Every summer I look forward to and celebrate shark week. So it’s with much fear of rejection that I must admit that I missed shark week this year. I have a list of excuses that I’ve been mentally preparing but the bottom line is that I’m a slacker… even when it comes to sitting in front of the boob-tube. I did make up, partially, by catching a couple shows this weekend. Something about Great Whites and then one on Rogue Sharks. It was this latter show that worried me about the future of Shark Week. I am filled with fear, dear friends, that Shark Week may be ‘jumping the shark.’
Every year they seem to run one show or another that suggests the uprising of man-hungry sharks. Are they meeting in shipwrecks across the bottom of the Atlantic trying to figure out the best ways to catch, cook, and dine on homo sapiens? I have a small issue with this premise. Here it goes: If you find one part of your body or another being masticated by a large carnivorous fish, chances are that you trespassed on her property, not vice versa. I’ll keep an open mind here, I don’t want to unintentionally hurt feelings. I can foresee email after email of complaints, “My grandmother was knitting me a scarf in her own living room when that sushi-breathed bull shark jumped through the window and took her arms clean off… didn’t even leave the yarn!” Or, “Listen lady, I don’t know what fancy-ass neighborhood you live in, but round my ‘hood tiger sharks’ll bite off your legs just for your Nikes!’
Maybe, just maybe, I’m wrong. Maybe the sharks have suddenly evolved to the point of preferring the meat of intellectuals who dwell in areas where they can not sustain life for more than a few minutes and have no ambulatory abilities worth mentioning. Or, maybe people are unwittingly wandering into the sharks’ proverbial frying pans while persuing their adrenaline filled oceanic sports. I swear I’m not lambasting aquatic sports. I would love to be a bodacious surfer girl. I myself have dilly dallied in ocean waters along the beaches of Florida and eastern Australia (home to some of the worst shark attacks.) I’m simply pointing out that it seems egotistical for humans to assume that wild beasts would prefer our meat over that of other animals just because they maul a few of us each year; probably out of confusion or being opportunistic. It’s not like Moby Dick roamed the streets looking in taverns trying to hunt down Captain Ahab.
I did realize after watching the episode that marine biologists all agree with me, naturally. Although they didn’t name me personally, I have good reason to believe that will be rectified next year.
I’m sure you feel all the more safe now. So good night dear friends. Sleep tight. Don’t let the landsharks bite.