Swimming with sharks

Two months ago I swam with the sharks in the biggest tank at Busan Aquarium. Here's an account of the experience:

The Busan Aquarium is buried under the wide, yellow strip of sand that makes up Haeundae Beach just before the landscape drags the eye upward to the tops of the hi-rise hotels across the way. I’ve been here four times in my lengthy tenure in Korea and this 65-degree day in the middle of May is by far the warmest I’ve seen. Heather, Tess and I are waiting for Michael Jones, shark dive instructor extraordinaire, to show us how to survive an hour in the shark tank, an experience we've each paid 90,000krw for (less than $90). I’m wistfully remembering the potato burrito with real guacamole and the clean, minty flavor of my mojito from the Mexican beach bar the night before.

Michael, a portly Canadian who’s been in Korea 15 years and leading dives at the Busan Aquarium for 7, turns up on time and leads us down the stairs into a classroom in the belly of the aquarium. He talks about Lemon Sharks chewing on fish, human skulls found in 200 kg groupers just like the ones in the tank, equalizing air pressure, and how many fingers we’re to use when we wave at the school children on the other side of the glass. We sign papers saying we won’t sue Michael or the Busan Aquarium if the Nurse Sharks (better referred to as Sand Tiger Sharks when picking up dudes at the bar that night, Michael advises) decide to stick their jagged, curved teeth into us.

We wrestle with the thick rubber of our wetsuits, tugging, pinching and rolling them until we’re panting. Then we wait, looking in small tanks in the training and treatment area above the surface of the big tank, guessing how a three-legged starfish being nursed back to health by aquarium employees lost its missing limbs.

Now the rest of our gear. Masks first. We hold them to our faces and suck in through our noses. If they stay without us holding them, we have a good fit. Next, weight belts. We place the orange strips of fabric dotted with heavy yellow squares on the ground before us, swing them behind us and hoist them up around our waists. Last we get our air tanks, nestled in huge black backpacks with tubes and regulators spilling out of them. After Michael helps us strap them on we’re reeling from their weight, crouched slightly forward to avoid over balancing and falling back. We traipse between tanks of sick animals, narrowly avoiding tripping over water pipes on our way to the training lock. Today we share it with four sick Eagle Rays with pitch black tails nearly the same color as the floor of the lock, so we shuffle along the bottom, precarious because of our tanks, trying to avoid treading on the patients.

“Now my favorite part of leading these dives,” Michael jokes. “Divers, on your knees.”

We laugh and kneel in the lock, water up to our elbows, grateful it takes some of the weight of our tanks off our backs. Following Michael's instructions, we lean right and swing out our arms to capture the tubes of our dive regulators, slip them into our mouths and begin breathing tank air. We review hand motions for OK, go up, go down, come here, there’s a problem, stop. We ease into it, first breathing with our eyes above water, then lying on the surface looking at the shells and bits of kelp on the bottom. Finally, we sink down, all in a line with Michael in front of us. He motions to us in turn, asking first if we’re “OK,” then having us demonstrate removing and replacing our regulators and emptying our masks in case a little water seeps in as we dive.

None of us can do this quite right at first. The combination of letting in some water to demonstrate, then pressing the tops of our masks into our foreheads and breathing out our noses is somehow complex when we try it underwater with regulators in our mouths. Tess panics, wide eyed, looking defeated and terrified. She’s embarrassed more than she should be. We’re all a little scared. Breathing underwater through a tube goes against the most basic instincts. We should be unnerved and we are. Michael holds her hand, tells her she’ll be alright. Then, once we’ve all adequately de-watered our masks, he tells her she executed a demonstration-quality mask emptying in the eyes of the Professional Association of Dive Instructors and makes her his partner for the dive.

Finally, it’s time to really get wet. I lead our shuffle-kneeling journey across the lock, out the gate and onto the clear plastic tunnel filled with spectators. Michael tosses me the rope and tells me to start descending the side of the tunnel into the tank. Lean back, keep your legs a little apart for balance, equalize every two fists or so, he reminds me. I lean. I set my feet a little more than shoulder width apart. I lower myself slowly. Right fist. Left fist. Breathe. Pinch my nose and blow softly to equalize the pressure in my ears. Repeat. Breathe. The pressure builds. I wave at Michael, point to my ear. Something’s wrong. I look up to avoid the glass-bottomed boat touring around the surface, then raise myself a bit and try again. Again. Equalized and the pain in my ear subsides. Two more fists down it returns. Equalize. Right fist. Left fist. Equalize. Trouble again. I blow on my pinched nostrils four times before I equalize. Right fist. Left fist. On the bottom now, feeling the crunchy white gravel below my bootie’d feet for a moment before my ears are screaming again. I wave to Michael. Something’s wrong. He hoists me up to his shoulder. I try to equalize. Almost there. Once more and I’m alright. Back on the bottom my ear still hurts. Michael guides me to my knees to wait for Tess and Heather. I try to equalize again but the ache persists, so I get used to it.

My surroundings make a worthy distraction. Currents and the weight of my tank throw me off balance as I float-swim-stumble through the cool, thick water. Sharks dart past me – the tank holds twenty or so – their mouths overflowing with sharp, white teeth that are scattered across the rocks and the bottom of the tank as they shed them. They swim toward me, staring, and past with their eyes sticking to me. Families on the other side of the glass flash peace signs and wave at me. We snap each other’s photos as the sharks or schools of fish swim between us. My ears still ache. My mouth is dry as I focus on breathing slowly, steadily, constantly through my regulator, just as Michael instructed. The mask restricts my vision to the oval in front of me. When Heather points to the shark just beside me or above my head I have to twist unnaturally to see what she’s looking at. I hear the jangling of Michael’s bell ringing to catch our attention. He signals to us to stay together, to follow him closely. Tess, Heather and I pass the underwater camera back and forth as we float around each other waving at children beyond the glass, staring down the sharks, gazing back into the tank. We try and fail to keep our hands close to our bodies, remembering that the animals are hand-fed by scuba divers and we shouldn't confuse them unless we want to wind up armpit-deep in the mouth of a grouper.

Then, suddenly as it began, the dive is over. Michael beckons me back to the rope. I pull myself up to the top of the tank, remembering to keep my mask on and my regulator in when I inflate my buoyancy control apparatus at the top so that if I slip I won’t fall all the way to the bottom and if I do at least I’ll be able to see and breathe while I’m there. Michael calls me a Teacher’s Pet for my trouble. I s’pose it fits.