In 1974, I vividly remember sitting five metres from the seashore on Clearwater Beach, Florida frightened as Hell to go any closer. I’d just finished reading Peter Benchley’s, Jaws.  Jaws did for sharks and beach-goers what 9/11 did for Islam.

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Sharks are not the people-eaters many of us think they are. Over the years Elenka and I have swam with many of them. Once, while I was at the sea bottom inspecting one thing or another, Elenka watched six sharks watch me as she snorkelled above. My busyness at the bottom allowed me to see none. But what we have done pales in comparison to the underwater adventures of Mandy and Pete from Wales.

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We met Mandy and Pete nine years ago on the island of Leyte in these same Philippines. While our time together was brief we’ve corresponded with them ever since. This couple are big-time photog divers. The two shark photos I’ve included in this entry are theirs - from a tiger shark adventure in the Bahamas.

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While sharks, like rhinos and dogs, are potentially dangerous, humans get killed by coconuts falling from trees far more often than by shark bites. Many shark attacks are really shark mistakes. They see a surfboard, think it’s a seal and go for it. Once they get a taste of the polyurethane board they quickly bugger off. While the board might be ruined, only occasionally do the surfers get damaged. There are other fish that are far more aggressive. 

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If triggerfish and clownfish were able to grow larger, humans would have reason to stay out of the sea. Elenka once had a scary encounter with a - stay out of my space - angry trigger. If not for the camera weapon she was bearing at the time she might well have lost a piece of her ear. And one time when I was trying to take a shot of a clown, the 3 cm sea demon head-butted my camera. 

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The nicest place we’ve stayed on the beach in Moalboal is called Pacita’s. On our second night there electronica with boom-boom base blasted the complex. After an hour or so I followed the sound to a disco bar which had no customers. Rather than complain to the noise-makers I walked back to Pacita’s and told reception that if they didn’t do something about the noise their business would suffer. There were three of them behind the counter and none seemed concerned as I brought up what seemed like obvious reasons to have it shut down. The man amongst the three said that the music was the Filipino way. The area is tourist central; no Filipinos drink or groove in Touristville. I told him boom-boom electronica was the result of a non-Filipino lunatic who should never have been allowed access to a computer. The red-hot Elenka was right by my side, seething. Our pleas went nowhere. We left the following morning, but after a couple of nights wanted to return to Pacita’s. Even though many of the cabinas were empty we were told there was no room left at the inn for the next two months. Two days later we found out that Pacita’s owns the disco bar. 

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Elenka and I had just finished lunch at our favourite beach shack. I was returning from the toilet when the kid blocked my way and glared. He looked North African, maybe. I gave him a ‘whadda ya want’ look.

He pointed to the emblem on his left shoulder that read ‘Arsenal’ - a British football team - then said, “You always beat me.” 

It took me a moment to get past what he’d said, then realized he’d been looking more at my Bayern München jersey than at me. Apparently these teams play one another from time to time. I wear the Bayern jersey at Love’s Resort hoping the Germans might talk to me.

“Where you from?” I said.

“Me from France,” he replied.

 “Me from Canada. No football in Canada. Canada people no like football. Wear shirt so people will like me.”

“No like Bayern?”

“No like Bayern.” I took the sleeve of my red German jersey between my fingers and looked directly into the kid’s eyes. Using my best French accent I fired him a word I knew he would understand.  “Me like rouge.”

The kid smiled. We went our separate ways.