I’ve had a love/hate relationship with sharks for as long as I can remember.
When I was a girl, my parents took me and my sister on frequent outings to the Vancouver aquarium in Stanley Park.
I vaguely remember all of the exciting features: people feeding pigeons by the entrance doors, white belugas smiling through the glass of the underground viewing station, small unsuspecting tanks teaming with glow-in-the-dark fish.
I remember the squeals we made as sea anemones danced and entangled our fingers, and the disappointment I felt when I couldn’t swim with the whales as the trained professionals did.
The entire experience was captivating, but there was one aquarium feature in particular that rooted itself into my reminiscence. It was a well preserved shark jaw, complete with layers of teeth and tourists posing with their heads carefully placed in the middle of it all.
As my delicate fingers traced the jagged fangs, a youthful curiosity and puzzling admiration transfixed me.
The shark; the king of the ocean; the animal who could swallow me whole…