“The Shark Lab” Way, by Alex McInturf - 18th February 2016

For my entire, landlocked childhood, I’ve wanted to become a shark biologist. The draw to these organisms is obvious. As renowned sociobiologist E.O. Wilson once stated: “We are not afraid of predators, we’re transfixed by them, prone to weave stories and fables and chatter endlessly about them, because fascination creates preparedness, and preparedness, survival. In a deeply tribal way, we love our monsters…” What I can’t quite explain, however, is the persistence of my obsession; but then, I’ve found that few can. 

There often comes a point in one’s life that this dream seems unrealistic, a realization provoked by the reality of a scientist’s struggling salary, the competitiveness of this field, or even a growing fear of the animal itself. For those who irrationally persist to follow our passion, the path is significantly less glamorous than that portrayed on a typical “Shark Week” episode. If I had some vague notion of this before I arrived at the Bimini Shark Lab, my experience here has certainly cemented my belief that shark science produces a rare breed of individual. We come from all over the world, united by one single purpose: the pursuit of knowledge of the greatest predators in existence. We are unique in our interests, our background, our lifestyle and culture, but collectively we are willing to sacrifice nearly everything for this goal.

Since my arrival at the lab, we’ve been plagued by nearly every obstacle known to research. We’ve suffered from the torrential downpours of winter, rendering visibility nearly nonexistent and producing gusts of over thirty miles per hour, with swells four to five feet high. I’ve spent days fixing gillnets and laying out longlines, or fixing gangions and entering data. Among those for whom the dream of shark science is a passing phase, these tasks likely seem mundane. For the staff and volunteers here, however, perspective is key. How can we sample the abundant juvenile lemon shark population if the gillnet is torn? How can we capture thirteen tiger sharks in a single longline set if we fear for the strength of the line or the security of the gangions? Where would the significance of our work rest if not in the data that it produces?

That is not to say that there isn’t some shred of truth in the initial draw to this type of research. Since my arrival, I’ve been diving over giant coral heads, surrounded by schools of bright yellow fish. I’ve snorkeled through mangroves, admiring submerged spider webs floating gently in the current as I searched for juvenile nurse sharks. I’ve seen a laser photogrammetry session with four giant hammerheads, the green light of the lasers clearly bouncing off of dermal denticles several meters below the surface of the water. Then there are the more poignant moments, those almost surreal. In one such instance, we were out on the boat on a longline check, watching the sun rise in a pink sky, the water turning from dark purple to patterns of royal blue and turquoise in the morning light. It was almost inevitable that the sea produced something extraordinary. Indeed, in a picture perfect sequence, a giant tail thrashed in the air a short distance from the boat and a dark shape emerged on the line only minutes after the set. I would challenge the most objective audience to witness a 3.7 meter tiger shark with anything less than sheer reverence.

Only at the Bimini Shark Lab is this experience even remotely possible. At every level, from the most basic day-to-day activity to the complicated data analysis and profound scientific discussion, we all benefit from an unusual combination of collaboration and independence. We are self-sufficient as individuals but work together as a unit to yield the broadest foundation of understanding that the biodiversity on this island allows us to produce. There is truly no other place with such an extensive history of research, and I have no doubt as to the legacy that the lab has yet to create.

Freediving with sharks, Image © Ches Revell