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My pulse spikes. The beat of my heart thrums in my temples. I forget that I need air. I forget everything but the sight in front of me. Unzipping the bag on my belt, I take out the camera and activate the video. The majestic hunter passes a few meters in front of me. The visibility is good, the light that pierces the dark blue water making the gray body and white underbelly shimmer. As my hands are occupied, I have to pedal with my feet to turn, following the predator as it circles me.
The blood pumping through my body gushes in my ears. The shark swims away, turns, and heads with full speed straight at me. I try to remember what I read. Don’t swim away. Don’t behave like prey. The best defense is a fist on the gills, not on the nose.
I take in the eyes, glassy like marbles, and the half-open jaw studded with spiky teeth that oddly resembles a smile. It’s so close I can make out the sandpapery surface of its skin. I brace myself for the impact. I don’t know how much it weighs, but I have no doubt a collision will do damage, if not knock me unconscious.
At the last minute, it changes direction, zipping to the right. It’s probably sniffed me and figured out I’m not a snack it’s familiar with. Great whites aren’t aggressive by nature like Zambezi sharks. Most accidents happen because they mistake surfers for seals.
The shark turns around and circles me again. I’m calmer now. I think it knows I’m not food. The adrenaline coursing through my body is more from a rush of excitement than fear. The predator passes me slowly, and then it shoots away, disappearing into the same direction as the sardines.
Desperate for air, I kick up and break the surface. For long seconds, I do nothing but drag oxygen into my lungs. When my breathing settles, I switch off the video, making sure to save it. I’m high from the experience, my body and brain fueled by the incredible beauty and grace I witnessed. I just hang there in the water, savoring it for a while.
I don’t feel cold any longer, but when I start to shiver, it’s my cue to turn back. Before I swim for the shore, I do what I came here for. I take Angelo’s phone from the bag and let it drop to the bottom of the ocean.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Angelo
Our house is a stone structure that stands on a cliff. The wall of rock dives straight into the sea. To the left, a small bay with a strip of sand provides enough protection to tie a boat. Beyond the bay, terraced gardens lead up the hilly side to the house. On the east side, an Olympic-sized pool overlooks the sea. The garden is planted with rosemary, thyme, lavender, and olive trees. A vineyard stretches down the hill at the back. It’s a small vineyard that produces a few bottles of mediocre quality wine a year, but it was never meant to be an industrious enterprise. It’s my father’s hobby. It was always his dream to own a vineyard.
I throw the rope of the yacht to one of our men who waits on the jetty. He greets me with a nod. Once the yacht is secured, he goes on board to close everything and pull the covers over the fittings. I look at the gray sky, taking in the thick bank of clouds as I climb the stone steps that cut through the garden to the front of the house. There will be snow on the mountains, tonight.
My mother waits on the veranda. Wisps of dark hair showing the first streaks of white blow around her face. She’s wearing a beige rollneck sweater and white slacks, the clothes hanging loosely on her frail frame. She’s lost too much weight. My father’s illness has taken a toll on all of us.
Spreading her arms, she pulls me into a hug. “Angelo.”
Her hair smells of fried butter and zucchini. She’s been cooking.
“I kept you some lunch.” She pulls away to look at me, her brown eyes piercing. “How was your trip?”
“Good. How’s Papa?”
“Better.” Her smile gives nothing away. “He’s over the worst of the cold. He’s waiting for you instead of lying down. I told him you wouldn’t be here before three.” She turns for the house. “Come on. I’ll dish up a plate for you.”
I linger a moment to appreciate the view. The sea runs from turquoise into a darker ring of blue. The colors are lighter here, not blackish blue like the deep, stormy waters of the Cape.
“Angelo,” my mother calls from the house.
I go inside and close the door. The house is warm. The high ceilings and big windows allow for plenty of natural light, but today, the soft, golden ceiling and floor lights expel the grayness of the day.
