The Shark Prince

I know I’m going to die soon. It’s taken most of my thirteen years to come to terms with that fact, but as I squint against the glare of the sun rising over Oʻahu’s rugged Waiʻanae range, I think I’m finally good with it. The surfboard I’m sitting on bobs as I wait for the next set to roll in.

“Sick way to spend the morning, huh?” I say under my breath, watching the sparkle of early rays spread across the water. Even out here with zero people near me, in this surf spot I’ve come to consider my sanctuary, I’m always careful of someone overhearing me talk to Dad. I know he’s going to give me grief over being out here and not back at home in class. My grades have been tanking with the ridiculous introduction of letters in math equations. Honestly, it shouldn’t even matter since I’ll never actually use them in the real world the way grown-​ups must. Still, I hurry to reassure him.

“Mom’ll be fine. I’ll get back before she starts math.” I swish my fingers through the water. “It’d be great if you could tell her to lighten up a bit.” It comes out harsher than I intend. Mom means well, but lately she’s been riding me about everything. “Maybe if you were around . . .” I don’t finish my sentence, feeling a hundred kinds of absurd. It’s impossible, I know. I slap the water next to my leg, sending a spray in the direction of where I imagine my dad would be floating on his board if he was actually with me.

But he’s not. He won’t ever be. I’ve got to let it go.

I can’t even imagine him well. Maybe if I’d seen more than the fuzzy pictures of Dad in Mom’s old yearbooks, I could formulate a better image. Mom says they dated and fell in love lightning fast. No one even knew they were together when she got pregnant. But Mom also does a stellar job of making it seem like I’m a product of her and her alone, keeping our house free and clear of all visual reminders of him, as if her sheer stubbornness can change my fate and wipe my genetic slate clean. Still, she can’t erase the fact that Dad is either dead or on the run, or er . . . swim. No one knows.

“You just couldn’t let me have a normal life, huh?” I snip at not-​Dad as my shoulders tighten. I roll them back, trying to shrug off the anger that is my constant companion these days. On good days I can be magnanimous and think that this short-​life gig isn’t the worst thing in the world. I’ll never have to pay bills or buy vegetables or any of that grown‑­up junk.

Other days . . . well . . . if Dad wasn’t already gone, I’d kill him myself for doing this to me.

“Was it worth it?” I yell out to the waves to release the pressure building in my chest. A golden kōlea cries as it flaps its wings overhead.

Dad was an epic big-​wave surfer. There are articles online about him surfing in competitions all over the world when he was still in high school. The Global Surfing League had a competition here in our hometown, and it ended horribly when he turned into a shark. A real one. I found a grainy video from back in the day when I went down a rabbit hole trying to learn more about him once. He was a human on his surfboard—​too far away to see clearly but definitely human—​dropping into a wave that he’d been waiting for. But then another guy dropped in on the wave, too, right in front of my dad.

My dad ate it. Total wipeout. Everyone on shore got on their feet, waiting for him to surface through the whitewash. And then—​and I watched this part of the video on repeat a million times—​a massive shark with my dad’s surfboard leash attached to the upper part of its tail came up and chomped down on the other surfer. Snatched him right off the board. The guy ended up dying and Dad disappeared. I couldn’t believe it. It felt like a betrayal of all things human.

Nobody in our valley talks about it. I’d never even heard about it until I found the video. I knew Tūtū would be my best bet at getting information about what happened that day, so I nagged her until she caved. She’s Mom’s mom, but she did her research after everything went down. Turns out, when Dad transformed and bit the surfer, it wasn’t the first time in his family’s history. She told me everything—​about my ancestor, the shark king Kāmohoaliʻi, and his son Nanaue (who essentially was a prince since his dad was the king), and all the descendants who were killed or disappeared for giving in to temptation and eating people, down to my dad and me.

That’s right. Me.

I’m the latest shark prince and winner in our family’s genetic lottery, and apparently, when I’m older, I’ll have much more serious things to worry about than new body hair and bad odors . . . I need to be concerned about spontaneously popping some fins and teeth when I go for a swim. Forget crushes, I have to curb my appetite for people. I bet people who say puberty sucks have never had to worry about eating their friends and then being killed by their rightfully ticked-​off neighbors. At least I am in control of one thing: This curse ends with me. I’m never going to have a kid. Never going to pass this down and ruin someone else’s life. Not that it’ll even be a possibility if I die early enough.

The ocean swells get bigger.

I take a deep breath and refocus on the here and now.

“Psst. Back set,” I say to Dad as I lie down and start paddling toward shore slowly to build momentum.

A shadow passes in front of my board, dorsal fin slicing through the water’s surface. It’s one of the many sharks that frequent this area, keeping it ­surfer-​­free and perfect for me. I glance back over my shoulder, more interested in the approaching wave than my ­long-​­lost relative twice removed or however those family trees work. It’s all “uncle” and “aunty” to me. And they don’t bother me. Tūtū says they must know I’m the shark prince. Danger senses danger.

I get into position, pulling myself forward just as the wave breaks on my left, the lip crumbling onto itself. There are no clean barrels today, but power is power, and with one final stroke I jump to my feet and embrace the ocean’s energy. I cut right, crouching low, weaving up and down the face of the wave. I let every worry drop away. Don’t think about the fact that I’m a ticking time bomb. Ignore the fact that I can’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone other than Mom or Tūtū or Mom’s boss at the grocery store, Mr. T. Instead, I simply craft the perfect ride on this less than perfect wave. Make the most of the hand I’ve been dealt.

The wave ebbs and I fall down to a horizontal position on my board and look back toward the horizon for the next one to roll in. I have time to catch one more, right? Chalk it up to a perk of being homeschooled.

I’m paddling back out in the channel, avoiding the breaking waves, when I spot another shark’s fin heading my way, moving faster than usual. What in the . . . Did he not get the memo that I’m one of them? I stop paddling, giving my potential relative plenty of space to cut ahead of my board, but it tweaks its trajectory and continues to charge right at me.

Confusion transforms to icy fear. This isn’t how it works.

I grit my teeth, fingers clamping onto the sides of my board so tight, they turn white. All thoughts of the impending math class, my family, and my curse evaporate from my brain as one thing becomes crystal clear, the thought so foreign I gasp in surprise.

I don’t want to die.