The Boy, the Dog, and the Shark

Alone on the beach on a late afternoon in Lihue, save for an older couple perched under their fading speckled umbrella nearby, the boy danced knee deep with the lazier waves as they struck his deft, sun-browned body. Having grown up on the island of Kauai - though not indigenous to the Kingdom of Hawai'i as many of his classmates and neighbors were - Luke was an agile swimmer and knew the dangers the vast Pacific presented. At this moment, however, he was toying with the sea, as it toyed with him.

Hands in his cutoff pockets, the boy tightly gripped the pocketknife he'd received for his 10th birthday. This had become a habit, along with kicking sand into the frothing water, killing time until he had to go home for supper.

His mother would be expecting him. He knew that when the sun had dropped behind the flat line of the horizon, he should be sitting at the kitchen table, hands washed and feet free of sand, in dry clothing.

But it was May 5, 1945: a Saturday. He could fudge staying out later than he normally would. There was no school tomorrow, just church and Sunday school. His parents were still on the lanai two blocks away sipping lemonade and gin - a Saturday afternoon ritual for them.

His companions had gone their separate ways, but the waves still played with Luke, rising further upon the sand as the tide arrived.

The allure of the ocean was tough to abandon. He had trouble tearing himself away from the peacefulness of the beach. Captivating Kalapaki was Luke's playground.

About 12 hours away into the night on the other side of the world, peace also thrived, and good news came more often. German forces were surrendering, and in Prague, the Czech resistance fought alongside beleaguered residents to keep their beautiful city out of teutonic hands. A castle in Austria was fought over and relinquished to Allied forces.

Luke knew little about the war, except what his father spoke of somberly after the evening news. Troops were everywhere on Kauai, anxious for action: but they too were awaiting a peaceful end.

Some of Luke's friends played out imaginary battles on the beach, with invisible rifles held to their shoulders. Though he was a Boy Scout, wore the uniform and learned to always "be prepared," Luke had no desire to become a soldier. The thought of people shooting each other sent shivers down his spine.

What was happening two continents away seemed of little importance when he was out here on the beach. The only battles he knew were against crabs he tried to capture, or an occasional fistfight against a curious shark - what the Hawaiians called mano.

A watercraft had entered Luke's field of vision minutes before. Now, as it glided closer, he squinted to identify it.

A very good swimmer, he could paddle out to the boat if he wanted. It was his fancy to climb aboard the boats that anchored nearby, standing abow, hands on hips and knife in mouth like a pirate, surprising the fishermen or tourists on board, then diving back in and hiding from all of them as he swam among his friends manō, honu and nai'a - shark, turtle and dolphin - smiling surreptitiously under the water like these pelagic creatures.

The dingy boat slowed, and Luke could not tell whether it was a fishing or a private vessel that had harbored nearby at Nāwiliwili. He didn't recognize the name painted on the hull, though he had walked the planks at the harbor often, admiring the crafts that docked there. Except for occasional newcomers - which were few during these wartime years - he knew all the boats' names.

Several men were aboard the incoming boat: he could tell by the dark, moving figures. The only one standing struggled with a long-limbed object alive in his hands. Luke peered further, seeing it wasn't a live squid or large crab but something with only four legs.

Luke's heart dropped into his stomach. It was a canine being dangled by its hind legs, body writhing. Unsuccessfully it twisted to get free of its charge, and Luke now heard audible yelping. The men bellowed when the dog attempted to bite its captor's hands.

Luke wished he could swim to the boat now. He and the dog would swim for cover, and the men would be tossed into the bay after a kick in the pants, one by one, learning their lesson.

If only his father were here. He'd do something.

Looking up the coast for any adult that might help him, Luke saw he was completely alone. The old couple was already crossing the grass lawn of the beach park, and calling to them would be futile, due to the drowning-out sounds of the crashing waves behind him.

Darkness would be upon him in minutes, and he was reminded of supper. He turned to go home, leaving the sorry scene, hoping the men would tire of their morbid entertainment.

With a splash and a new roar of shouting emanating from across the water, Luke realized that the tormentor had thrown the dog into the ocean.

Returning his sights to the sea, Luke wasn't solid sure what had happened until he saw the dog pitching and punching the waves with its front paws, its rear end and tail dropping out of sight.

The engine of the boat turned over in a loud sputter. As it began to pull away from the dog, crests of the boat's wake washed over its head. The men were still laughing and calling to the dog. Why would these men hurt their companion? It was inconceivable.

Luke stood aghast on the shore, watching the animal attempt to follow the boat, swimming farther out. He had no choice: he had to swim to the dog. It would not survive without him.

The darkening sky silently beckoned Luke out to where the dog labored. The boy had certainly swum that far before, in worse conditions. 

He was not afraid. But to remind him of the peril he faced, a rogue wave fell on top of Luke, knocking him down into the sand and churning foam all around.

The ocean's intimidation was of no consequence. Luke stood, pulled his shorts up, touched the knife in his pocket and dove into the ocean, ducking under the incoming waves.

Keeping his eye on the dog, Luke made great strides swimming, throwing his arms and powering his legs. The tidal currents carried Luke along, helping him reach the dog more quickly than anticipated.

As he came abreast of the animal, it floundered under a dipping wave, its head barely staying above the surface. Whites of its eyes showing, it scrutinized Luke not as threat, but as a flotation device, something it could hold onto. Desperately advancing, it pawed the water turbulently until its feet made contact with Luke's arms and chest.

The boy seized the dog, pulling its forelegs around his shoulders so he could use one arm (and two legs) to swim them both back. He held onto the dog's left paw with his left hand, using his right to paddle. He saw the dog had a deep cut in its right front leg, and fresh scarlet blood drained out of the wound with every surge of salt water that washed over it.

The dog did not fight Luke's efforts. Curling its paws around his shoulders, it dug its claws into Luke's skin as he headed for land. Lamentably, the evening currents now resisted Luke's shorebound efforts, instead of abetting him.

Then another, more deadly dilemma appeared below the water's surface.

Kicking his legs at the open ocean, sea floor too far beneath him for contact, Luke's foot struck a rough, sandy-feeling body. He didn't wonder what he had touched, for his eyes spotted gray, sinewy figures circling several feet away.

These were sharks, reef sharks. Luke recognized the white tips of the dorsal and tail fins of the largest. Normally more social than other species and not aggressive, they were aroused, having detected the scent of blood in the short time the injured creature had been in the water. This drew them closer than they would commonly congregate.

Luke respected manō. Sharks were revered by Hawaiians as demi-gods, magical creatures. Indigenous to the islands, they were sacred. They were efficient, sleek, and eerily fascinating. Knowing their power, Luke was also frightened.

His heart trembled only briefly. This was no time for fear. He had a mission: to rescue the wounded dog.

Luke decided when he dove into the ocean minutes before that the dog - his favorite animal - was not going to drown at the hands of humans. Nor was it divine decree in Luke's mind that either the boy or the canine would be consumed by a shiver of sharks.

The situation did not improve the closer they got to the shoreline. His shoulders and neckline were scratched by the dog's claws and bleeding, and more sharks circled in the shallow water. With the dog on his back, Luke's movements weren't graceful. Nevertheless, he kept pumping his legs and arms.

The largest shark swam right beneath the boy and twisted back quickly, causing a flurry of excitement among the others. Beholden to his duty, Luke pulled the folded pocketknife from his pocket with his paddling hand.

At the very least, he could pummel the leader with the butt of his weapon, slamming it down on the predator as hard as he could. Just as he had no wish for the dog to lose its life, similarly Luke wished no ill or death upon the sharks that now surrounded him, especially the one that seemed to guide him inland. He would head-stun one or two; they would give up and swim away.

Incredibly, the dog still clutched the boy's shoulders. The seething pain of the dog's claws was barely felt, but the burning in Luke's lungs from exertion seared through his ribcage. Gratefully, he saw he was several yards from shore.

Similarly, the blood-crazed sharks knew their prey would soon be out of reach. Growing more bold, they came closer despite his blows. Luke kicked at the brazen beasts with his feet and swiped at them with his unopened knife. He could hardly paddle with his free arm, having to use the threat of the knife more often to scare them away.

As Luke's toes skimmed sand beneath him, the dauntless lead shark fixated on the dog's hindquarters, mouth agape. Was this an admonition or a threat?

Vulnerable, Luke pressed the release on his weapon. Swooshing it open through the water, he stealthily dipped the point of the knife into the shark's side as it neared, cheerlessly feeling the blade penetrate the tough, sandy skin.

A stream of red fluid poured from its abdomen, and a new chaos Luke could not turn to watch ensued. Both feet had a firm footing, and he trudged with the now heavy burden, waves lapping and pushing him onto the shoreline. Behind him, the brutal sharks fed on the fallen victim, their former ally.

Gasping, he settled the soaked dog on the beach, then regained his bearings, looking back at the ocean. Out of habit, he held the knife tightly in his right fist, knuckles white.

The dog shivered and coughed, attempting to stand and favoring only the injured leg. Remarkably, no sharks had mutilated either of them.

Luke's throat tightened in a lump and he felt tears come.

He had survived, and the dog would live. But his heart wrenched for his unfortunate adversary, the manō, an island inhabitant that, like Luke and the dog, only wished to live another day.

(This fictional rendition is based on a true story. Details can be found in the archives of the Hawaiian newspaper, the Honolulu Advertiser, August 1945.)