Home Economics with the Shark Lab
When referring to the act of sewing, most have a very
classic cultural image in mind: perhaps cross-stitch, needlepoint, or maybe weaving
a tapestry on a loom. Thanks to my most recent experience here at the Sharklab, it is unlikely that my definition will match that of general society for a
quite a long time after my return to civilization. A few days ago, staff member
Anthony handed me, not a needle and thread, but a broken stick and spool of
rope as we stood on the beach, confronted by a stretch of green mesh thirty-seven
meters long. Upon closer inspection, my team of volunteers and I could tell
that years of use had taken their toll – the mesh was spotted with tears and
gaping holes of all sizes, held together by spare pieces of old line and the
occasional zip tie. As the sun sporadically peaked through a layer of clouds, we
learned that our task for the afternoon was to completely dissemble the
patches, removing any remaining ties or lines. From there, we were to move on
to our ultimate goal: a new shark pen.
As the
first hours passed, we bent over with intense concentration, our fingers
fumbling with knots and clipping with reckless abandon. Thirty-seven meters,
however, began to stretch longer and longer, the knots more and more complex,
as the sun began to set and the mosquitoes attacked our vulnerable ankles. By
the end of the day, we saw before us now two
pieces of mesh, each riddled with holes that seemed even larger. In the waning
light, with the smell of dinner wafting from the Lab across the road, Anthony
then taught us to sew, overlapping the two pieces lengthwise and securing them
with an alternating loop and knot pattern. By the time the dinner bell rang,
our loom barely had its first strands.
For the
next several days, the rain and wind continued a concerted effort to impede our
work, but for Sharklab personnel, weather is not a worthy adversary. As the
drops fell on our faces we transported our mesh to the yard, sewing morning and
afternoon. Those who chose to stand felt the soreness of hamstrings too long
stretched, while those seated on boat cushions were forced into the occasional
head roll to relieve the growing stiffness in the upper back. Amidst laughing
chatter and soft music, the minutes and hours blended into days, and the mesh began
to sport bright white lining around newly repaired patches. The sewing
continued until evening, four days after we had begun. I tied my last bowline
and took my last stroll down what I had begun to consider my very own pen mesh,
bending down and testing for strength in the line as I went. By the time I
rose, satisfied, I had essentially forgotten the purpose behind the sewing;
that is, until I heard the plan for the next day. It was time to build the pen.
Under most
normal circumstances, experienced pen builders can complete the task in a
morning or afternoon. “Normal circumstances,” however, were too much to hope
for in this case. Naturally, I was assigned to the pen-building crew,
presumably because this had become my adopted project. We were directed by the
fearless Chris Bolte, who seemed to know what he was doing, though after a
mishap with rebar placement, we began to assail him for his questionable
leadership. The mocking continued, bouncing between volunteers and Chris alike,
heightening as the sun tried to warm the chilly air of the late morning. By
lunchtime, we had only assembled half the pen mesh. Our afternoon was even
busier, and somehow more filled with testosterone-fueled jokes. By the time we
settled into a rhythm and finished tightening the security around the net, we
were joined by three more volunteers, some of whom began the process of moving
the baby lemon sharks and newly acquired ray from the old pen to the new. From
the new pen location in the shallows, we could hear singing and laughter as
paddleboards were loaded with cinder blocks, rebar, and tuna clips, floating
alongside tubs of animals in the transition. The sun was sinking on our fifth
day by the time we shed our wetsuits and ran inside for coffee, tea, and a hot
dinner. Before we left, however, I stood in the new pen for a few minutes. As
the water settled, I looked down. Two of the three baby lemons were snaking
around my ankles. One had a small dark spot on its head. The ray would
occasionally smack its wing on the surface of the water along the interior mesh,
as if admiring our handiwork. Much as one might admire a sewn pillow, a knitted
scarf, or a woven rug, I can’t imagine any better feeling than knowing that I
have created a home, one that serves as a classroom as much as a refuge.
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| Image of a shark pen © Charlotte Sams |
