been told (warned?) that having become acclimated to the presence of divers, they might approach us more closely than was customary for their species. Also that they might be just as likely to eat their fill and then swim off into the blue.
We were not told, however, just how close they might come.
Having a brawny eight-foot shark pass within arm’s reach of you is one thing when you are in a protective cage and the shark is outside. The feeling is utterly different when there are no bars separating you from one of Nature’s most perfect predators. The shark’s eye looks at you, you look back at the shark. It is not an intelligent eye like that of a mammal or a cephalopod. It is not cold and unfeeling so much as it is alien, otherworldly. You realize as you meet its gaze that there is something going on behind that eye, but whatever it is will remain forever beyond your ken. Above all, there is an overriding sense of awareness of your presence. You are being speculated upon. You are being sized up. To a shark, you can be one of two things: a threat, or food. Above all, you realize that this is not a movie, the shark is not an actor or a computer-generated image or an animatronic puppet being propelled by a motor and directed by offscreen handlers, and you are not at home sitting on your couch munching popcorn while watching the Discovery Channel.
A shark can strike as fast as a snake. This is a fact better understood in the abstract than in reality.
So beautiful, so graceful. The idea of killing such a magnificent animal just for its fins while leaving the rest to rot and die is one any sentient mind should not be capable of accepting, though all-too many humans do. My wife and I have cats and dogs. I once had a boa constrictor. Occasionally, a cat or dog will nip a visitor. The snake never did.
What about a shark? And not just any shark, but a serious shark like the silvertip?
I looked around. Visibility on the isolated reef verged on unlimited. As is my preference at such times, I was off a little ways by myself. No one was watching me. That was hardly surprising, with eight silvertips circulating steadily among us. Movement in the water made me look to my left. One was coming straight toward me. Several had already done so, passing as close to where I was crouching as college friends in a crowded bar. Swimming slowly and without concern, its tail moving back and forth like a metronome to propel it through the water, the silvertip passed directly over my head. Its white belly gleamed like buffed fiberglass.
There are moments in our lives when we do something we have often thought about doing but never really expected to do. When such an occasion actually arrives, the time for acting on impulse usually lasts little more than a second or two. Spend time in judicious contemplation of the action itself and in a wink the opportunity is gone, usually forever.
Extending myself slightly, I reached up and let my bare fingertips trail along the silvertip’s underside. The flesh was firm to the touch, like a tire. Surprised but not unsettled by the contact, the silvertip gave a wider twitch of its tail and accelerated slightly.
That was all. That was everything.
Later, out of the water and back on the boat, Captain Dave confronted me privately. Everyone else was otherwise occupied, having doffed their dive gear and retired to their cabins or gathered excitedly around the coffeemaker to discuss the remarkable encounter they had just experienced.
“I saw what you did.” His tone was accusatory.
I protested. “It was OK. I was careful, and gentle. I’ve been around plenty of sharks.” I did not add that I was not in the habit of stroking them.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Just don’t do it again.” And then he added, because I was a paying passenger and he preferred to advise and not command, “Please?”
His request was moot because the opportunity did not arise again. We were given one dive at Silvertip Reef and one only. It was the last real dive of our trip before we returned to Kavieng. Understandably, the dive boat operators who managed to get out this far always saved Silvertip Reef for last because they knew that no matter how good or bad all the preceding dives had been, a visit to the reef would by itself be sufficient to make any diver’s trip a great one.
Many years passed before I happened to hear that the wonders of Silvertip Reef were no more. Learning of its secret, a group of local fishermen had gone out with chum, drawn in the sharks, and caught and killed every one of them, probably just for their fins. I think I remember crying when I read that. Having seen a great deal of serious poverty and severe hardship around the world, it’s hard for me to judge and condemn such actions. But this was one instance in which I could not help myself.
* * *
Silvertips may be the dominant shark in the Bismarck Sea, but that doesn’t mean you should ignore the others. On a dive close to the island of New Ireland, I suddenly found myself fighting an unexpectedly strong shallow-water current. While my fellow divers successfully descended and made their way along a deep reef line, I was picked up, swept backward, and carried away from them. While I enjoy being on my own underwater, I do not like being caught up in currents I can’t swim against.
Like a good swimmer, a good diver knows that you don’t fight a current. The ocean being somewhat bigger and stronger than the most powerful swimmer, it’s not only futile but dangerous to try and battle it head-on. Swim sideways out of the current, or look for something to hold on to, or drift with it until you can safely surface and call for help.
There was no reason to panic. The current was propelling me along the outer edge of our chosen reef. At worst, I could surface and swim to one of two nearby islets. The dive boat itself was not far away. So I relaxed and, like a commuter on a train, watched the world go by.
It turned out that a certain segment of the world going by was also watching me.
There were six of them. Juvenile gray reef sharks, the largest no more than three feet long. Not exactly Jaws, but not domesticated koi, either. They were following me in single file, for all the world like boys trailing their scoutmaster. I kept an eye on them as I enjoyed my colorful surroundings. At any moment, I expected them to become bored and peel off in search of more interesting and easily consumable intruders. They did not.
They were still with me when I started to run low on air. Having half a dozen young sharks tracking you while you are submerged only adds to the beauty and exoticism of your surroundings. Having them interested in you while you are stuck floating on the surface is another matter ent
irely.
The current had finally succumbed to the influence of the nearby islands, allowing me to maneuver more freely. Before I surfaced and hailed the pickup boat, I decided something had to be done about my persistent entourage. Coming to a deliberate halt, I hovered in some twenty feet of water and glared at the first teenager in line. The group immediately broke apart.
And began to circle me.
The near-perfect ring, myself in the center, incongruously put me in mind of old western movies. I was the wagon train, the sharks the circling Apaches. Except the only thing they were shooting at me were cold, fishy glances, and I had nothing with which to respond. For a crazed moment, I considered wildly waving my arms at them and yelling, “Shoo, shark, shoo!” As this was not a technique I could recall recommended in any marine handbook I had read, I forbore from acting like a fool and kept my arms close to my sides. But I admit I was tempted.
Meanwhile, the readout on my dive computer that indicated the amount of air remaining in my tank continued its inexorable progression toward zero.
I was down to a couple of hundred pounds per square inch when I realized I had to find a way to discourage the sharks or else I would be forced to surface with them still encircling me. Banging on my tank was more likely to attract additional sharky spectators than drive these away. Rushing them was more likely to frighten them off than provoke an attack—but while the likelihood of such an action being successful was in my favor, it was not a certainty. I was not in Las Vegas. The prospective gamble involved teeth, not tokens.
Hoping for a quick pickup from the dive boat, I decided to surface while I still had some air left in my tank. Spreading my arms and legs wide to make myself look as big as possible, I started upward.
The instant I did so, the sharks turned and swam off.
Having completed my safety stop and returned to the surface, I dipped my face back into the water to anxiously scan my immediate surroundings. Not one of the juvenile gray reefs remained within view. My toes, and the rest of me, were safe. I went from feeling mildly threatened to feeling slightly foolish.