by
Susan Casey
304
pages, Owl Books
Review
by Pat Black
Susan
Casey watched a documentary made by the BBC in the mid-1990s about great white
sharks, and became obsessed with the giant predators. A few years later, she wrote
a book about it.
I
saw the same film. April 1995. Sir David Attenborough narrating. It was
amazing. I’m gutted that you can’t get it on DVD or Blu-Ray – god knows I’ve
looked.
Back
in those merry analogue days, I taped it on VHS, and watched it again and again
(re-record, not fade away…). Great white sharks had been filmed many times before
from within cages, but this hour-long special went that bit further – following
the phenomenal fish into the depths with state-of-the-art remote cameras.
Some
of the shots captured are gold-standard natural history film-making. One, taken
from a float in the shape of a seal, shows a 16-foot fish rushing to the
surface like a torpedo, in full attack mode. I still see this footage popping
up here and there – most recently in an online prank where people walk into a
room facing a giant screen… and then oh
my god, giant shark attacks!
Other
images revealed the fish breaching, leaping clean out of the water with
luckless seals clamped between their jaws. I’m not sure if this was the first
time the “Air Jaws” phenomenon had been filmed, but it was certainly the first
time I’d seen it. It made the idea of Bruce the shark stage-diving the deck of
the Orca seem less fantastic.
The
documentary featured the work of scientists Peter Pyle and Scot Anderson, who
had spent years studying these animals near a chain of jagged rocks around
thirty miles off the coast of California called the Farallones. These serrated
peaks are inhospitable to the point of murder. You can just about see the toothy
outcrops from the Golden Gate Bridge, but the proximity is deceptive; although
surfers take to the waves not too far away, these are dangerous waters.
It’s
incredibly tough to land a ship on the Farallones, for a start – far easier to
turn your vessel into matchsticks against the cliffs. From there, if you do decide
to take a dip, you face the added danger of the sharks, who congregate in the
area every autumn. We know that these creatures don’t want to hunt humans, and
rarely do – but they have done in the past, and the rarity of such events would
come as no comfort should you have your legs bitten off, accidentally or not.
I
want them protected, and I love them, but they are very dangerous animals. This
is their brute allure. Would you take your child swimming knowing one was nearby?
If not, why not?
These
are the big buggers – straight-up, no-messing Jaws-a-likes. Some of the
Sisterhood, as the giant females are known, are thought to reach as much as 22ft
in length. We only know this because the wounds found on the body of a surfer
who had his entire chest cavity excised in one bite corresponded to a fish
approximately that size – going by the old “bite radius crap” Hooper was
talking about in Jaws. Although it’s
fair to say the 16-18 footers would still give you a nasty wee nip.
Casey,
a senior editor at Time Magazine, attaches herself to Pyle and Anderson’s
research community on the Pacific rock, and is soon heading out in 8ft boats in
heavy seas to record the activity of 16ft sharks. Go figure.
She
starts off with a shark encounter straight out of Hollywood, as she watches one
of the fish surge towards her boat. But this book isn’t so much about sharks as
it is the Farallones themselves. There’s plenty of sharkage, but it’s not the
main component.
The
author looks at the curious history of these unlovely islands, from their
discovery through to their unlikely status during the “Egg Wars” of the mid-19th
century, when prospectors fought among themselves for control of the then-lucrative
guillemot eggs trade. (To begin with, there were no chickens or egg industry in
California. But which came first?)
The
author also looks at the history of the research group’s dwelling-place, a
musty, wind-blasted old house of dubious plumbing. Naturally, there are ghost
stories attached to the property, and Casey is given an extreme case of the
willies one night.
The
Farallones don’t seem to like Casey very much – she’s dive-bombed by gulls and
other birds, and clattered by the sea as she makes her way up ancient
staircases carved into the rock. Later, she hires out a huge sailing boat so
that she can remain at anchor during Shark Season in the autumn, supposedly helping
Peter and Scot out.
Problem
being, Casey isn’t much of a sailor, and the weather is awful. Hiring the
vessel is a means to an end, allowing her to sidestep some strict environmental
protection laws governing visitors to the islands.
“I’ve
never been a big fan of rules,” she states.
Neither
are weather systems. Several times, Peter and Scot come to the rescue, berthing
up alongside the moored boat, as the heavy seas threaten to snap the anchor and
carry Casey off to the middle of the ocean, or hurl her against the rocks like
a toddler in a tantrum.
You
get the impression that the two veteran researchers - solitary men who spent much
of their lives cloistered on a wild scrub of land haunted by giant predators because they enjoy it - tolerate the
author, but only just.
I
was reminded of wee boys running around at a wedding, joined at their play by a
little girl maybe a year or two younger. This becomes less of a wry observation
when the final twist of The Devil’s Teeth is revealed.
Casey
briefly sketches other researchers stationed on the island over the seasons,
but the most interesting tertiary character was Ron Elliott, an abalone diver. This
guy gets into a wetsuit and dives down into the Red Triangle every other day to
bring up the seabed-dwelling delicacy – a sea snail that commands a hefty price
on the Japanese market. Ron has the whole of the Red Triangle to himself. Reason
being, giant killer sharks regularly come around to carry out spot-checks on
his business, and literally no-one else is crazy enough to do it.
Imagine
that, every working day: seagoing titans with butcher knives for teeth, broad
as a minibus, grinning at you in the gloom. And that’s just the ones you can
see. No-one can stop them; and no-one can help you.
At
time of writing, Ron is still unchomped.
There
is something of a death wish in people who wish to get so close to these animals.
As soon as the scientists spot seals and sea lions being transformed into
gushing red chunks, it’s action stations – they drop everything, and head out
to sea to tag and identify the sharks, and record their behaviour. There’s inherent
danger in simply going to sea off the Farallones – you have to be winched off a
cliff in an 8ft boat before you interrupt a creature twice as big and twice as
broad as your conveyance at its repast. You could spend all day worrying about
causing indigestion in a ludicrously big fish, only to get tipped off the boat
and head-first into some rocks, while an audience of gulls shriek with glee.
Peter
Pyle expresses a desire to go surfing there, noting a sweet eight-foot wave.
Bear in mind that a big part of this man’s job is to entice the sharks by
dragging a surfboard across the surface of the water, in order to trigger an
attack.
Death
is all around in the Farallones – even in humans’ early interaction with the
place, there was conflict and homicide, tragedies, disease outbreaks, famine. Even
today, tensions can arise. There’s something in the very geology of the place,
snarling at you among dark, rough waters, that warns humans to keep away. When
they’re there, the researchers can feel as trapped as scientists stuck in the
Antarctic for the sunless winter. Lots of complications can arise, even among
people who feel they might be well-prepared for isolation. There are instances
of people who have arrived on the island as a couple, only for one of them to
leave the other for a fellow researcher across the hall. That’d be a fun old
breakfast table.
The
place would be a first-rate setting for a horror story (makes entry in Someday I’ll Write These notebook). Casey captures the feel of the Farallones
beautifully.
Fun
facts provided by this book: when a whale exhales, the spectacular geyser it
emits absolutely stinks, the foulest fishy breath imaginable.
Also,
the sea just off the coast of San Francisco is stuffed with red hot nuclear
waste. The US navy took a ship which was so close to the first mushroom clouds
that its plating caught fire, crammed it with barrels of nasty material, and
sunk it a few hundred feet under the ocean. No-one knows exactly what’s down
there, how toxic it is, and how much it has already affected the food chain.
And
thirdly, when they attack, great white sharks attempt to decapitate seals.
They’ve expended so much energy in the initial surge from below that they need
to be as sure of a kill as they can, and a precision strike is the best way to
achieve that. In many of these “mistaken identity” attacks on humans – single
bite; realise mistake; let go - that is one big reason for fatalities. As if
the idea wasn’t horrific enough. I don’t think even Bruce the Shark was that
cold. Just one extra thing for you to think about, if you go surfing.
This
book has a shocking ending. But it has nothing to do with jump-scares or nasty
bites, or indeed fish of any size, and no-one is killed or injured. It does
have something to do with misfortune at sea and no small amount of human folly.
The entire book seems like a fool’s errand given the consequences of human
interference in Peter and Scot’s research nirvana.
The
author comes across as contrite, but only just. Her book leaves certain big questions
hanging. I hope justice and common sense prevailed. In any case, I want Peter
and Scot to know that their research made a huge impression on people, and they
were part of one of the best natural history documentaries ever made.
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