The Shark Whisperer. Ellen Prager
“Yeah, tastes kinda weird. What’s the word? It tastes . . . tart. That’s it and it looks sort of pink. Maybe it’s to go along with the room.”
The older teens nearly inhaled their food, finishing dinner quickly. The new campers at the Seasquirt tables were the last to clear their plates. Hugh sat down to examine his map.
“Let’s just follow them,” Tristan suggested, nodding toward the Seasquirt girls who also had their maps out and were heading for the door.
“Okay, I’ll just keep track to be sure we’re headed in the right direction.”
On the way out, Hugh was so focused on the map he missed a step down. Like cascading dominoes, he tumbled into Tristan who then stumbled into the two girls in front of them. One of the girls fell hard to the ground.
“Hey, watch where you’re going wet head. Are you an idiot, along with being all wet?” said the girl sprawled on the hard-packed sand. She glared at him angrily. Her shoulder-length hair was the color of dishwater and looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in days, if ever. She was wearing a black T-shirt and well-worn, baggy jeans with big blotches of dirt.
“Hey, it wasn’t even my fault this time,” Tristan said. “Are you okay?”
“Of course, I’m okay. Do you think I’m some prissy little girl who takes a tumble and gets hurt? It’ll take more than that, pal.”
She turned on her heel and strode off.
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” the other girl said. She was about Hugh’s height, thin but not skinny, and dressed in a frilly tan shirt and jean shorts. Her long, straight hair fell down her back. It was the color of wheat speckled with gold.
“Hi. I’m Sam. That’s Rosina. She’s not the most friendly sort, if you know what I mean. Are you guys going to the Poseidon Theater?”
“Yeah,” Tristan replied, staring at her large gray-blue eyes. They seemed to sparkle with curiosity and maybe a little mischief.
“Great, me too,” Sam said, walking in the direction the girl Rosina had gone.
Tristan and Hugh looked at one another. Neither of them was used to girls coming up and talking to them, especially pretty ones. Then again, it wasn’t like she just started talking to them out of the blue. After all, they had run into her, nearly plowed her down in fact. Tristan didn’t know what to say. As it turned out, he didn’t have to worry about his ability to make conversation.
“Where are you from? Me, I’m from Maine. The water there is really cold and there’s lots of lobster. People come from all over to eat them. There aren’t any fish like in the streams here. Did you see the dolphins in the lagoon? Isn’t this awesome? What did you say your names were?”
“I’m Tristan and he’s Hugh.”
“I’ve never been snorkeling. Have you? Can’t wait to do it. And a wave pool, that is soooo cool.”
“Yeah, should be awesome,” Tristan said, looking at Hugh and wondering how she could talk so fast and breathe at the same time.
“Wonder when we’ll get to go in? Hope it’s tomorrow. Though I don’t really want to go with Rosina. Who else is in your room? Hey, how did you get all wet? Where did you say you’re from?”
Tristan just looked at her, his mouth slightly agape. He wasn’t sure which of her questions to try to answer before she started talking again.
Sam laughed awkwardly. “Sorry ‘bout that, I kinda talk a lot when I get nervous.”
“Kinda a lot?” Tristan asked with a grin.
Sam shrugged and they all laughed, then headed to the Poseidon Theater.
It was dark inside the secret room hidden between the Poseidon Theater and the Conch Café. The only light came from the images on the flat screens mounted on the walls and spread out on the curved table at the front.
“It looks like it’s in the Bermuda Triangle area again,” Jade said.
“Jade, I’ve told you several times. Please do not call it that,” Director Davis instructed.
“Okay, well, word is that there’s something happening in the Bahamas,” Jade responded, pointing to a screen where a satellite image of the Bahamas showed an area outlined in red. There was a wishbone-shaped series of small islands in the middle of the highlighted region.
“Anything more specific? What about you Flash, any word from the net?” Director Davis asked, directing his question to a curly-haired African American boy sitting in a swivel chair at the front table.
The boy’s fingers flew over several keyboards as he talked. “Director, I’m patched in and sources in the region tell us that there’ve been several blasts in the area, a subsea sandstorm, and several pilot whales have been injured.”
“Any idea on the cause? Is it a military exercise?”
“Doesn’t appear to be, usually they let us know on those ahead of time.”
“Should we send a team in?” Jade asked eagerly.
“Not so fast,” the director responded. “I’d like to get a little more information before we rush in, especially now. Tap into the satellites and ocean observing buoys. And see if the seismic instruments have picked anything up. I’ll make a few calls.”
TRISTAN, HUGH, AND SAM WERE THE LAST TO arrive at the Poseidon Theater. The other new campers were already there, sitting on the tiered benches of the large half-roofed amphitheater. At the front was a large stage area with a shallow pool curving around it and behind that, were some tall reddish-tan rocks and greenery. The theater was eerily quiet and dark.
“So, are we, like, just supposed to sit here? Where’s that coach dude?” Ryder complained loudly.
Suddenly, a kaleidoscope of swirling lights lit up the stage and pool. From surround-sound speakers came a drumroll. A door in one of the rocks slid open and Coach Fred walked out. He was wearing a sparkly red sequined vest and camouflage pants. In his hand was a long three-pronged shimmering pole that closely resembled a rake with an overdose of glued-on glitter. Tristan couldn’t decide if he looked more like an odd military and Broadway musical hybrid or a cross between a soldier and circus ringmaster.
“And now to showcase the best and the brightest, the bravest of campers, let’s give a big Sea Camp hand for Rory,” he announced.
Tristan, Hugh, and Sam looked at each other, clearly all thinking the same thing.
“Is that the same guy as before?” Tristan whispered.
“It’s the same guy alright,” Ryder told them quietly. “I heard he’s ex-Navy, but always wanted to be in show business.”
“Ya think?” Tristan said.
From the top of the amphitheater came a loud, “Woohoooo!”
Tristan and the rest of the Seasquirts turned. An older boy, maybe seventeen or so, came flying down across the theater toward the stage. At first it seemed as if he was soaring impossibly through the air, but then they realized he was holding onto a clear handle sliding along a zip line. Just before reaching the stage he let go, did a backflip, and landed in the shallow pool.
A