“Seize the day - carpe diem,” my best friend Alison coaxed. “It’ll be a great experience and an even better story,” my workmate Mark argued. “You’ll regret it if you don’t, it’s not like you’ll be in South Africa again anytime soon,” my brother Dave advised. “I wouldn't do it if you paid me a million quid,” my Mam said. “Please, please, please can we?,” my husband Sean begged.
They say your mother knows best. It turns out she was the only one worth listening to, this time at least.
“Get up close and count the teeth for the thrill of a lifetime!,” the brochure read. Sean seemed to think that was an argument in favour of going shark cage diving off the coast of Hermanus. I was almost certain coming face to face with a Great White would cancel out my ability to count, and naively I’d already added the graphic description to the list of reasons why a tour of a local township would be a better idea altogether.
Fear of missing out convinced me in the end. That, and the two Ls that hold sway in my life - love and laziness. If Sean was going to be eaten by a shark then I didn't want to hang around without him. And even if I did, I figured repatriating his body would be a job for someone with a lot more enthusiasm for bureaucracy than me.
As a result, we showed up by the harbour at an hour of this morning nobody on holiday should have to see. After meeting our cage mates, Dick the captain set sail for the spot that’s now directly above us. Giddy with nerves, I followed the others into the cage where, according to the plan, we’d have a gander at passing sharks.
It turns out what we blithely hopped into was a communal coffin instead. I'm not sure what happened, but seconds after we’d all gotten off the boat and into the cage there was a loud snapping sound. Now we’re plummeting toward the ocean bed, and the light that is the surface of the water is getting dimmer and dimmer.
All of this time I’d been worrying about the sharks. It turns out I’d have been better served worrying about the lynchpin, or whatever it is that kept the cage attached to the boat, instead.
I suppose looking on the bright side I always said I didn't want to die alone, so that’s something. And I guess future generations will talk about us when others have been forgotten. Not to mention that our tragic passing will no doubt make the papers back home…
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