They all said even though it was possible, it would never
happen. They kept saying it as they stood on the bridge over the river, the
lights of the TV cameras the brightest part of the cloudy fall day, with proof
swimming thirty feet beneath them in the gray water.
“Bull sharks are part of the elasmobranchii subclass that
can survive in both salt and fresh water, but it’s extremely unlikely they
would swim this far north,” the biologist said as he clutched the lapels of his
lab coat. “I just don’t see how that would be possible.”
The reporter lowered her microphone and failed to hide her
confusion. The shark’s fin darted out from under the bridge after a group of
ducks that flapped away just before they became lunch. “But there’s one right
there,” said the reporter. “How do you explain that?”
The scientist stared at the outline of the shark before it
faded into deeper water. “Bull sharks would never swim all the way to
Wisconsin. It wouldn’t happen.”
Despite the disbelief of the scientists, there it was,
swimming between the old railroad footbridge and the point of the river
confluence. The government was convinced it was a hoax or an accident. Someone must
have been transporting the shark who-knows-where for god-knows-what, and the
truck crashed or, hidden in darkness, some joker backed up to a boat landing
and released the beast. There was no way it swam all the way up the
Mississippi, took a right at the Chippewa River, jumped over dams, dodged bridges,
and navigated the shallow stretches without anyone noticing. No matter how the
shark got there, the people who worried about that sort of thing were very
worried. The sheriff’s small fishing boats couldn’t capture a beast like that.
Killing the thing would cause an uproar. The best hope was that falling
temperatures would push the animal south a little each day until it found the
Gulf of Mexico again. And if it stayed in Wisconsin, the freezing river would
eventually kill it. The best the people in charge could do was wait.
Everyone else who wasn’t an expert thought the tropical
visitor was delightful. They arrived at the park that lined the river, parked
their cars, and walked over the bridge or down to the point carrying plastic
bags full of old meat from their backs of their freezers. They threw their dried
out roasts and gamey venison steaks into the water. They tried skipping their leftover
chicken thighs and gristly porkchops across the surface. The shark learned
quick that he preferred his meat thawed, so he ignored the still-frozen
offerings, which bobbed in the river until they warmed, like a giant stew.
Sometimes the shark would snatch the meat from the surface without much fuss,
and sometimes he put on a show, with a full breach, mouth wide, and terrifying
teeth snapping down on the snack. Everyone cheered when he did that. Someone
set out a table on the sidewalk to sell t-shirts. One little boy with curly
hair and too big teeth ran between groups of spectators to share his knowledge
of sharks. “Did you know bull sharks are the largest of the requiem sharks?”
“Did you know bull sharks give birth to four to ten pups at a time?” “Did you
know bull sharks are the most dangerous shark to humans?”
There were a few close calls. The crowd almost lost a few
dogs that were jealous of the shark’s meaty bounty. The canines wandered too
far into the water and found only the shark’s jagged teeth racing towards them.
Dozens of cell phones and sets of keys plunked into the water under bridge,
dropped by shark enthusiasts trying to juggle bags of meat and cameras and
purses and toddlers climbing the railing to get a better look. Although it was
too cold, several groups of teenagers tubed down the river past the shark, to
get a better look, to prove their toughness, and those inflated flotillas
provoked at least one attack. They lost a tube. The tuber was fine.
And then, a few weeks later, the show was over. The shark
remained, hungry, out of place, and alone, but the novelty had worn off. The
people went back to feeding the ducks, which had learned to stay on land to
avoid the river’s violent and increasingly unwelcomed guest. The weather got colder,
and the sheriff started making plans for what to do with the shark’s body when
it finally froze to death. No one cared anymore.
Except for the little boy with the curly hair and the teeth.
He still came to the river and offered the pieces of meat he
had hidden in his pockets from previous dinners. The shark jumped out of the water to eat
them, and the boy laughed each time, but they were both worried. So the boy did
what he had to do.
He took off his shoes and stepped into the water. His feet went
numb immediately, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. He couldn’t pull his
pants up any higher than his knees, so they got wet, but he didn’t stop. Then
he saw the dorsal fin racing towards him, and he winced and turned and prepared
for the worst.
But the shark stopped and swam in a circle in front of him,
and the boy relaxed. He pulled a slice of ham out of his pocket.
“Hey,” he said, “you need to swim south.” He threw the ham
downriver. The shark swam to it, ate it, and returned.
“No,” said the boy, “you need to keep going. Otherwise you
won’t survive.” He pulled out a piece of hamburger and threw it farther. The
shark chased it, ate it, and came back.
“You don’t understand,” the boy said, and sighed.
If sharks stop swimming, they drown, but this one paused for
a minute and turned its great head and looked the boy in the eye. The boy
looked back, face full of worry and hope. He whispered, “Please.” And then the
shark understood.
 |
| Gordon, a few years ago, at the aquarium |
The boy had one morsel left in his pocket, half a hot dog.
He pulled his arm back, exhaled, and threw it as far down the river as he
could. The shark raced to the ripples it left in the water, chomped the morsel,
and kept swimming. The ducks looked around and hopped back into the river. The
boy stood on the point that marked the farthest north a shark had ever swam. He
stood there for a long time.
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