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.
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| Freediving with sharks, Image © Ches Revell |
