Shark! The real-life trend with bite
And the surprisingly creative joy of a personal wormhole. Trust me, we'll get there.
Now, I was planning to write about something entirely different and more sensible this weekend: the TikTok-generated ear worm “I’m looking for a man in finance.” If you have already heard it, you’ll be mentally adding: “Trust fund. Six five. Blue eyes.” If you haven’t yet, it’s the hypnotic, robotic dance track born from one woman, Megan Boni, speaking to camera (“Did I just write the song of the summer?” she rightly predicted in her caption), since remixed by countless DJs.
It was a parody of out of touch dating standards, she has since had to explain - spelling out: “I’m not actually looking for a man in finance.” Still, there’s been a backlash to what’s been dubbed a regressively materialistic trend among young women by some opinion writers. To which I say: if you think marrying for money (or at least, that being a factor) ever went away, I have a bridge I’d like to sell you.
But enough about that (for now). Because all thoughts of modern relationship dynamics were swept by a metaphorical silent fin slicing through the water. For, walking along the canal yesterday, I saw this:
That was all I needed to confirm it: it’s turning out to be a sharky summer, in more ways than one.
First, they arrived on screen: the stars of the silliest movie I’ve seen in a while, the Netflix number one hit Under Paris, about - you guessed it - sharks under Paris. In the flooded catacombs in fact, which was suitably spooky. It was ridiculous, dragged in large part, and could not hold a candle to the last decent shark movie we’ve had, Deep Blue Sea, let alone the cinematic gamechanger that created the genre of blockbuster: Jaws. (I put the brilliant but deeply horrifying Open Water, based on a true story, in a category of its own: great but too gruelling to watch again.) Still, I watched and enjoyed it, as did a lot of us - even if Netflix admitted it missed a trick with the title:
Less amusingly, quite a bit of shark mayhem was unfolding off screen too, with three people injured in attacks off a Florida beach in just one day. Reports suggest the sharks are coming in closer to shore this year, with speculation naming every reason from them fleeing pods of orcas to wild rumours of Russian interference. The truth seems to be more prosaic, if at heart even more alarming: warming sea waters mean the small fish are coming closer in, attracting the bigger fish who predate on them.
Which then prompted none other than Donald Trump to hold forth. As he put it:
Yeah, well, anyway. (Read this for a fairly persuasive psycho-summary of why he hates sharks as a “physical distillation of .. power in the hands of anyone but him, existential uncertainty, nature”). Which all prompted me for the first time ever - at dinner talking over the upcoming elections with two old friends - to say look, I am not saying he has a point, but the shark thing is actually quite worrying…
As they regarded me in silence, I explained: “Well, you know I love sharks.”
Er no? Fairly, it had never come up in conversation. (And you do have to be careful with even the most well-meaning pals when it comes to expressing likes and dislikes: a carelessly expressed enthusiasm for cheddar meant I was then given three cheeseboards over successive birthdays by one generous friend.)
But now! On screen, in the water, and even on your staycation itinerary - yes, the papers have just published a guide to swimming with sharks in British waters. As any magazine editor knows, three is a trend, which was quite enough excuse for me. Then, as I said, I ran smack bang in those two fibreglass sharks in the canal, who seem to be part of an art installation on the run from officialdom. Very sharky behaviour.
Of course, I was paying attention - as I have to all things marine life, from the first time I slipped on a snorkel, dipped below the water surface and saw a bold orange fish zip through the undulating sea grass (making it all the more deeply thrilling: a warning I’d spotted on the beach noticeboard about sharks being spotted in the cold Californian water, not so far from 13-year-old me). After that, I was hooked.
Travelling with my friends after university (or “going on your holiday” as the boy I was seeing at the time insisted, annoyingly if accurately, on calling it), I could explore it all further. In the tropical heat of Cairns, I learned to dive properly with fins and a tank, spotting a small sleek shark disappear into the misty gloom over the Great Barrier Reef. When my friends went surfing, I went swimming with dolphins (sustainably, no touching) in the deep waters off Kaikoura in New Zealand. My friends came to the Monterey Bay Aquarium with me (good sports, bless them), I alone hopped in a boat afterwards to see humpbacks blow plumes of water vapour into the chill, still air. In New York, while they headed to Harlem, I went to visit the vast model of a blue whale at the Natural History Museum and, OK, a tad embarrassing, felt myself go misty-eyed with awe.
That marked the start of a solo adventure across the years, exploring this fairly random, mostly unshared interest of mine: through aquariums, boat trips, dives and more. (With a healthy dose of respect. You will not catch me dangling into the sea in a flimsy cage like bait for a Great White, oh ho!)
It’s not particularly productive, or useful, or social, or anything like that. There is no Run Club equivalent. I’ve no intention of one day escaping to be a marine biologist (biology A-level had quite enough wielding of quadrants in bogs), or heading off to sea. And yet it’s these funny little interests - when you follow your genuine curiosity - than make up some of the most personal and rewarding parts of our lives.
In the unparalleled Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons, AKA the funniest novel I’ve ever read, the doctor brought it to tend to the mental health of the ailing Judith has a tried and tested method of assigning safely obscure interests to his patients: in her case, touring the cathedrals of Europe (she can afford it, he opines). For me, well, you’ve heard enough. But in his eyes, it’s the secret to happiness.
Yet just this weekend I read this piece full of very good advice for weaning us out of “time sucking internet rabbit holes”, from envy scrolling to snooping on people from school. I was nodding along in agreement, until I hit the last par, warning against:
What? Stop spending my downtime reading about mysteries of the deep, and watching surfers recount their tales of their brushes with “juvies” (juvenile Great Whites)? Explaining that the worst thing to feel when you’re sitting on your board is something cold, solid and big brush against your dangling leg…? Perish the thought.
In fact, I would say for the writers and creators of all types among us - and I think we’re all creators, more on that later - following your interests should be treated less as an indulgence, more a call to action. That’s not to say it ever has to turn into anything - to be in any way productive at all. (Although, funnily enough, surrounded by all this sharkiness - it really can feel as if the universe, or your creative subconscious, or whatever you want to call it, can start bashing you on the head with something - I suddenly had an idea for a next book.)
At the least, it’s an exercise in following what interests you. Which tends to be the very first step to coming up with something that is all yours…
So - what’s your secret interest - the Dutch tulip craze? Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy’s nineties style hits? Let me know in the comments - and let’s celebrate it!
Meanwhile, this summer, I’ll be stalking like a shark:
This glass for party sharks:
Sorry, but LOOK:
A Calvin Klein Jaws t-shirt: Raf Simons’ 'SS19 homage to Spielberg’s classic underlined that sharks are the chicest animals in the sea: blank-eyed, unbothered, essentially cool. But I’m not paying £400 for a top and I’m suspicious of fakes on the resale sites (all those Anine Bing sweatshirts on Vinted? Be warned.)
What I am wearing is this recent gift from an old and patient friend (when you’ve been housemates in your early twenties, it’s hard to hide what truly floats your boat: she used bring me soothing cups of morning tea while I read, yes, a photo book about whales to help me contemplate my place in the universe and so calm my nerves as a fretful trainee in my very first job.)
I’m experimenting with when this email will come out. Any preferences for when you prefer to read Substacks, let me know. And a chat about how to find the right time for you to write TC.
I’m pretty sure my husband shares a similar passion - every few months there’s a new shark related programme he’s found. For me it’s dinosaurs 🤷🏼♀️ and watching illustrators paint tiny bricks with watercolours. Y tho.
I think sharks are a secret passion for many - maybe the female equivalent of the Roman Empire phenomenon?! My personal wormhole are videos of good chiropractic cracks but will settle for stories if desperate. weirdly satisfying.