Doing the Shark Dance

So there I was, on the sands of a Florida beach, surrounded by a group of young people in swimwear, all eyes on me as I instructed them in the dance they were about to perform. The dance I was still coming up with barely five minutes earlier. The Shark Dance.

 

In 1994, I was a writer at the Kauffman Stewart ad agency in Minneapolis, where one of my projects was the launch of that year’s Tigershark personal watercraft models made by Arctic Cat. Along with writing the ads and brochure, I would be going down to Florida to help supervise the film shoot of people riding Tigersharks in the gulf. 

 

That included a riff on Jaws, where beachgoers are panicked by a kid yelling “Shark!” as he spots a guy on a Tigershark. And later, the four Tigershark models zooming left to right across the screen, followed by a large shark fin we had made that was pulled through the water on a submerged rig. The fin was convincing enough that two riders unconnected to our shoot zoomed over and started yelling for crew members in the water to get on their watercraft.

 

As we were wrapping up action footage of the watercrafts driven by professional riders, my creative director took me aside and told me that in 30 minutes, we’d be ready to shoot the beach party scene with volleyball, a cookout … and the Shark Dance. 

 

What Shark Dance? I asked.

 

“You’ve got a half-hour to come up with one,” he said.

That’s how I found myself on the spot soon after, unsure of how my hastily improvised dance steps would be received by the group of extras. But I had to tell them something so I hesitantly began.

 

“You start by, um, putting your left hand atop your head like a fin, your right hand paddling to the side for four beats. Then you switch hands, and paddle with your left hand for another four beats.”

 

So far, so good. Nobody was rolling their eyes yet. I pushed on.

 

“Then you put your hands on your opposite shoulders, making a shark mouth that chomps as you step forward for four beats. Finally, you turn and walk back for four beats, left hand fin on your head, right hand on your backside, swishing like a tail. And then start it all over again.”

Rarely had I presented a marketing idea I was more unsure of. But the second I finished, one of the women extras suddenly took charge, getting everyone into lines and drilling them on the dance like she was prepping them for a Broadway show.  

 

The Shark Dance rocked as the camera rolled. I stood off to the side, marveling at what a crazy business I’m in, that I can come up with something on the fly and have a group of people whole-heartedly throw themselves into making my silly dance steps a success.

 

But like sharks who have to keep moving or die, my Shark Dance lost all momentum and sank into oblivion after the film shoot wrapped. For thirty-some years, I’ve been the only one who remembers it. But maybe the time is right for a revival.