Swimming With Sharks

                “Most shark attacks occur within the first three feet of water, you know,” Jeremy said, warily eyeing the moon-stained sea. Waves lapped up the sandy beach, nearly moistening the jumbled pile of hastily shed pink sheets that had, until short moments before, acted as togas.

            I whirled, incredulous, my eyes shocked away from the naked flesh of the five female swimmers who had drunkenly agreed to join the three of us men in this soiree by the seaside. “What?” I blurted stupidly, knowing as I said it, I should not have encouraged an encore. My brother, of course, was only too eager to oblige me, and too oblivious to the obvious fact that his words might have a cooling effect on the loins of these women, loins which were fuelled at that moment by the fiery burning of ouzo, impacting the potential outcome of this exciting, fleshy adventure.

            “Most shark attacks, on humans anyway, occur in the first three feet of water.” I made desperate shushing motions with my hands, already up to my navel in the wine dark waters of the Ionian Sea. Brad, a few metres away, also looked back at Jeremy in annoyance, off balance, as the nymph-like form he had been about to embrace took a quick step back towards the apparent safety of the sand. The other four female bathers also began to edge away from the waves, which to me still seemed to be beckoning us forward into its warm embrace. Indeed, the water had never felt finer, the salty tang of it on my tongue. One of the girls, naked in the moon foam, shivered slightly, before announcing in her southern drawl that she was feeling chilled. The others were quick to agree.

            Desperate, I pointed out that the water was incredibly warm, and that if they would but join us in the surf (well, Brad and I, as Jeremy still clung to the ankle deep water at the edge of the strand), we would be sure to shake off the chill that hung in the clear August air. “No, no,” said the now goose-pimpled female, recognizing that the moment had been lost, the mood of youthful, sexual exuberance over, “I feel like turning in. It has been a long and crazy night. Thanks guys, this was fun.” Her friends agreed with this new assessment, and I could only watch helplessly as they made their retreat from the ocean side, bodies shining white in the pale light. Within moments, they had re-donned their togas, and bid us gentlemen a fond adieu, giggling at what could have been.

            We were not nearly so merry. “You idiot,” I said.

 Jeremy looked back at me defensively. “What?” he asked. “It is true, most attacks do happen in water close to shore. I hate swimming at night, freaks me out.”

“It doesn’t matter if it is true! Now was not the time to bring it up. Tomorrow over a breakfast in their rooms would have been better,” I shot back. I looked to Brad for support, but he was staring off up the beach, in the direction that the girls had gone off in. No doubt he was re-living the sway of hips, the sight of scandalously unveiled torsos, and then their tragic disappearance. I shook my head.

Jer perked up, trying to be helpful. “None of them were very good looking anyway,” he offered by way of compromise.

“It doesn’t matter. Jer, let me explain this to you. We are on Corfu, in Agios Gordios, at the Pink Palace. We went to its most epic weekly event, the Toga Party, and were about to cap that experience off with a naked swim in the sea with five women. And now? A shark attack has bitten off my libido …” I moved to dress, as did the others. We had no desire to swim naked with each other, after all. The climb back up the hill to our room was long indeed; long, and far lonelier than it should have been. Those god-damned sharks…