I Survived the Shark Attacks of 1916 Page 4

  “Your uncle said your leg will be okay,” Dewey said.

  “You’re going to have a huge scar,” Sid said. He sounded almost jealous.

  Chet hadn’t looked too closely at his leg when the nurses changed his bandages. That was when it hurt the most, when they washed the wound. He had to keep his eyes closed tight and bite down on a rag to keep from screaming until the cleaning was done. A chunk of flesh was missing from his calf. He’d have more than a scar. He’d have a limp.

  “Just like me,” Uncle Jerry had said. “Won’t slow you down a bit.”

  “Minnie keeps asking about you,” Dewey said.

  Chet wondered what Minnie would think of a boy with a limp.

  Sid moved a little closer to Chet. “We’re sorry,” he whispered.

  “We’re sorry for everything,” said Monty.

  Sid looked like he was about to cry. “It’s my fault.”

  “What?” Chet said. “You didn’t put the shark in the creek.”

  Sid laughed a little, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

  “We should have listened to you,” Monty said. “If we had gotten out of the water, you wouldn’t have gotten bitten.”

  “And if you hadn’t come,” Dewey said, “we’d be …”

  “But if I hadn’t played that stupid prank,” Chet said, “you would have believed me.”

  “You saved me,” Sid said.

  “You guys saved me,” Chet said. He swallowed hard, and they all sniffled a little.

  Then a hush came over the room. And in that quiet moment, Chet realized something: He and the guys would always be tied together. By the terrible things they’d seen. By what they’d done for each other.

  It was a while before Sid said, “We’re calling a truce. No more pranks.”

  As usual, nobody argued with Sid. It was settled.

  The guys stayed all afternoon, until Uncle Jerry poked his head in and said it was time to go. The guys lingered until Uncle Jerry shooed them out the door.

  “Wait for me,” Uncle Jerry told them, and then he closed the door and came over to Chet’s bed.

  “Your mama called the hospital,” he said. “She and your papa will be here after dinner tonight.”

  Chet smiled.

  “You know,” Uncle Jerry said, straightening the sheet, “I had an idea, thought I’d mention it to you.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Maybe your papa would like to help me run the diner,” Uncle Jerry said. “It’s a busy place. I think he might enjoy it. We do well enough. And I sure wouldn’t mind having more time to myself.”

  It took Chet a few seconds to understand what Uncle Jerry was saying.

  “Your papa might decide it’s time to settle down,” Uncle Jerry said. “I’m not sure he’ll say yes, but I guess it’s worth a try, don’t you think?

  Chet opened his mouth to say something, but the words seemed to be all stuck together. So he just nodded.

  “Okay then, kiddo. It’s a plan.”

  Chet lay there a while after Uncle Jerry left. He thought about Mama and Papa. He couldn’t wait to introduce them to the guys, and to Captain Wilson. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but it had been a long day. Before long he dozed off.

  He dreamed that he was an old man, sitting in a diner, telling a story to a gang of boys. He told them about a shark in a creek, a huge killer shark with bloody jaws and coal-black eyes. He described how the shark had chased him, how it scared him out of his wits. But in the end, the beast couldn’t get him. Because Chet hadn’t been alone. Because his friends had reached out for him. They’d held him tight.

  And they never let him go.

  THE SHARK ATTACKS OF 1916: AN UNBELIEVABLE TRUE STORY

  Imagine reading an article about a rabbit that suddenly turned into a bloodthirsty killer.

  You would laugh, maybe, or shake your head in disbelief.

  That’s how most Americans in 1916 felt when they first heard about the shark attacks along the New Jersey shore. A shark attacking a human? Impossible! Sharks are tame creatures, most people believed, easily scared, with jaws too weak to do real damage to a human. There were no real marine biologists in those days, no scuba gear or submarines for underwater exploration. There had never been close studies of sharks, just stories passed down over generations. And of course everyone knew about Hermann Oelrichs and his famous reward: In 1891, the tycoon had offered $500 to anyone who could prove that a person had ever been attacked by a shark along the East Coast of the United States, north of North Carolina. Decades went by and nobody collected the reward. This seemed to confirm the popular belief that sharks posed no danger to humans.

  And then came the attacks of 1916.

  Though the characters in my book are made up, the major events of the story are true. Over twelve days during the scorching hot July of 1916, four people were killed in shark attacks. First Charles Vansant and then Charles Bruder were fatally wounded swimming in the ocean. Then, sixteen miles from the ocean, eleven-year-old Lester Stillwell was killed while he was swimming with his buddies in the Matawan Creek. Twenty-four-year-old Stanley Fisher was attacked trying to rescue Lester. Twelve-year-old Joseph Dunn was bitten on the leg but survived, just like Chet.

  These attacks shocked America and shattered false ideas about sharks. There was no doubt that these were shark attacks. Two days after the Matawan attacks, a great white shark was caught in the Raritan Bay. It had human bones in its stomach, which seemed to prove that the killer had been caught.

  But over the past few decades, scientists and investigators have raised questions about the attacks. Many doubt a lone great white was responsible. They say a bull shark is more likely to have attacked in the Matawan Creek, since that is the only man-eating species that can easily survive in fresh water for a length of time. In the weeks before the first attacks, ship captains had reported seeing more sharks than usual in the Atlantic shipping lanes, including great whites and bull sharks. Perhaps some unusual ocean or weather conditions had attracted sharks to the shore areas, where they tragically crossed paths with swimmers. We will never know for sure.

  What we do know is that shark attacks are extremely rare.

  And that the attacks of 1916 will never be forgotten.

  FACTS ABOUT SHARK ATTACKS

  • Of the more than 350 known species of sharks, only 4 are particularly prone to attack a human: the bull shark, the great white, the tiger shark, and the hammerhead. The bull shark is considered by many experts to be the most dangerous to humans.

  • Shark attacks are very rare. In 2008, there were 118 attacks reported worldwide, and 4 deaths. Of those attacks, 59 were “unprovoked,” which means that the shark attacked someone who was not doing anything to deliberately attract or touch it. In contrast, an average of 125,000 people die of snakebites each year.

  • Some scientists believe that most sharks don’t mean to attack humans, but mistake surfers or swimmers for large sea mammals, like seals. This could explain why most shark attacks on humans are not fatal — a shark takes one bite, realizes its mistake, and swims away.

  • Most shark attacks happen to people swimming alone in the ocean. Experts suggest that the best way to avoid an attack is to swim in groups. Other tips: Avoid swimming at night or at dusk. Swimming with a dog can be dangerous, because the whirling motion of the dog’s paws in the water can attract sharks. Leave jewelry at home, since bright objects can also attract sharks. And don’t swim in the ocean if you have a bleeding wound.

  • Florida is the number-one shark-attack state, with an average of thirty attacks a year. There have been no deaths over the past four years. California, Hawaii, North Carolina, and South Carolina have had a few attacks over the last five years. There has not been another attack recorded in New Jersey since 1926.

  • Every year, humans kill nearly 100 million sharks, mainly for their fins, which are a prized ingredient for shark fin soup. Many shark species are endangered, including the great white.

&n
bsp; • The International Shark Attack File investigates every reported shark attack in the world and maintains detailed records. Check out their fascinating website: http://www.flmnh.ufl.edu/fish/

  Teaser

  Cleo threw up all day. Barry tried to help keep her calm. But even he couldn’t get her to stop crying. Mom managed to talk to their doctor, who had evacuated. He said there was a bad stomach flu going around, and that Cleo wouldn’t start to feel better until tomorrow.

  Mom and Dad talked about going to the Superdome. But the news reports said there were already ten thousand people at the stadium, and more people lined up around the building. They decided with Cleo still sick, they were better off at home.

  All afternoon, Barry stepped out on the porch to look at the sky.

  It was windier than usual, and the sky was a dark gray streaked with silver. But the strangest thing was the silence. Their block was deserted. There were no motorcycles vrooming. No kids laughing and shouting. No music playing or basketballs bouncing. Usually the trees were filled with birds, and frogs chirped from the bushes. But there wasn’t a bird in sight, and not a peep to be heard.

  And then, at around 10:00 that night, the winds and rain started up for real.

  Dad and Barry were settled on the living room couch. The baseball playoffs were on. Mom and Cleo were fast asleep.

  The wind whispered at first. Then it started to whistle, and moan, and finally it was shrieking so loudly Dad had to turn up the TV. Barry moved closer to Dad.

  Soon there were other noises.

  Pom, pom, pom.

  “That’s just the rain banging against the metal roof on the shed,” Dad said.

  Kabang!

  “I think a gutter came loose.”

  Chechong!

  “There goes part of someone’s fence.”

  Dad clicked off the TV. He reached over and grabbed his trumpet, which he always kept close by.

  The wind shrieked a high note. Dad put his trumpet to his lips and played along.

  The wind shifted lower, and so did Dad.

  He played softly, along with the wind, until after a while that wind didn’t seem so scary, until it actually sounded like a song. The house shook and rattled, but as Dad’s music filled the air, Barry started to feel safe. The lights were bright. Mom and Cleo were cozy in their beds. In a few hours the sky would turn blue again.

  Barry closed his eyes…. drifting, drifting, drifting …

  And then his eyes popped open.

  It took Barry a minute to understand that he had fallen asleep. The room was dark except for a candle flickering on the corner table. The power must have gone out. He squinted at his watch: 4:35. He’d slept for hours.

  And something woke him up. A noise. Not the wind, which was still shrieking and moaning. Not the rain, which hammered down even harder than when Barry closed his eyes. No. There was a new noise out there. A kind of whooshing sound.

  Barry sat up. How long had he slept?

  Where was Dad? And what was that strange noise that had woken Barry up?

  Barry heard Dad’s footsteps upstairs. He stood up, but before he could take two steps the front door flew open.

  A wave of water swept into the house. It swirled around Barry’s legs, knocking him off his feet.

  There was a shrieking sound, but this time it wasn’t the wind that was screaming.

  It was Barry.

  Dad was pounding down the stairs. He splashed through the water, grabbed Barry by the arm, lifting him up, and pulled him towards the stairs. Furniture floated around them—the new couch Mom saved for a year to buy, the little square lamp table where Gramps used to play chess, framed pictures of Barry and Cleo from school—all floating like bath toys. The water was rising so fast! It was up to Barry’s waist by the time they reached the stairs—and it kept getting higher and higher. It was like their house was a bucket being filled up by the biggest hose in the world.

  Where was all this water coming from?

  Mom burst out of her room with Cleo in her arms.

  She looked down the stairs and gasped. She wrapped her free arm around Barry, pulling him close.

  “The levee, Roddy,” she said to Dad.

  Dad nodded. “The canal.”

  “The levee broke?” Barry said, picturing the Industrial Canal a block and a half from their house. It was a football field wide, and so deep that barges could go through. Was all that water pouring into their neighborhood?

  Mom and Dad seemed frozen there, staring at the rising water.

  Panic boiled up inside Barry.

  “What will happen?” Barry said. “What will we do? What …” he trailed off, not even sure what he wanted to ask.

  They all stood there, huddled together, watching the water rise up the stairs.

  “We need to go up to the attic,” Dad said. “Now.”

  Dad pulled open the hatch in the ceiling and a blast of hot air came down. Barry had only been up there once in his life. It was a tiny space, dark and hot like an oven, with a ceiling that sloped down so you couldn’t stand up straight.

  Cleo started to cry.

  “No!” she said. She started to run. “No go up!”

  Dad caught her. “Cleo!” he said. She struggled to escape, screaming and squirming. There was no way they could force her up the rickety stairs.

  “It’s all right,” Barry managed to say, taking hold of his sister’s hand.

  Dad sent Mom up first. Then Barry put Cleo on the ladder, and climbed right behind her. Dad came last, and they all sat down together in the hot darkness. There was barely enough room for the four of them, and they were all squashed together. The air was so hot it burned Barry’s lungs. It stank like mildew and dust.

  He tried not to imagine what was happening just below the attic floor — that every single thing they owned — their furniture, their beds, Cleo’s toys, Mom’s cookbooks, Dad’s trumpet and all of his music — was covered with water.

  With every minute that ticked by, Barry felt more helpless and terrified. Cleo was whimpering again. Mom held her on her lap, rocking back and forth, singing softly to calm her.

  The water was rising through the second floor. They could hear it moving furniture around through the open attic door.

  What would they do? Where could they go?

  His whole body was shaking.

  What would happen to them? How would they escape?

  And then Dad put one hand on Barry’s shoulder and the other on Mom’s.

  “I want you to listen carefully,” he said, his voice low and calm. “We are all together. And as long as we’re all together, we are going to come through this.”

  Even in the darkness, Barry could see Dad’s eyes blazing.

  “In a few hours this will be over,” Dad said. “We just have to get through the next few hours.”

  Mom wiped away Barry’s tears.

  “We can’t stay here in the attic,” Dad said. “We’re going up onto the roof.”

  Mom’s eyes got wider. She swallowed. “All right,” she said.

  “But there’s no way out,” Barry said.

  “Yes, there is,” Dad said.

  Dad made his way to the corner of the attic. He came back with what looked like a stick.

  As he got closer, Barry saw what it was: an ax.

  “Gramps always said there’d be another bad storm,” Dad said. “He kept this ax up here for forty years. And he made sure I knew about it.”

  It took Barry a minute to understand what Dad was doing to do with that ax.

  “Keep the kids back,” Dad said to Mom.

  Mom had pulled Barry and Cleo against the back wall. She stood over them, her arms spread out like a shield.

  Dad heaved the ax over his shoulder. With a mighty swing, he smashed the blade into the ceiling.

  I Survived the Sinking of the Titanic

  UNSINKABLE. UNTIL ONE NIGHT …

  George Calder must be the luckiest kid alive. He and his little sister, Phoebe
, are sailing with their aunt on the Titanic, the greatest ship ever built. George can’t resist exploring every inch of the incredible boat, even if it keeps getting him into trouble.

  Then the impossible happens—the Titanic hits an iceberg and water rushes in. George is stranded, alone and afraid, on the sinking ship. He’s always gotten out of trouble before … but how can he survive this?

  About the Author

  PHOTO BY DAVID DREYFUSS

  Lauren Tarshis is the author of I Survived the Sinking of the Titanic, 1912, and the editor of Storyworks magazine. She has also written the critically acclaimed novels Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree and Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell in Love. She lives in Connecticut and can be found online at www.laurentarshis.com.

  Copyright

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

  Text copyright © 2010 by Lauren Tarshis

  Illustrations copyright © 2010 by Scholastic Inc.

  Cover art by Steve Stone

  Cover design by Tim Hall

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