They are fired up. That can of chum is theirs. The sharks attack the chum, slashing and biting at it, like panthers on a feeding rage. The can drops in slow motion, sharks slamming into it from every which way. As it settles on the bottom, the sharks' thrashing kicks up a storm of sand that spreads toward me.
Sharks veer in and out of the sandstorm, their eyes ablaze.
I back off gingerly, careful not to overreact. As quickly as the feeding frenzy started, it is over. The chum bucket, now scored with teeth marks, is empty, lying next to me on the sand. Slowly, deliberately, I ascend. Midway to the surface, I pause and listen closely to my breathing for signs of alarm.