My Story for Shark Week

In 1990 I flew to San Diego with uncle Ion who was visiting from Romania. He wanted to see an exotic place in America and San Diego fit the bill.

We went to the aquarium, to the rocks on Imperial Beach, to La Jolla, and across the border into Tijuana.

I rented a car, braved the freeway traffic which was no small feat, coming from MS where the highways are pretty much empty most of the time, took our passports to make sure we were let back in by the border officers, on account that uncle Ion was very tanned and did not look like a pale gringo by any stretch of the imagination, left the car at the border, and walked across into Mexico all the way to downtown Tijuana where there was a large cathedral.

I will not bore you with the details of flies swarming over the freshly cut pineapple in the mercado or the human excrement on the floor of a very busy outdoor restaurant that sold yummy smelling tacos and other Mexican food, or the pungent odor of urine across a bridge.

You are probably wondering what this has to do with sharks. After all, we did not dare get in the angry water and surf breaking across the rocks in Imperial Beach - neither one of us can surf or swim in such high waves.

On returning from Mexico, the border agents did examine uncle Ion’s Romanian passport with suspicion; after we drove back to San Diego, we decided to eat in a nice restaurant in an outdoor mall.

The special for the day, you guessed it, was shark steak. I ordered for him, and he enjoyed his food immensely as I did. The difference was that I knew what the tasty meat was and he didn’t, he just assumed it was some ordinary fish. He did not speak English and he trusted me.

After we left, I asked him if he enjoyed being a cannibal. I explained that, what he ate, was a special kind of seafood, it was shark meat. "You never know what this shark ate before he was caught and became your meal, uncle."

He turned rather yellow and, from then on, carried his English-Romanian dictionary with him at all times, just to be on the safe side.

Uncle Ion, now 81 years old, still remembers this memorable incident from 31 years ago, and I’m not sure he has forgiven me.