I walked north up Newcomb Hollow Beach, away from the lounging crowds packed together under brightly colored umbrellas. From extended families to old people pairs, nearly naked toddlers to equally undressed gods and goddesses, there were hundreds on the sand, more than I’d ever seen there, but only a dozen or so in the ocean.
The water, unusually clear, was approaching late-August warm. High tide, not a wave in sight. It was the epitome of a lazy late-summer afternoon in Wellfleet.
I like to fish away from the crowds. Who wants an old guy casting his lures among the grandchildren? Besides, there surely weren’t any fish where folks were frolicking. Another thing: I like to strip down to the barest essential beachwear on such a warm afternoon, but I am uncomfortable being so scantily clad among others. Always have been. I am, in two perfect adjectives, tall and skinny. But there’s no doubt in my mind that soaking up sunshine creates a surfeit of vitamin D sufficient to ward off any shadow of depression, my uninvited occasional companion. That, however, was not on my mind as I walked the water’s edge to a distant patch of privacy.
A placid ocean is mesmerizing. Standing up to my knees in the chill first yard, I tried not to think — even of the pleasure. But my gaze was interrupted by a dark shape about 15 feet away, cruising at a steady speed south, toward the crowd.
A seal. Yes, it’s a seal, right? But it wasn’t acting like the seals who call this beach home. They stop, pop up, check out the locals, loll in the blue, and duck beneath the surf. They exude the friendliness we humans associate with their kind.
Not this shadow, no. It cruised without pause. It was close to shore. Too close. It was twice the length of any seal I’d ever seen. No seal, that shadow: it was a shark. I was almost certain.
What to do? Scream “Shark!” and cause a panic? I wasn’t 100-percent sure. I followed him along the water’s edge, hoping my identification skills were lacking. Please, let it be a seal, I thought. I never took my eyes off him; this was a different way of being mesmerized. I still held my rod, now pointing unconsciously at the beast. My light tackle was set up for blues. It felt so puny compared to him. (Why “him”? Why did I make him male, I wondered, fleetingly.) He was swimming faster than my old legs could carry me.
I formed a quick plan: Unless he showed himself definitively to be a seal before he got any closer to the swimmers, I’d start screaming. Shark. I’d yell the word. Better to be an embarrassed, mistaken, tall, skinny, scantily dressed old guy than a guilt-ridden guy who could have prevented someone’s death but didn’t have the nerve.
Not far ahead, whistle blasts erupted from the lifeguard stand. Two young bodies leapt to the beach, continuing their raucous warning as they waved frantically at the oblivious swimmers to come ashore.
In that moment, I’d taken my eyes off the water. When I looked back, the shark had disappeared. Just like that. He was here, then gone. I retrieved my tackle box and my breath, and, walking slowly again, I looked up at the lifeguards who’d returned to their post.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Was that shark tagged? Did it trigger the buoy?”
“Nope,” replied a clearly excited young guard. “We just spotted him. Couldn’t miss him: he was big!” she said.
I climbed the sand dune, stored my gear in my car, and sat on a bench to read my book. Not a chance. I couldn’t stop scanning the water for his return. But the ocean was empty again.
A monarch butterfly dodged into view for a second. A salute? A test of my tense observing? Maybe she was starting her long autumn migration to Mexico. (Why did I unconsciously believe she was a “she”?) I wasn’t 100-percent sure. I stared intently at her as she floated on the sea breeze.
Thomas Schwarz lives in Wellfleet.
