Sharkbait Down Under
Tough Negotiator

Jamaica had beautiful beaches, and the modeling and appearances were fun. “Can you believe this is getting boring,” I said as we rode back to the hotel. “Incredible scenery, fantastic diving, adoring crowds, and now gourmet food before retiring to a luxurious room.”

“It will be over soon, and then you can sleep in the woods all you want,” Amy said.

“I love every second of this,” Makani said. “I know I’ll probably never live like this again if I don’t keep up with modeling.”

I looked over at Noelani. “It’s a better deal than your shark expeditions. The Sea Scout looks functional, but it’s not a four-star resort on a sugar-sand beach.”

I had to laugh at that. “No room-service massages or cabana boys,” I agreed. “It’s going to be rough.”

The next day, we set out for a place that was not our typical shark dive. We worked through a mermaid family that ran a diving charter, and they had obtained special government permission to dive a restricted area. Our expert was Dr. Henry Smallworth, an underwater archaeologist from the Institute of Jamaica, a man in his fifties with a permanent smile and a salt-and-pepper beard. “How much farther, Henry?”

“Another five miles,” he said. We gathered around as he told us the story. “The Spanish held Jamaica, and the English took it over in 1655. The harbor at Port Royal was the finest in the Caribbean, and the English Privateers grew rich raiding Spanish shipping. Port Royal rapidly grew into what was called ‘the most wicked and sinful city in the world.’ Gold, jewelry, booze, women, slaves; it was all traded there. By the late 1600s, it was the second-largest city in the New World behind Boston. Pirates made it their base, and wickedness abounded until God ended it in one minute.”

“What happened,” Makani said.

“On the morning of June 7, 1692, a magnitude 7.5 earthquake hit. Port Royal was a city built on a foundation of sand. The shaking caused buildings to fail and roadways to sink into the ocean. In moments, entire neighborhoods disappeared, and thousands died. Some got sucked into the ground like quicksand; others died when buildings fell or drowned when the waters came. Those who survived the earthquake watched in horror as tsunami waves wiped the earth clean of what remained.”

“That’s horrible,” Noelani said.

“Two thousand people died, and thirty-three acres of the city sank under the waves. That’s where we are diving today; the Sunken City of Port Royal.” As we arrived at the edge of the dive zone, Henry explained the rules; obviously, we could not disturb or remove any of the objects, and we had to stay together under his escort. The diving was in depths of fifty to eight feet of water, meaning we’d get a few good dives in between the mandatory rest periods. “Anchoring isn’t allowed, so this boat will use its engines to control its drift as we swim. We will swim legs roughly parallel to shore, starting in the deeper water.”

We got suited up, Linda checked our cameras, and we entered the water. It was the weirdest dive ever, but it was unforgettable. Our group moved in a V-shape, following Henry’s lead as he took us down what used to be a city street. You could still see timbers from ships, stones from collapsed homes, and paving stones from the streets. We finished our first tank and returned to the boat, heading back to the starting area while we rested and talked about what we had seen. We made two more dives on the site before calling it a day; with Linda and Carly filming plus the GoPros on our facemasks, we had plenty of footage for the show.

After the diving, we docked in Port Royal and had dinner before taking a private tour of the National Museum of Historical Archaeology. Henry was the perfect tour guide, talking to us about the artifacts and tying them back to the earlier dives. Linda kept filming as he showed us around. I loved the table-sized holographic model of Port Royal before the earthquake; with the push of a button, it changed into the post-quake ruins. I couldn’t thank Henry enough for his help, and I made sure to get his address to send him an advance copy of this episode.

Our next stop on tour was Cancun, Mexico, and Linda had worked with Mercedes to arrange an extra day off before we had to be there. Mercedes flew back to Bodyglove headquarters with the twins to speak to the executives. Amy and I had already informed her that we would not be extending our contracts; we didn’t need the money, and we needed time for other projects. Makani and Noelani were interested, but only if there was enough flexibility to work around their futures as military wives.

Linda, Amy, Carly, Fiona, and I flew to Los Angeles instead, where Stan Greenberg picked us up from the airport. Stan was the accountant for Sharkbait Productions, and we were talking money today. The Discovery Channel, which had broadcast the first two documentaries I appeared in, was begging for first refusal rights on our new show. I hadn’t committed to this, but I did agree to give them a private showing and a chance to bid before placing the show on the open market. If Discovery wanted to keep us from jumping ship, they would have to come up with a deal that would knock our socks off.

We arrived in the boardroom at ten AM, greeting the executives gathered with big smiles. Discovery had done well by me, and it was good to see Erik Johnson from the Woods Hole documentary again. “If you ever have questions about show production, give me a call,” he said. “I’d love a chance to work with you again.”

“I will,” I promised as I moved to the front of the room. I had a brief presentation made up, highlighting what I intended the show to be about and how it would show. We had decided to offer two seasons as a package, 26 episodes of 43 minutes each, for a fixed up-front price.

“Can you supply that number of episodes in that time,” the Vice President of Programming asked.

“The first eight episodes are ready, and the remainder will be available sequentially to finish by the end of June,” Linda said. “If you start during February sweeps, you could run weekly without interruption.”

That raised a few eyebrows. “Is there enough underwater footage to support that,” asked Erik. “We shot for two weeks to get enough footage for a one-hour documentary.”

“If the show focused solely on the diving, then no,” I said. “The show involves sharks, but it’s really about the four of us and our lives. The tour stops we are making provide plenty of material for a good show, between our interactions, our modeling jobs, and our diving.”

“We expect it will attract a broader and younger demographic, one that might not watch a documentary but WOULD watch a reality show about four attractive, athletic women,” Linda said. “It won’t be trashy or sensationalistic, because these women are not like that. After all, Amy is married, Vicki is engaged and will be married in a few weeks, and the twins have serious boyfriends. It isn’t a show you’d see on MTV; it is a show you can proudly watch with your sons and daughters every week. Perhaps a view of the first episode will help you understand where this is going.”

“Cue the show and hit the lights,” the CEO said. Forty-three minutes later, the mood in the room was upbeat. “I’d like to see another, to see if it is to the same standard,” she said.

“Pick a number between two and eight,” Linda said in response. She chose seven, and Linda handed over the memory stick with Episode Seven.

When it finished, people were whispering at each other as we waited to hear from them. Mordecai, one of the junior executives, asked us to come with him. He waved to Erik to follow, and we gathered in the lobby. “Off the record, I loved your show, and my girls would go wild for it,” he said. “Erik and I are going to take you to lunch while the bigshots put together a proposal for you.”

“That’s good, right?” Amy hadn’t talked much, but she had a good read on people. She spent the meeting watching their reactions, not the shows.

“Very good. Basic salesman stuff; never let them leave without a deal because they won’t come back.” I turned to Mordecai and smiled. “Where are we going?”

“There is a wonderful restaurant on the top floor of this building,” he said. Smart, not even letting us go back to our vehicle. We rode the elevator to the top, taking a table with a view of downtown and the ocean beyond. We didn’t talk business, but I had a great time talking to Erik about producing shows and trading stories. Erik’s presence gave me an idea. I struggled with how to handle day-to-day Sharkbait Productions in America while staying with my Pack in Australia. Linda and Erik were friends who had worked together before; perhaps he could be an associate producer and work with us?

One thing I knew for sure; with all the movers and shakers in Hollywood, our appearance here would not go unnoticed. “I bet we have messages from five other networks before we finish dessert,” I said.

I was wrong. It was seven.

Mordecai looked at his phone and called the waitress over to settle the bill as we finished our drinks. “They’re ready for you,” he said as he stood.

“Good, because we’ll have time to talk with the other seven networks who know something is going on if we wrap this up in the next hour.” His eyes got big, and he couldn’t get us back downstairs fast enough. He ducked into the room, opening the doors for us a few minutes later.

I could sense the tension as we sat down. “Thank you for lunch; it was lovely.”

“You’re welcome,” the CEO said as she sat taller in her chair. “I’ll get to the point. We want to broadcast your show, and we have prepared a generous offer for it.” She went through the particulars, and I had to fight to keep my expression from changing as I heard the numbers. “We also want the right to match any offer for future documentaries from Sharkbait Productions. We’d like to keep your brand on our network.”

“Right to match isn’t as good as the right to refusal,” Amy said over the link.

I agreed. “I don’t like the idea of a right to match; when I shake someone’s hand and seal a deal, it means something to me. I could grant you the right of refusal instead. When these programs become available, I’ll have a much better idea of their worth on the open market. If you turn down my proposal, I’ll shop it elsewhere.”

A few eyes got big. “We’ve never made a financial commitment like this before,” the VP of Programming said.

I made a show of looking through the figures, then closed the folder and pushed it in front of Stan. He didn’t even open it, as he could run numbers in his head faster than I could put them into a calculator. “This show is going to be a hit, and we both know it. Stan?”

“The baseline number is acceptable, but bump it up by a hundred thousand dollars for every half-million viewers, broadcast and online combined,” Stan said. “When it blows away the competition, we gain as well.”

“We would also offer bonus programming for one-third the per-episode fee,” I said. “It would be a fan-talk format, like Sharks After Dark. We would bring in guests, the four of us could make appearances and ask questions, trivia, follow-ups, and things like that. It’s cheap programming that builds the brand.”

It was also a way to get paid for another thirty minutes with a few hours of work, which I could do from my home in Australia.

The negotiations went quickly after that. We had discussed our strategy and minimum numbers, and we had gone well above that. The final deal was worth a minimum of thirty-five million dollars, and an option for the aftershow at four hundred thousand an episode. Payment would be in stages; Linda delivered the first eight episodes as the CEO handed over the first check. “This is the start of a long and profitable relationship,” she said.

“I hope so.” We managed to hold our screams and jumping around until we reached the parking garage.

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