Parasailing and Sharks. Shark-sailing.

I wish horoscopes were more specific.  Something along the lines of “Don’t go parasailing today.  You will board the ferry-zodiac wrong, slicing your leg off on the propeller.  Mothers will clutch their children to their chests and men will vomit at the sight of the frothy red water.”  That’s some speculative fortune-telling I could really get behind.  However, if that had been my horoscope today, it would have been wrong. 

Today I went parasailing.  I won’t go into how beautiful Maui is, because everyone knows this, and it gets tiresome describing deep greens and blues.  Also, it makes people hate you. 

Anyway, this isn’t about Maui.  This is about parasailing and sharks.

I didn’t see any sharks, but it would have been awesome if I had.  I like sharks.  I know they’re potentially dangerous, but lots of things are potentially dangerous.   Life is dangerous.  Being in the water, at all, is dangerous.  

Anyway, my mental image of sharks is usually one of dopey gloominess.  Yes, I’ve got sharp teeth, but so do those fucking orcas everyone loves so much.  Why doesn’t anybody love me?!

So, while I was treated like a human kite, I imagined all sorts of sharks.  Giddy sharks, impersonating dolphins, leaping out of the water.  Lazy doe-eyed sharks, circling my shadow.  Parasailing is a lot quieter than you would think, and in this space sharks yelled for my attention. 

Those jet-skis slicing through sapphire water, leaving bubbling foam in their wake?  Super sharks speeding around, frenzied by the anticipation of fresh meat.  Those were sharks that woke up early, drank black coffee and were constantly checking their smartphones. 

I had to pee and the harness was digging into the fleshiest part of my thigh.  The boat pulling me along jolted, causing my harness to swing.  The sharks paused, waiting to see what would happen.

I imagined a new species of polka-dotted sharks with beady eyes.  I thought about baby whale sharks, pink and happy-faced.  A tiger shark was swimming sheepishly back to Kihei, a little embarrassed she had gotten lost. 

The parasail made a false descent, letting me dip my legs in the chilly water, the sharks snapped and snarled, frustrated and confused, as I ascended back into the air. 

Covered by an overcast sky, surrounded by heavy grey clouds and warm air filling my lungs, I imagined my descent and my final shark encounter.   It would mean certain pain and doom for me, but what an image!  A tourist, on his honeymoon (before the experience he had been playfully teasing his new wife about dumping her into the water, she laughed as she slapped at his arm, the physical contact left them feeling mutually electric), would describe it to reporters as such:  I went to Maui for my honeymoon, and I saw a gigantic (fucking gigantic, bigger than a car!) great white leap out of the air and devour a lady while she descended from parasailing.  My wife sobbed into my chest as I watched the woman’s twisted body crumple and listened to her gargled screams.  The boat jerked as the enormous shark tugged at her still harnessed body.  It wrenched off her remains and dragged them into the deep, dark grey-blue water.  Afterwards, the water was so still, so flat, so clear, you could hardly believe it had happened at all.