Predators I Have Known by Alan Dean Foster

feet and weighing in at more than 350 pounds, the silvertip is virtually a poster child for everyone’s idea of the classic shark: sleek, beautifully proportioned, and active. Silvertip distribution is worldwide in many of the tropical seas.
    Silvertip Reef in northern Papua New Guinea got its name not only because the eponymous shark could frequently be encountered there, but because the occasional scuba operation to reach this isolated corner of the ocean discovered that the sharks could be acclimated to recognize when they were about to be fed by visitors. So along with the usual assortment of victuals intended to keep their passengers properly nourished, the infrequent dive boats that visited this location developed the habit of including among their supplies a suitably attractive mishmash of tasty shark snacks.
    In our case, this consisted of a steel oil drum full of frozen fish parts too rank, slimy, tasteless, bony, or organ-rich to meet the minimum specifications of even the most undiscriminating pet food manufacturer. In other words, to a shark, chateaubriand.
    Every one of us on the Tiata had heard about Silvertip Reef long before we anchored there. For several of the divers on board, it was the principal reason they had signed on for the current itinerary. Though we had enjoyed superb diving for more than a week in the vicinity of the main islands of New Ireland and New Hanover, including a rare visit to the remote Tingwon Islands, the promise of Silvertip Reef and everything we had heard about it had never strayed far from our thoughts. And now, we were there.
    As we assembled in the dining room for the usual predive briefing, it was clear from Captain Dave’s uncharacteristically somber attitude and expression that the forthcoming dive would be different in a number of respects from those that had preceded it. His usual jauntiness was absent, his gaze noticeably more intent. We were not going into the water to look for sea horses or to take pretty pictures of batfish and purple chromis. Not this time.
    “The sharks may already be here,” he told us. “They’ve learned to recognize the sound of the boat’s engines and connect it with a feed. They might well be right under your fins as you jump in. Once you’re in the water and have checked out your gear, ignore them and head straight down to the reef. Find yourself a spot and settle in. No hanging around in mid-water.” He paused for emphasis. “That’s where they expect to find the food. As soon as everyone is in place, we’ll drop the barrel’s contents.” He scanned the cabin. “Any questions?”
    We looked at one another. Nobody said anything. We were eager and anxious in equal measure. The captain nodded, gratified that we understood.
    Cameras were prepared, checked, and passed sternward in silence. One by one, we slipped into our bc’s (bouyancy compensators—the gear-laden vests you see on scuba divers), hefted our tanks, and executed giant-stride entries off the edge of the stern dive platform. The instant I hit the warm water, I let go of my mask and regulator and looked down.
    There they were: three big, husky, gorgeous silvertips, circling effortlessly directly beneath us. No gray reef sharks these, no nervous little resident whitetips. Had they been great whites . . .
    Had they been great whites, of course, no one would have been jumping into the water.
    We sank down, everyone trying to look in three dimensions at once. As we descended, more silvertips arrived. Five, six—within minutes of our hitting the water, there were eight of them carouseling around and among us. Our presence was noted—you could see the golden eyes with their black pupils following your every move. But otherwise, we were ignored. Edible we might be, but our shapes were all wrong, as was our smell. Shark wary of human and human wary of shark, together we infused the ridgelike reef with an almost palpable aura of mutual respect. With each diver locating a place