He marvels at the rippling surface of the cerulean water from 30 feet below. Two tiger sharks patrol just under the surface, circling. Not going up now, he thinks. He glances at his watch. The timer tells him that he has exactly one minute and twenty one seconds left of compressed air. Shit.

Waiting at the floor of the reef for sharks to decide to leave isn’t really an option when you’ve only got precious moments of breathable air. Panic rises in his chest. Settle down, he tells himself, you’ll only use up your air faster. He’d read about people fending off shark attacks with their bare fists, but has no intention of trying to punch a shark in the eye.

Weaponless and his air fading quickly, his eyes dart around hoping to find something to use as defense in case the sharks decide he looks tasty enough for an afternoon snack. I must be dreaming he thinks, when he spots three plastic-wrapped packages of, oh thank you God, steak, floating in a group near the mouth of a barnacle-encrusted giant clam.