‘Today, we will do something different,’ Yves, the dive guide and owner of the Raie Manta Club, smiles disarmingly at us. ‘A dive on the ocean side. With different sharks.’
        The five of us, already kitted up and perched on the gunwales of the dinghy, its undersized outboard labouring outwards towards the ocean against the incoming mass of water, look at each other, then at Yves. ‘Aren’t we doing the pass again?’ someone ventures.
        The pass in question is Tiputa, one of the only two entrances to one of the largest lagoons in the world, encircled by the Rangiroa atoll in the Tuamotu Archipelago. Not quite the end of the world, but not far off, located within French Polynesia in the South Pacific. An area geographically spanning the height and width of Europe, yet with no more than some 120 islands and atolls, the total land size of which is less than a tenth of Denmark.
        ‘Not this time,’ Yves answers with another smile. ‘The currents in the pass are unpredictable today, so we will do a blue water dive instead. Which will be fantastic,’ he scans our faces, ‘if you’re okay diving in open water. Some six hundred meters to the bottom, but we will only descend to thirty. And get close to silvertip sharks.’
        We all give him thumbs-up, seasoned divers as we are. Or at least pretend to be. Sharks we can take. After all, we’ve all done both the Avatoru and Tiputa passes before, with its hundreds of greys, dozens of whitetips, the large but innocuous nurse sharks trawling the bottom, and the multitude of shy blacktips in the shallows. But having been told by dive guides on all the previous dives that the four species expected on the dives are more-or-less harmless, and any other shark species should be treated with extreme caution, there is a certain frisson in the air. Not least as none of us has done a shark dive before without the perceived comfort of a reef or wall to retreat to if the action gets intense.
        ‘I know,’ Yves nods and continues with a cheeky smile, ‘silvertips are not the usual sharks you expect when diving here. But they are,’ he struggles with the right word in English, ‘fun? Funny? Ah, different! Yes – a little different from the other sharks you have seen. A little bigger. Very curious. So, I tell you now how we do this dive. It is very important you follow and do exactly what I say, and it will be safe. We have done this several times before, and every time is different. For a year now, and so far, nothing has happened.’
        Now is the time for anyone to raise the hand timidly and decline: ‘I’m getting a cold and don’t think I’ll be able to equalise properly,’ or even ‘Oops, I’ve dropped my mask overboard and will have to sit this one out.’ Anything but say what’s on everyone’s mind – ‘Sorry, but I’m not comfortable enough to jump into the open ocean and dive with big, inquisitive sharks.’
        But, of course, no one does it. We keep on looking at each other, in the vague hope to see someone – anyone! – give a slight shake of the head. We’re hardcore divers, after all, macho to the end. Five of us – three men and two women. There’s no way any of us men would give in to our primal fears with other men around; certainly not in the company of women, who may upstage us and make us feel less manly.
        As for the two women, sitting upright and rigid, holding on tightly to the gunwale behind their backs in the major wave action, I catch a subtle exchange of glances, with terabytes of feelings, thoughts, and suggestions going back-and-forth, resulting in their joint resolve to go through with this, and fuck the men. There’s no chance they will skip this, and have to listen to their boyfriends bragging about it later: ‘A serious shark dive, man. Not for the faint of heart, or ladies, for that matter.’
        ‘Good, so we have everyone onboard and we’re all set and ready to go in,’ Yves announces cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the psychological undercurrents permeating the dinghy – or, possibly, being all too aware of these and doing his best to keep everyone chilled out enough to listen to and follow his firm guidelines without freaking out. After all, this is paid dive, and no business likes losing customers.
        ‘I have chosen you for this exceptional dive, as you have dived with me for at least three times before, and you have proved to be able to control your buoyancy, without going up or sinking down. Because this is important.’ For the first time, Yves is serious.
        ‘Once we all get in the water, there is no current, just the waves on the surface, so you will have time to make sure your equipment is working correctly. On my sign, we will go down together to 30 metres. I will go first, and all of you must make a circle with me. All of us, back-to-back, facing outwards. Keep it tight enough to feel the divers to your left and right. We may have to wait for a while for the sharks to come. Sometimes they are shy.’ Yves winks and continues, ‘They will come from below to have a look at us and swim around us. They may come very close, but do not,’ again Yves gives us a serious look and repeats, ‘do not try to touch them; they don’t like it. After the sharks have investigated us, usually they get bored and dive down, and only when we don’t see them anymore, we swim up to ten metres and swim to the reef; it’s only about two, maybe three hundred metres. There, we finish the dive at five metres and go up to the boat. Bonne chance!’
        I’d heard that phrase before from French dive guides, wishing everyone a good time. But in this context, good luck takes on an ominous meaning.
        In my fourteen years of diving the world, seeing sharks, exploring wrecks and doing deep dives, I had never had such a precise pre-dive briefing. I had a feeling that this one was going to be different, unaware – like the rest of us, including Yves – of just how different it would turn out to be.
        Yves goes first, the rest of us follow, rolling backwards into the water, then coming up for the last clearing of the mask, gathering together on the surface, making sure our regulators are working before we give the all-clear sign and start releasing the air from our BCDs.
        Wow, the open ocean is truly blue, in all directions, I remember thinking as I held the hose above my head, getting the last air bubbles out, sinking into the endlessness, yet still feeling reasonably safe, seeing Yves a couple of metres below me and still descending. Every now and then, he would look up, take out the regulator from his mouth and grin happily at us before giving us the okay sign and waiting for the five of us to return it before resuming his descent.
        At last, after a minute that seemed like hours in the featureless sea, Yves arrives at the right depth. Waving us down, still with a grin on his face, he proceeds to arrange us in a tight back-to-back position, swimming around us, pointing to and pushing any fin or leg or arm back into the rough cylinder shape that he wants us to maintain.
        Satisfied with our body positioning (and still no one panicking), Yves takes his place in the circle and we all settle in for the wait. My eyes are constantly moving up-and-down, shifting between watching the depths below us for any sign of the sharks and checking the computer to see the remaining air. A straight descent to thirty metres, without swimming, requires minimal air consumption. But my heart is beating hard enough for me to hear the rush of blood in my inner ears, and my breathing is anything but normal.
        Two minutes – nothing. Five minutes – still nothing, other than my air had dropped to 160 bars, from the 212 I started with. Eight minutes, and I’m getting fidgety, beginning to see vague shapes where there are none. My brain can no longer take the uniform nothingness around us and creates images to entertain me. I force myself to ignore these, realising that I have a mild case of nitrogen narcosis, and wonder if this is going to be a dud dive? I can feel the divers on my sides shifting and getting restless. Another minute and still nothing… no, wait – there are now minute flecks of white deep below us, moving and slowly getting bigger. And there they are, at last. I can now distinguish the bright tips of the pectoral fins, and as the sharks ascend and take substance, the tip of the dorsal fin as one of them turns lazily on its side before spiralling upwards.
        Finally, they deign to appear, I think. Bloody irritating sharks, taking their time to put in an appearance. And then, withing seconds, they are next to us. Six of them – matching the six of us, but bigger and infinitely more agile – swimming back-and-forth, assessing us.
        They put on a brief but impressive performance – show-offs, I’m thinking, as it almost seems choreographed for our benefit – including rolls, swimming in an up-and-down motion like dolphins, and posturing. This last I had only seen in grey reef sharks before: back arched with nose and tail fin up; pectoral fins down and nearly touching; and a jerky side-to-side movement, all of it signalling anything but friendly behaviour.
        But then they all stop, as if on a drill, with a moustachioed Monty Pythonesque British sergeant shouting at the top of his voice to get back in the frigging line and do their duty. The silvertips start circling us. Six of them, six of us.
        At first, they circle slowly, languidly, with barely a flick of their tails. Equally spread out and I get a crazy thought that I’m looking at an aquatic merry-go-round, with papier-mâché sharks instead of horses. But they should have used sea horses instead, I think illogically, it would be easier to sit and hold on to them. If they just come closer, I’ll see if I can catch a ride on one…, then I remind myself for the second time that I’m narced.
        As if reading my thoughts, they move closer, imperceptibly tightening the circle until they are close enough for me to begin to distinguish their battle scars. All the dorsal fins have deep furrows extending to their backs, flaps of skin and tissue trailing like miniature banners. Their heads and snouts are equally scarred, and I see one with several gill flaps ripped off, the gills visible. By now, I feel fully detached from the situation, as if watching a shark documentary, my brain providing the voice-over: There are no claspers visible on any of the sharks, which means they are all females. And, as we know, females of most shark species tend to grow bigger than the males.
        Yes, I can now approximate their size. They look huge, nearly twice the size of the grey reef sharks I have encountered in the passes. Taking into account the light refraction, which causes all objects underwater to appear bigger, I still arrive at a very respectable estimate of two-and-a-half to three meters. But as I try to calculate their weight, everything changes and the next part of the show begins. Some of the sharks zoom off. Where did they go? Did they get bored? Can they all leave now, please? I’ve had enough excitement in one dive and am ready to go back. I look down, expecting to observe shapes receding into the depths. Instead, I see two of the sharks a handful of metres below us, still circling but now nearly head to tail in a tight loop, and much quicker. Looking up, I am dismayed to see two more, copying the pattern of their sisters below.
        The two sharks that stayed level with us continue their rounds just as lazily as before, but for each turn they get closer. And closer. And closer still until one of them stops in front of me. Almost close enough for me to reach out and touch its side. The shark is absolutely motionless, its beady eye, I’m positive, observing and assessing me, and I have a fraction of a second to think This is not mindless fish behaviour – this is a highly organised, coordinated hunt, and we are the prey.
        To this day, the next minute is a blur in my mind. I wish I could remember more, if nothing else but to pretend that my brain kept functioning and I remained in control of my body and emotions.
        Without any preamble, the shark in front of me turns towards me and shoots forward. It pushes its way between me and the diver on my left; its pectoral and tail fins flapping in all directions and nearly dislodge my regulator. A moment later, something hits me from behind as another shark has pushed its way through us from the other side, coming to a standstill and immediately turning around, giving me a glimpse of its scratched nose before it goes through us again.
        Now the sharks below and above us have joined the party, coming in from all sides, rubbing against us and pushing us apart. Stay calm, stay in a circle, no arms or legs out, and don’t touch the sharks. Really? All of us, each on their own, are busy, pushing and shoving and using our fists to fend them off. I see a canopy of air bubbles being released above us and think that someone must have lost the regulator, which is now free-flowing. In hindsight, we must all have been breathing as if our lives depended on it – I ended the dive with less than 30 bars.
        And then it stops. Just like that. All the six sharks are once again around us, at a distance, and looking just as worn from the exercise as we are. I look cautiously around me, loath the let the sharks out of my sight for even a second, see everyone is shaken but safe. And when I look again, there are no sharks, just flashes of white disappearing into the abyss below.
        Yves takes control, points towards the reef, making silly, flippant signs; trying to calms us, I assume. The sharks may have gone, but we all make like chickens, gathering around him – not necessarily jostling for a position closest to him, but not far off – as we start the swim towards land. Unsurprisingly, once we reach terra firma not a single one of us is interested in loitering on the reef, as colourful as it is, more impressive than any lagoon-side reef I had seen so far. The ubiquitous grey sharks swimming around us and wanting our attention are ignored. Pah – reef sharks. So common. Despite Yves gesticulating that we all have a couple of minutes left at the stop, we all ascend to the surface and the waiting dinghy. One first, then another, then the rest of us, indicating (pretending?) that we’re on reserve air.
        Back in the dinghy, it’s as feverish as it was below. Everyone is talking at the same time, all of us trying to digest what we had experienced. ‘The size of those motherfuckers!’; ‘I nearly got my hand in its mouth as I was pushing!’; ‘I felt one of them grab my fin!’; ‘Look at my wetsuit. It’s rubbed off!’; and, finally, a quiet voice, ‘I was sure that was it. Death by shark.’
        Yves has the last say: ‘Well, that was interesting. They’ve never before tried to draw blood.’ And as we stare at him, he says calmly, ‘Yes, they were rubbing against us to test if we were predators or prey. But you did well. Now let’s go and have some beers.’