It must have been movement that caught my eye. Or maybe the dark shadow slicing across the white sea floor. I was in the water, far enough from shore that I would have had to yell for someone on land to hear me, had there been anyone around. This was many years ago, when I was young and unafraid of going out too far. I was casting for bonefish in the Florida Keys. It was autumn, still warm and summerlike in South Florida, and I enjoyed the opportunity to get into the water and wade on the hard-bottom sand flats. I don’t remember if this was my first or second trip to the Keys, but I had fished in saltwater many times before and knew the risks that come from entering an environment where humans are not at the top of the food chain.
I had been quite a distance from shore when I heard splashing sounds and looked to see someone headed my way, fishing pole in one hand, red cup in the other. This came as some surprise, not only for the unspoken rule about keeping one’s distance from fellow anglers, but also because it was a weekday afternoon and the flat I was fishing had been, until then, deserted. The stranger approached, a wide-brimmed hat shading his face, sunglasses concealing his eyes. He was grinning as he introduced himself as Luke.
“How’s the fishing?” he asked.
“I just got here,” I said. “Too early to tell.”
“Oh, I’ve been watching you cast,” he said. “You cast pretty well. That’s a nice fly rod.”
I couldn’t place his accent. His arms were thick and muscular.
“Thanks, I haven’t had it very long,” I said. “How’s the fishing been for you?”
“I haven’t caught anything yet,” he said as he lifted his cup for a drink, ice cubes colliding inside. I could smell some kind of alcohol, which may have explained the grin on his face and his having interrupted my fishing. “I’m prepared, though,” he added.
“How’s that?”
He twisted slightly to reveal a sheathed knife on his hip. It must have been 10 inches or more. It was strapped to his belt. “There are a lot of sharks out here, they tell me,” he said. “I got a dagger for them.” Then he took another swig from the cup as his words settled over the water around us like cold air.
“Well, I hope you don’t have to use it,” I said, moving away. “Good luck.”
With that, I headed across the flat into deeper water, farther from shore and anyone else who might happen along. When I reached the far edge of the flat, I stopped. I was in water that approached the top of my thighs. It was deep enough that its buoyancy took some of the weight off my legs, but it made walking awkward, limiting my mobility. Still, I was optimistic. It was getting to be late afternoon. The sun was lower in the sky now, taking some of the edge off the heat. The tide was coming in. And, at last, it was quiet again. For these reasons, I felt my chances of connecting with a fish were good. I cast my fly out into the water and glanced over my shoulder. The fisherman was quite a distance down the beach now. I drew a deep breath and relished the peaceful scene around me: clear water spreading out across the vast sand flat and into the open sea in the distance. Palm trees and dense stands of sea grapes and coastal scrub marked the shoreline. A light breeze blew across the flat, creating a slight ripple on the water, enough to offer some cover to any fish that might have been feeding in the shallows. Just ahead, between me and the open ocean, I could see the color transition of the water as the flat fell away into a deep channel. It was here, in this transition zone, where I cast my fly. I had been at it for 20 minutes or so when something caught my eye. There, still some distance away, was a shark headed directly toward me. With the clear conditions, light winds, and my polarized sunglasses cutting through the surface glare, I could see the shark perfectly, its tail fanning back and forth, its broad pectoral fins. I had seen sharks before on other flats I had fished—in Florida, Mexico, and the Bahamas. They were more often small blacktips and bonnetheads, sometimes lemon sharks. This one looked larger, maybe five feet in length. It wasn’t a giant, but it was large enough that I was mildly concerned. I thought of the knife hanging from Luke’s belt. What did I have with which to fend off a shark? A fragile fly rod? A pair of wading boots? My fists?
This is how it goes, I thought. They move in when you least expect it. I was in the shark’s world now. There was nothing I could do.
I watched the shark bearing down on me. That it should be tracking directly toward me, of all the space it had to swim across this expansive flat, seemed incredible. Was it drawn to the scent of the sunscreen I’d slathered on my legs? My electromagnetic field? The sight of an unusual object in the water? I didn’t know. Regardless, the shark was closing the distance. I began backing into what I hoped was shallower water, ever so slightly closer to shore, one step at a time, but it was pointless. The water still reached the top of my legs; the shore was still far off in the distance. I racked my mind, trying to decide what I would do if the shark were to attack. Would I kick at it? Yell? My options were extremely limited.
Then, as the shark neared, looking even larger and heavier than it had just a moment ago, it abruptly changed course and swam around me. I recognized it then as a bull shark. My heart hammered in my chest. Blood raced through my arteries and veins. I could feel a metronomic pulsing in my temples. I’m certain the shark detected this, too, even though only my legs were submerged. There was no question who was in charge here. It wasn’t me. We made eye contact briefIy as the shark glided past, its heavy, powerful body moving silently and effortlessly through the water until finally it disappeared into the channel.
I waded back toward the shore, into shallower water, studying the flat around me with more vigilance than before, in case the shark should return. It never did.
In 2021, the Rosenstiel School of Marine, Atmospheric, and Earth Science at the University of Miami announced results from a study it had conducted on the population dynamics of South Florida’s sharks. Between 2009 and 2021, researchers examined nearly 3,500 sharks caught and released off Miami and the Florida Keys. Subjects ranged in size from a 20-inch Atlantic sharpnose shark to a 14-foot, 7-inch great hammerhead. The study, which was noted as the first and only assessment of South Florida’s large coastal sharks, documented some 15 species. But it was the bull shark that received most of the attention.
“In a new study of South Florida’s sharks, it has been revealed that the fearsome bull shark is actually one of the most common species,” began a July 22, 2021, article on sharkophile.com, which describes itself as “a news and entertainment site celebrating all things shark.” Similarly, an article in the Orlando Sentinel seized on the bull shark’s well-earned reputation, beginning this way: “The bull shark, a fearsome predator that could kill you with a single bite, turns out to be the fourth-most abundant shark species in South Florida, according to a new study.” Never mind that the nurse, blacktip, and lemon were determined to be the most prevalent. What mattered, at least to the public, was that there were bull sharks here and lots of them. We tend to think of great whites, tigers, and hammerheads as “maneaters,” but the bull may be the most dangerous shark of all. Although they don’t reach the gargantuan proportions of some other species, bull sharks can grow to 11 feet in length. But it’s their heavy, powerful physique that gets your attention when you see one. Bull sharks are named for their thick, stout bodies, their blunt, bovine snouts, and their pugnacious disposition. Consult nearly any authoritative description of this species, and the adjectives “aggressive,” “powerful,” and “unpredictable” will almost always appear, together with the warning that bulls are the species of shark most likely to attack humans.
Yet it’s not just the bull shark’s innate aggression that differentiates it from most other species; it’s their method of attack. Very often, they preface their attacks with powerful head butts—head butts!—that serve to stun and disorient their victims. Then they bite, often multiple times, using their powerful jaws, sharp teeth, and muscular bodies to rip their prey apart. When you examine the dentition of a bull shark, you’ll notice how perfectly suited it is for this gruesome business. Sharks have multiple rows of teeth. When a tooth is lost in an attack or feeding event, another quickly replaces it, allowing sharks to maintain their status as apex predators. But whereas other species might have five or seven layers of replacements waiting to move into position, bull sharks have up to 50 rows of teeth. Their narrow, sharply pointed lower teeth clamp onto their prey while broad, heavily serrated uppers rip and grind and sever, delivering a bite force as strong as 5,914 newtons—pound for pound, the strongest of all sharks.
In 2022, an Australian spear fisherman who was attacked by a bull shark later described seeing a “wall of teeth” sinking into his arm “like a hot knife through butter.” Perhaps just as terrifying for this diver was the savage manner in which his attacker operated, which he later explained to reporters: “You know when a dog is playing with a toy how they shake their head? That’s what the shark was doing.”
The International Shark Attack File (ISAF), maintained by researchers at the University of Florida, ranks bull sharks third on its list of species most responsible for human attacks (behind the great white and tiger). And George Burgess, former director of the ISAF, has said that bull sharks are likely responsible for many of the attacks blamed on other species. As the ISAF notes, “positive identification of attacking sharks is very difficult since victims rarely make adequate observations of the attacker during the ‘heat’ of the interaction.” ISAF records reveal that bull sharks have been implicated in at least 100 unprovoked attacks on humans around the world, 27 of them fatal. Given that this species is likely responsible for many more, the ISAF notes, the bull shark “is considered by many to be the most dangerous shark in the world.”
A bull shark has killed a Pennsylvania woman who was a passenger on a cruise ship in the Bahamas.
—Newsweek, September 7, 2022
Swimmer dies after being attacked by a shark off Sydney beach. … The last fatality from a shark bite in Sydney was in 1963 with the person recorded as “standing in the water,” according to Taronga’s Australian Shark Incident Database. The last fatality of a person swimming was in Sydney harbour in 1955, a spokesperson for the database said. Both attacks involved bull sharks.
—The Guardian, February 16, 2022
A shark expert working with the medical examiner here confirms that the terrible wounds that killed a 69-year-old swimmer were in fact caused by a shark. In an interview with CBS News Early Show Co-Anchor Jane Clayson, George Burgess of the Florida Museum of Natural History says it was probably a bull shark.
—CBS News, August 31, 2000
Some divers believed that Covert may have drowned and his body scavenged by sharks, but Dr. Gordon Hubbell and Dr. Jose Castro examined Covert’s clothing and dive equipment and concluded that he had been killed by a bull shark.
—Sharkattackfile.net, September 13, 1995
Martin was snorkeling when the shark bit him, pulling him beneath the surface three times before departing …
SPECIES INVOLVED: Three-metre [10’] bull shark.
—Sharkattackfile.net, September 13, 1988
And yet, despite agonizing reports such as these, the number of shark attacks in any given year remains extremely low, especially considering the large number of people around the world who put themselves in proximity to these predators while swimming, surfing, or fishing. The ISAF reports 41 confirmed shark-bite cases in the United States in 2022, down from 47 incidents in 2021. Fatality rates, moreover, have been declining for decades, reflecting advancements in beach safety, medical treatment, and public awareness. Yet the possibility of being attacked by a shark remains anytime we venture into its domain. And all it takes is one incident to make a tragedy.
It was summer in Florida. I hired a guide to take my family fishing in a large bay along the coast. His name was Keith. We called him Captain Keith. When we’d spoken on the phone the evening before, he asked me what we wanted to catch. I looked at my wife, Ellen, and son, Jackson. “A shark,” I said. “My son wants to catch a shark.”
As I hung up the phone, I wondered if we’d already caught one.
Fishing guides are an unpredictable lot. Some are friendly and accommodating and highly competent; others, not so much. Florida guides are generally considered the gold standard in saltwater angling, especially fly-fishing. Lodges operating in remote outposts all over the world often send their guides to Florida to learn the business. If a guide has Florida—particularly Florida Keys—training, that’s like having a Harvard degree. The problem is that many of these fishing guides seem to forget that the client is on the water to have fun. Miss a fish, let one get off the hook, bungle a cast—or worse, drop something on the boat deck—and you may discover just how cantankerous Florida fishing guides can be. That’s because your success is their success, and your failure their failure. For fishing guides, reputation is everything. Whatever else might be said about them, what matters is that they know how to catch fish, on any day, in any weather conditions, on any tide. In Florida, where fishing is a way of life, guides are not unlike celebrities. As a salty old Florida Keys guide once told me, “In the Keys, people don’t care what you do for a living or where you come from, or how much money you have. In the Keys, people judge you on your ability to catch fish, plain and simple.”
I had no idea what we’d get with Captain Keith. We boarded the vessel, and he jetted us across the bay to a quiet beach where, in years past, we’d snorkeled and gone swimming and picnicked on the sand. I shared this with Keith. “We like to go snorkeling out here,” I said.
“I wouldn’t advise that,” he told me. “The size of some of the sharks I see out here, I wouldn’t get in the water.”
I reflected on this while remembering that I’d never seen a shark in this area.
Jackson was excited about catching one. He was nine. For years, he had listened to my stories about catching sharks with my fly rod in the Bahamas. Now he wanted to catch one, too.
Keith anchored near a deep channel only 50 yards or so off the beach. In the distance, I could see the open ocean. It was sunny and hot with a light breeze, enough to put a ripple on the water. The tide was coming in, which meant the water was moving and carrying the scent of the cut bait Keith had rigged on the hook that was now in the water. Jackson held the fishing rod, and while we waited for some action, Keith tuned the boat’s radio to a country music station. Then he lit a cigarette and placed one bare foot on the gunwale. On his raised knee, he rested his arm and much of his upper body weight as he focused his gaze on the float out in the water.
“What’s the best month for tarpon?” I asked him.
He thought about it for a few seconds. Then he took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled. “Joo-lie,” he said.
I was reminding myself that it was late June—almost July—when the float went under. We hadn’t seen any sign of a fish until then.
Jackson leaned back and pulled. The rod bent deeply as the tip vibrated, transmitting the fish’s movements.
“I think it’s a big one!” Jackson said.
“Keep the rod up,” Keith said. He was calm and relaxed. He seemed to understand that we were here to have fun, that his client was a nine-year-old boy. This was reassuring. “Keep that line tight.”
“Way to go, Jackson!” Ellen said as she readied her camera.
The fish stayed down and darted toward deep water, then streaked back our way, moving beneath the boat. Jackson pumped and reeled, pumped and reeled. After a few minutes of this, the surface erupted in frenzied splashing. Keith netted a small shark, which he brought aboard and rested on the gunwale.
Jackson turned and smiled. “I caught a shark!” he said.
“What kind is it?” Ellen asked.
“Bull shark,” Keith said.
“I caught a bull shark!”
“Congratulations!” I said as I patted Jackson on the back.
Using a pair of pliers, Keith removed the hook and held the shark out for us to examine. It was 30 inches at most, a small one, but even at this size its jaws were lined with teeth. Just as revealing were the shark’s eyes—distant and aloof, but purposeful. They were the eyes of an apex predator. These eyes let us know to watch ourselves, that we’d pay for any carelessness or negligence while it was aboard the vessel. These eyes let us know, too, that while the shark had been caught, it was not defeated, a fact reinforced by the vigorous manner in which it swooshed away when Keith returned it to the water.
Inevitably, most people’s understanding of sharks continues to be influenced by the 1975 film Jaws, in which a rogue monster terrorizes a fictionalized New England beach town. I remember the summer when the film came out. I was five years old. As my parents were heading out to see it one evening, I announced that I was going with them. “No, you’re not,” my father replied. “You’d have bad dreams for a year,” said my mother.
Then why are you going to see it if it’s so scary? I remember wondering.
The answer, which they never articulated because I never asked, was that Jaws latched on to some of our deepest fears as humans: our dread of the deep, of that which we can’t see, of a monster attacking us when we’re most vulnerable, of being cut by a shark’s serrated teeth, of bleeding and struggling and dying, alone and far from shore. Not only this, but by virtue of our ability to develop and use technology, we as humans have asserted ourselves as the planet’s supreme predator. The thought of being attacked by a shark, then, somehow upsets our perception of the natural order and where we think we stand in relation to all other life.
If we had been wary of them before, Jaws convinced us that sharks, particularly large ones, are maneaters, leading many people to take up shark hunting. In the years following the film’s release, the population of large sharks off North America’s east coast declined by roughly half—this despite admonishments from conservationists that not only are these predators unlikely to attack humans, they also perform a vital function in the marine food web. And one has to admire a creature that has called Earth home for 400 million years and is so ideally suited to its many environments and ecological niches that it evolved very little over the eons. Sharks may well be the world’s most perfect predators—so perfect, in fact, that the bull shark I encountered as a young man in Florida apparently felt no compulsion to attack me, easily identifying me as something outside its predatory purview. Although sharks as a species are generally nonaggressive toward humans, we nevertheless continue to kill millions of them every year, often only for their fins. Clearly, in this evolutionary contest, the odds are in our favor, but it’s crucial that we learn how to live with sharks, not just fear them.
Our primal fear of sharks heavily informs our view of the dichotomy between saltwater and freshwater environments. The sea is the shark’s domain, so naturally we think of freshwater lakes and rivers as “safe” places, free of marine predators. Visit the community of Empire, Michigan, for example, and you’ll find a store or two catering to a small but dedicated cadre of Lake Michigan surfers. In recent years, these outfitters have begun pushing the idea that the area waters are not only salt free but also empty of sharks. As one local sloganeer puts it: No salt. No sharks. No worries.
But matters of the natural world aren’t always so simple. Bull sharks, for example, are known to inhabit freshwater environments for extended periods. How is this possible? The kidneys of bull sharks are designed to recycle the salt within their bodies, a process aided by two special glands near the tail. Their ability to perform osmoregulation allows bull sharks to swim in water of any salinity level. If you’re skeptical, then consider this: bull sharks have been documented 2,500 miles up the Amazon River, and in the Mississippi River as far north as Illinois. They’re so common in the Zambezi River, which flows through Zambia, Zimbabwe, and Mozambique, that people there refer to them as Zambezi sharks. Bull sharks are also known to inhabit Central America’s largest lake, Lake Nicaragua.
In July 1916, over a period of 12 days, four people were killed in shark attacks in New Jersey, and a fifth narrowly escaped with his life. Three of these attacks occurred in a tidal creek some distance from the ocean. Sometimes I wonder about the shock and disbelief that witnesses must have felt at seeing the swimmers attacked by some unseen monster while they scrambled desperately out of the water and onto dry land. How many times had they swum in those same muddy waters unscathed? How unlikely must such an event have seemed to them?
Although a great white is usually cited as the species responsible for these attacks, many believe it to have been the work of a bull shark. Whatever species of shark it was, the incident is said to have inspired Peter Benchley’s 1974 novel, Jaws, from which the blockbuster film was adapted.
I once fly-fished with a guide who believed there were bull sharks swimming the Arkansas River of eastern Oklahoma, a three-hour drive from my Oklahoma City home. He claimed to have lost large catfish to these predators, and once, he said, he had actually seen a shark. My guide believed that the sharks followed shipping vessels entering the Mississippi River from the Gulf of Mexico. From there, he thought, they swam through a series of locks and dams to gain access to the Arkansas River and, eventually, the Port of Catoosa, near Tulsa, a maritime shipping destination hundreds of miles from the open sea.
I’ve often wondered about this. Although I’ve never seen a shark in a freshwater river, much less a river flowing through the Great Plains of the American West, who’s to say it couldn’t happen? This is enough to keep me out of the Arkansas River, for I have replayed many times in my dreams the sight of that heavy shadow cutting silently through the water and slicing toward me.
These dreams are made manifest as I venture just a bit farther upstream on the Arkansas River. I visit the Oklahoma Aquarium in Tulsa, which is home to what it bills as the Western Hemisphere’s only bull shark exhibit. Entering the glass-walled tunnel where the light is low, I watch these seven-foot specimens glide through the water above me. After a while, the crowd here moves on, and for a moment I am all alone with these fascinating predators. As long as the ground on which I stand is dry, I have nothing to fear. But I’d think differently if I were with them inside this 380,000-gallon aquarium. I recall that bull shark in the Florida Keys and wonder why it elected to avoid me, to swim around me and disappear, why it didn’t bump me with its broad snout, or worse, attack me. I have no idea, especially considering this shark’s aggressive and unpredictable nature. I was fortunate. I was blessed to have been able to walk away from that encounter. Like so many others, I find reassurance in the statistical facts that people are more likely to be struck by lightning or mauled by a tiger than attacked by a shark. Nevertheless, I have felt those sharp, serrated teeth many times in my imagination, which is why I no longer wade those deep sand flats along the edges of the Florida Keys, where the fishing can be so good.
