I first saw the movie "Jaws" when I was 9 years old. I'll never forget going to the vintage 70's domed theater with my older brother, who was all of 11 years old at the time, for a summertime matinee. Why my parents didn't feel the need to accompany us to a movie containing gory shark attacks filled with teeth, blood, and disassembled body parts is a mystery I still ponder to this day. My mom simply dropped us off at the theater on her way to the shopping mall, and with a cheery wave said, "Enjoy the movie!" Enjoy the movie? Perhaps she missed the warning that came with the then PG rating: "May be too intense for younger children." Well, needless to say, my brother and I were scared shitless. He was a dedicated swimmer at the time, and later professed to having had trouble getting back into the pool after that. For my part, I was just learning how to ride a boogie-board back then, and I can honestly say that the movie retarded my learning by at least two years.

The images from the original "Jaws" were later derided as trumped up tales by the shark experts, calling them "sensationalized" and "overly-dramatic." Sharks do not hunt down humans, jump onto boats, or stalk specific territories. Or do they? After 16 years of surfing the waters of Northern California, I'm not so sure. Did anyone besides me see the Discovery Channel's most recent "Shark Week," which alarmingly showed great white sharks off the coast of South Africa leaping all the way out of the water in order to snatch their prey in mid-air? Have there not been numerous accounts of great white's trolling off of Marin County beaches, hanging around for weeks on end? And I believe just about every surfer in Northern California has by now seen the distressing footage shot out at the Farallon Islands, where a great white visciously attacks an unbaited, dummy surfboard and surfer, ripping it to shreds in the process.

Carcharodon carcharias, the great white shark, aka "The Man in the Grey Suit," "The Landlord," or, my personal favorite, "Uncle Whitey" (as in "Will Uncle Whitey be coming over for dinner tonight?") has always held great fascination to me. As surfers here we are forced to come to grips with the grim reality that, like it or not, Uncle Whitey is in the house—his house—and we are merely trespassers in his watery domain. Although actual attacks are still rare (the good news), sightings are greatly on the rise between Monterey and Humboldt (the bad news). This past season alone saw confirmed sightings by surfers in San Francisco, Pacifica, Montara, Half Moon Bay, Santa Cruz, and many spots in between. And those only include the ones that were reported. Uncle Whitey is out there, the heavy local within the marine food chain.

I am constantly amazed at the seemingly indifferent attitudes amongst my surfing brethren with respect to these prehistoric beasts. Real or by false sense of bravado, these surfers dismiss the risks, the possibility even, of great white attacks. True, statistics attest to some long odds on a potential encounter. But do these statistics take into account the devoted surfer, who enters the frigid Northern California water 100 times more often than the average person, in well-established shark territory, frequently at dawn or dusk—known feeding times for Uncle Whitey? No, as a group, I believe that surfers live largely in denial. What we cannot see won't hurt us.

The statistics most certainly don't take into account the fact that I personally have been chased out of the water twice, and "spooked" out of the water on numerous other occasions. This past fall I had my closest encounter yet, having a great white shark pass within 10 feet of my board while surfing a lonely reef north of Santa Cruz. In addition, this winter I helped calm down a wetsuit-clad woman on the beach who had just been bumped by a great white. This perhaps was the scariest of all—witnessing the sheer terror that lay in her eyes. It is an image I will not soon forget, and called upon my cinematic memories from that summer day at the theater back in 1975. Once more, she had been trying from the beach to warn a group of surfers in the water nearby of her ominous encounter, but to no avail. She wanted me to paddle out to convey the gravity of the situation. No problem, I thought, as I envisioned my limbs dangling like live bait, moving in an enticing windmill fashion while paddling.

But paddle out I did, albeit quickly, to have a brief conversation with my surfing comrades. I was being watched, I felt for sure, as I crossed the almost 100 yards of inside water out to the lineup. When I finally reached the tightly packed group of six surfers, I calmly informed them of the recent events that had taken place, and the imminent danger that they (now we) were surely in as we spoke. They first looked at me dubiously and, then, apparently deciding I was sincere in my motives and genuinely concerned for their safety, politely thanked me for my concern, but seeing as how the surf was quickly improving—head high with good shape, light offshore winds, glassy conditions—they would remain and take their chances, thank you very much. And you know what? They were right. I studied the conditions myself for the first time since I had arrived at the beach and the commotion had begun. The waves were good.

Assessing my options, I looked back towards the beach where by now a small crowd had gathered around the woman, and appeared to be attending to her. There was a lot of finger pointing in our direction, as if to say, "Out there. Those are the idiots still in the water near where the shark was spotted." Returning my gaze to the pack of six in the water, I flashed an uneasy smile in their direction. "Oh well—probably was just a porpoise," I said, and we proceeded to trade fun waves amongst each other for the rest of the afternoon.

Get some waves. - DL

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