Out here in California, in the Pacific Ocean, the sharks have a

Host: The sun was a burning coin sinking into the Pacific, its orange fire dripping across the endless horizon. The wind carried salt and memory, brushing through the tall grasses that bordered the old wooden pier. Below, the ocean thrashed — restless, alive, glittering like shards of broken glass under the fading light.

A single surfer board leaned against the railing, wet and glistening. Jack stood beside it, sleeves rolled up, staring into the darkening waves. His eyes — gray, sharp, tired — followed the foam as it curled and crashed, again and again, as if the sea were arguing with itself.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the pier, her hair tangled by the wind, her face half-shadowed by dusk. In her hand, she held a paper cup of coffee gone cold.

The air smelled of brine and defiance.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how the ocean feels different here? Out here in California, the Pacific doesn’t whisper — it growls.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he said, with a faint smirk. “Like Katy Mixon said — ‘Out here in California, in the Pacific Ocean, the sharks have a bad attitude.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe they learned it from us.”

Host: A wave crashed hard against the pier’s supports, sending a spray of cold mist across their faces. Neither flinched. The sea was too familiar, too human tonight.

Jack: “Bad attitude or not, at least the sharks are honest about it. They don’t pretend to be nice before they bite.”

Jeeny: “That’s what you think people do — pretend?”

Jack: “That’s what we have to do. Civilization’s just camouflage for our teeth.”

Host: His voice was flat, almost weary, but the words cut through the air with precision. The sky behind him deepened into violet, the last warmth draining away.

Jeeny: “You talk like humanity’s one big feeding frenzy. Not everyone’s out to eat the next person alive.”

Jack: “Maybe not everyone. But enough to make the water murky. Look at L.A. — full of dreamers swimming in circles, smiling for cameras, waiting for blood. That’s what Mixon meant, whether she knew it or not. The Pacific’s full of predators — not just the ones with fins.”

Jeeny: “That’s too easy, Jack. You see sharks everywhere because you expect betrayal. But fear has a way of painting teeth on everything.”

Jack: “Fear keeps you alive.”

Jeeny: “No. Fear keeps you small.”

Host: The wind grew stronger, rattling the wooden planks beneath them. A seagull screamed overhead, cutting through the roar of waves — a single, lonely sound against the ocean’s argument.

Jeeny: “You know, when Mixon said that, I don’t think she meant it literally. I think she meant that danger’s part of the beauty here. The Pacific doesn’t lie. It’s wild. It doesn’t care about your plans or your ego. It reminds you you’re not in control — and people hate that.”

Jack: “You think there’s beauty in being powerless?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because power is the biggest illusion we sell ourselves. The ocean humbles you. It shows you that attitude means nothing when you’re up against something bigger, older, infinite.”

Host: Jack stared at her, then back at the horizon. The sun had vanished completely now. Only a faint orange line remained, trembling where the sea met the sky.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never been pulled under. You ever had a wave drag you down, twist you so bad you can’t tell which way’s up? Out there, nature’s not poetic. It’s merciless.”

Jeeny: “Mercy isn’t nature’s job. It’s ours.”

Host: Her words lingered. A gust lifted her hair, scattering strands across her face. She brushed them back with slow, deliberate grace.

Jack: “You still think there’s mercy left in people?”

Jeeny: “I do. Even the ones with bad attitudes.”

Jack: “You mean sharks?”

Jeeny: “I mean everyone. Sharks only bite when they’re hungry or scared. Humans? We bite just because we can.”

Host: The waves crashed harder now, spraying salt against their skin. The sky had turned indigo, and the first faint stars appeared, trembling like distant fireflies.

Jack’s expression shifted — the edge softening, revealing something beneath the cynicism.

Jack: “You ever think the sharks are just… reflections? Of us? The Pacific’s just a mirror with movement. Maybe it’s not that they have a bad attitude — maybe they’ve just been watching.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re tired. Of watching us pollute their home, hunt them for sport, fear them for existing. I’d have an attitude too.”

Jack: (half-laughing) “You’re defending sharks now?”

Jeeny: “Someone should.”

Host: The wind carried her laughter into the night, dissolving into the sound of the sea. Jack smiled faintly — a rare sight — then looked back down at the water, his reflection shimmering and breaking with every wave.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I used to think sharks were monsters. I’d see those documentaries — the ones with dramatic music and blood in the water — and I’d swear I’d never go near the ocean. But one summer, I went diving off Catalina. Saw one up close. A great white. It just… looked at me. Like it was bored. Like it had nothing to prove.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it saw the same in you.”

Jack: “What — boredom?”

Jeeny: “No. Stillness. The kind that hides hunger.”

Host: Jack laughed — quietly, bitterly, but with a flicker of warmth. The tide had risen now, brushing close to the pier’s underside. The smell of salt and seaweed filled the air.

Jeeny: “The ocean doesn’t hate us, Jack. It just doesn’t need us. That’s the difference. We mistake indifference for hostility because we think everything’s about us.”

Jack: “Including the sharks?”

Jeeny: “Especially the sharks.”

Host: Silence settled between them again — a living, breathing silence. The kind that exists only near open water, where the world feels both infinite and claustrophobic at once.

Jeeny: “Maybe Mixon was right — the sharks do have attitude. But maybe they earned it. Out here, everything’s fighting to survive — even the beauty.”

Jack: “You really think beauty fights?”

Jeeny: “Every day. The ocean fights pollution. People fight loneliness. Music fights silence. Even light fights the dark — look.”

Host: She pointed toward the horizon where the moon had risen — pale, round, trembling above the black waves. Its reflection danced across the surface, silver threads weaving through chaos.

Jack: “So you think attitude’s just survival dressed up in defiance?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Host: A long pause. The only sound now was the rhythmic push and pull of the tide, eternal and effortless. Jack exhaled, the weight in his chest easing just a little.

Jack: “You know, I envy them — the sharks. They don’t overthink survival. They just do it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what scares us — that they live with the kind of clarity we lost.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s why we call it a bad attitude — because it reminds us of what we’ve buried.”

Host: A silence, then a small sound — Jeeny’s soft, understanding laugh, swallowed almost immediately by the roar of the sea.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re not so cynical after all.”

Jack: “Don’t get used to it.”

Host: They both turned toward the ocean, standing side by side, the cold wind brushing against their faces. The moonlight painted their shadows long and trembling across the pier.

The camera pulled back slowly — two silhouettes against a restless sea, bound by an understanding as vast and uncertain as the Pacific itself.

And as the waves rose and fell, Katy Mixon’s words echoed softly through the wind:
“Out here in California, in the Pacific Ocean, the sharks have a bad attitude.”

Host: Maybe they did. Or maybe they were just honest — in a world that rewards pretending, they refused to smile before they bit.

And in that defiance — wild, cold, beautiful — there was a kind of truth only the ocean could teach.