A Very Toothy Christmas

Marnie and I could be forgiven for thinking the ocean has something against us. Unseasonably gloomy weather descends upon the coast whenever we even think about a beach trip. First Mozambique, then Cape Town, then Sossusvlei in Namibia. So when the hotel manager in Mossel Bay sang the familiar tune of, “I don’t understand, it’s usually so beautiful this time of year”, knowing glances were exchanged.

We spent the afternoon lazing about our room before heading into town, a blanket of clouds completely obscuring the Indian Ocean barely a mile away. Inspired by “Christmas Story”, we ate an early dinner at a Chinese restaurant. An Asian fella checking the place out rudely insinuated that the white owners couldn’t make authentic cuisine. Your loss pal, more sushi for me.

The pub up the road was serving three local draught beers, including Mitchell’s excellent Raven Stout, so naturally I got to enjoy all of one before the taps all went kerplunk simultaneously. Back in the room, watching yet another crappy made-for-tv Christmas movie, our shark tour operator texted to inform us we were meeting at 6:15 in the a.m. as opposed to the expected 8:30.

So I’m feeling pretty cranky on the boat, having been deprived of my hotel breakfast, the pungent smell of fishy chum in the air. The blazer I was wearing was more appropriate for a day of yachting, previous assertions of the warm, calm waters of Mossel Bay leaving me ill prepared for the conditions. Given our luck in Simon’s Town, I fully expected to sit bobbing on our smelly barge for three hours before heading home. So when our annoyingly upbeat tour guide called out “shark!” I nearly fell out of my seat.

A family of six was going to be first in the cage strapped to the side of the boat, but the father wussed out, so I was deputised. Entering the cage last, the big Afrikaner guy next to me was reluctant to make room, smooshing me uncomfortably into the corner. The captain threw the bait rope into the water, pulling the rope from left to right across the cage. He called out for us to take a breath and duck under water.

The freezing water would have been enough to take my breath away, but the thirteen foot shark coming right at me, mouth agape, was quite enough to do the trick. In that moment I couldn’t help thinking, “This is what it’s like to be eaten”. The shark got within three feet of the cage before turning around the corner. In shock I gulped a good helping of sea water, lwhich left me feeling quite green for the rest of the trip.

My remaining fifteen minutes in the water were much calmer. As I discussed with Marnie, being underwater is actually quite surreal, like watching a Discovery Channel special in 3D. It’s not till you come back to the surface and see that dorsal fin thrashing in the water that it seems real. Marnie had a more adventurous ride than me, the big female they call “Sharkira” taking some time to gnaw on her corner of the cage. In total, five to seven sharks visited the boat (they couldn’t identify a couple), including a frisky one late on that was launching out of the water at the bait .

The pressure of seeing the sharks lifted at last, our luck seemed to change. The sun finally emerged, and we basked by the hotel pool all afternoon before enjoying the sunset with a bottle of wine down at the Point. A campground and restaurants line the seafront, revellers watching the surfers and drinking sundowners from the comfort of their festively decorated tents and campers.

The skies clouded over again on Christmas Eve as we set off for Plettenberg Bay. The drive up the Garden Route was beautifully scenic, with scenic elements of the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York and the canopied hills of Rwanda, all set against the backdrop of the Scottish western highlands. Plett itself is a pretty little resort town built into a hillside overlooking the Indian Ocean. Our hotel sits right at the intersection of river and ocean, divided by a long spit of land known as Lookout Beach.

Our hotelier informed us that a surge in that aforementioned river nearly swept the hotel away three years prior. An expat Dutchman of some advanced years, our host gave us an exhaustive list of activities in the area, but the drizzly skies dampened our enthusiasm for much recreation. An interesting if somewhat insistent guy, our Dutchman was also very forgetful, routinely asking us the same questions and greeting us each morning in incomprehensible Afrikaans.

The most we were able to accomplish was a walk around uptown to find somewhere to eat dinner. The Kitchen Café had a special holiday menu that included turkey, and we were served by another friendly expat, this time an Englishwoman, who understood our longing for snow and Christmas cheer. We ended up drinking far too much wine and playing pool in the bar upstairs, surely a Christmas Eve first (the poolsticks, not the booze).

We made our way to the beach at last on Christmas Day, the sun only cooperating sporadically. I braved the frigid ocean waters only briefly, each step into deeper water stinging like razor blades. A large rogue wave finally forced my hand, and I dove in, feeling a bit like a skater who plunged beneath the ice. In this way, at least, I got my dose of festive holiday weather.

Later we borrowed a kayak from the hotel and paddled across the river’s mouth to Lookout Island. Crossing the dunes, I stopped to take a picture of a fledgling seagull, causing momma seagull to divebomb a few feet above our heads. I found this hilarious; Marnie, less so.

The restaurants that stay open book up early on Christmas day, so we decided to once again go for Chinese fare. In honor of Ralphie’s father, I did indeed dine on Chinese turkey, though from the somewhat more glamorous confines of our patio overlooking the bay.

So it wasn’t our ideal Christmas season, but it could have been worse. We got to play with Jaws, had a somewhat festive meal and took a dip in the Indian Ocean on Christmas day. Turning onto the highway leading to the airport, a traffic cop cheekily waved and yelled at Marnie, “Goodbye, I love you!” Love you too, my bru, but unlike Santa, don't expect me to return next year.