There was a time when a man did not film the fish. You learned about the shark when you saw it break the surface. The shark is not interested in ratings. Still the men come. They bring waterproof 4K cameras and podcasts and livestreams that do not truly live. They call it a week of sharks. A shark week. Here is mine, if we must.
Sunday
There are four influencers with tan lines and white teeth. They are dropped into open water and told to “vibe.” One is named Jax. Another used to be a lifeguard. They laugh. They stitch and duet. They name the circling fin “Brosef.” Brosef is not their brother. Brosef does not forgive. The boat does not return to save them. Credits roll over silence.
Monday
We journey to Tulum. There is a wellness retreat. It offers “shark immersion experiences.” Guests arrive in off-white linen and bare feet. They journal between cage dives. One woman insists her shark encounter was “transformative.” The footage shows a stingray. That night, a Michelin chef prepares ceviche. Someone reads Rumi to the crashing waves. The sharks stay far offshore. They are not so easily fooled.
Tuesday
A man attempts to chum using sustainable ingredients. He says he is “reimagining blood.” The fish do not bite. A friend says he has lost the thread. There is an argument. The episode ends with the bucket washing ashore.
Wednesday
A man sits in a boat. He is not old. He is not young. He has not paid taxes in thirteen years. The bait is old. The stench hangs like a debt. He lowers the line. The camera does not cut. The fish does not come. This is the entire episode.
Thursday
Two men free dive. One seeks the hammerhead. The other seeks absolution. They write things on diving slates but erase them before showing the other. Later, they drink whiskey they cannot afford. They never speak. The narration is in French for reasons that are not explained.
Friday
An ad agency drops microphones into the deep, down where light does not go. They listen for the language of sharks. Instead came the groan of old hulls and passing time. The slow drag of anchors and angst. The distant ping of perpetual war. A producer asks, “Can we EQ the ocean to sound more intentional?” A shark bumps a mic and is gone. The sound is used in a Lexus commercial. It wins a Clio.
Saturday (finale)
The old man returns to the sea. He brings no bait. A fish still comes. It is larger than the boat. The man ties a rope to his waist. “I have known fish,” he says. “I have known women. I have known endings. Let us see who dies more tired.” He leaps. Everyone looks at their phones. No one looks up. It was a good Shark Week this year, they say.