In the shallow water around the island, he explained, blacktips are seldom bigger than a few feet long and rarely weigh more than twenty pounds. People are much too large for them to eat. Blacktips feed on small sea creatures such as fish and crabs.
Sabina, seated next to Maribel, joked quietly, “That explains why mamá told me not to be crabby this morning.”
Luke reacted with a momentary smile. It was the first sign of emotion from the boy, the sisters noticed.
Not all blacktips migrate north in the summer, the biologist continued. The female sharks often winter in the bays between Tampa and Key West. They give birth to their young in the spring. It is usually male blacktip sharks, not the females, that gather in schools of thousands. They travel north or south together, depending on the season.
“What some scientists are worried about,” Dr. Ford explained, “is video shot during the last few years that suggests fewer blacktips are making the trip. The question is, are they staying in the bays along south Florida? Or are there fewer sharks?”
Shark populations worldwide, he added, were in trouble for many reasons. But the main reason was sad and simple.
“Shark-fin soup,” he said. “It’s considered a delicacy, which is why some countries have banned it from menus. But many have not. The fins sell for a lot of money—several hundred dollars a pound. It takes a bunch of shark fins to equal a pound, and the saddest thing is that’s all they use—the fins. They throw the rest of the fish away. Some people suspect the blacktips are being netted during their migration. Others believe that the water temperature is rising, so those fish have no need to migrate. There’s no way to know unless we can track the sharks. That’s why tagging is important.”
He opened a box of tiny plastic tags—spaghetti tags, they were called. They were an inch long. At one end was a metal dart. At the other end was a thread stamped with a number. Each came with a card that had to be filled out. This was to be done after the shark had been tagged and released into the wild.
Later, the information and a photo of the shark would be uploaded to an international database.
“There’s a procedure,” he said. “It has to be done exactly right every time. Sharks can be tagged without hurting them or getting hurt yourself. That’s what we’re going to practice for the next few days. Convince me you can do the job, and do it safely, then we’ll discuss the three of you using a rental boat.”
“Alone? Just us?” Luke asked.
The man nodded. “That’s what this program is all about—kids your age learning by actually doing. It’ll be fun, but it’s also serious work. And remember: If that day comes, you can’t fish anywhere but inside this bay. Ever. Understood?”
They were in Dinkins Bay. It was a small salty lake encircled by rubbery trees called mangroves. The marina—Dinkins Bay Marina—and the biologist’s lab were visible onshore a mile away.
Mangroves, Luke thought. He attempted to memorize the word even though he had never seen uglier trees in his life. They were nothing like the forests of oak and maple in the farming region west of Toledo. Mangroves were more like bushes buzzed flat by the wind. They clustered together in hedges of green and dropped roots in the shallows. The tangled roots resembled coils of barbed wire. Or toothy wooden spikes that surrounded the islands they protected.
The boy had to admit, however, that mangroves were home to more nesting birds than he’d ever seen. Clumsy brown pelicans with quivering neck sacks, and oil-black birds with green lizard eyes. These and many other birds watched the biologist rig two heavy fishing rods.
“The black birds are cormorants,” Dr. Ford said. “They dive and swim underwater. In Asia, fishermen train them to catch fish and return to the boat. Don’t get your hands near one of our local cormorants, though. They’re not as sociable here.”
The biologist chuckled while Luke repeated the name silently to himself. Cor-mor-ant.
Maybe he would remember these new words. Maybe he wouldn’t. One thing he felt sure of was that something inside his head had changed. Since the thunderstorm, there had been days when his memory was as sharp and bright as the lightning bolt that had left scars on his body. On other occasions, though, his brain was just as foggy as it had been back on the farm. This was frustrating. True, he had never taken the trouble to try to remember difficult words before. Why make the effort? He wasn’t the sharpest hook in the box, as he’d been told many times.
But now, after being struck by lightning, maybe that had changed.
Dr. Ford broke into his thoughts, saying, “Because we don’t want to injure the sharks, we’ll use special hooks. See?” He held up a fishhook that was larger than the hooks Luke had used to snatch catfish from the pond, but otherwise the same.
No, they weren’t the same, the biologist informed him.
“These hooks are barbless—easy to remove from a fish’s mouth. And they’re made of wire that will bend if you hook something too big to handle. Or they’ll dissolve after a week or so if the line breaks. We’re not fishing for food. This is research, not a sport, so we’re using heavy line and rods. If a shark takes the bait, we want to get it to the boat, tag it, and release it as fast as possible.”
“If there are any sharks,” Sabina said, looking up from the book she’d brought along. The girl was already getting bored.
Behind the boat, seagulls soared in the sleepy heat. The chum slick drifted from the entrance of the bay into a larger body of water called Pine Island Sound. Water out there was deeper, open to the wind.
A couple of miles away, around a sandy stretch of beach, was Woodring’s Point and the Gulf of Mexico. The Gulf was a vast desert of blue, where a boat might drift hundreds of miles before reaching Mexico. Or Cuba, two hundred miles to the south.
“Patience, young lady,” the biologist said. He baited a hook, cast it off the back of the boat, and placed the rod in a holder next to Sabina.
“The first shark that hits is yours,” he warned. “Be ready.”
FOUR
A MONSTER SHARK
The hour they spent waiting for sharks to appear was like being in an outdoor classroom—but a lot more fun. The biologist was quizzing them on the dangers of removing saltwater catfish from a hook when Luke suddenly got to his feet. “Holy moly,” he murmured.
It was because of what he saw: Something long and dark was snaking toward them beneath water that was blue-green but not clear.
“Speak English,” Sabina snapped, looking up from her book.
“I am,” Luke said. “What the heck is that thing?”
The biologist shaded his eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean. I don’t see anything. Maribel, what about you?”
“Maybe,” she replied. She didn’t want to embarrass a boy who was new to saltwater fishing. “Could’ve been a cloud passing over. Or a bird, I guess.”
A squadron of seagulls had assembled above the chum slick, diving and squawking and battling over bits of fish.
Sabina returned to her book. “What do you expect from a farm boy who doesn’t know squat? He’s imagining things.”
“Mind your tongue,” Maribel said. At the same time, Dr. Ford asked Luke, “How far?”
“The thing I see?” Luke aimed a gloved finger and said, “Quite a ways.”
“Give me an estimate in yards.”
Maribel watched the boy turn inward as if consulting a secret source of information. “Um … about the same distance from home plate to second base,” he said. “No … now it’s closer. Whatever it is, it’s big. Couldn’t be a shark, could it?”
“Home to second base.” The biologist liked the comparison but wasn’t particularly excited. “You must play baseball. Are you a catcher?
“Sometimes. When I don’t have to work.”
“That’s a wise approach. Always reference what you know. But … I still don’t see what you see.”
“The shadow of a cloud,” Maribel suggested again, and looked up.
There were no clouds.
> The biologist searched for a while longer, then took a seat. “The light’s tricky out here,” he said. “It takes a while to train your eyes to notice changes on the surface. You’ll learn to look through the water to understand what you’re seeing. Don’t get discouraged.”
The dark shape had a tail curved into a point. It fanned mud off the bottom as the creature moved. Luke’s heart was pounding. He spoke softly to Maribel. “That thing—whatever it is—is swimming straight at your sister’s line. Tell her to put the book away.”
Sabina responded, “Tell me yourself. I don’t take orders from her.”
The girl sat back as if bored, then dropped the book, startled, when water exploded behind the boat. The rod she was tending bent with a sudden strain like it had snagged a passing motorcycle. The reel shrieked. Line was being stripped off by whatever had taken the bait.
“What happened?!” she yelled.
“You’ve got a fish on,” the biologist said calmly. “Leave the rod in the rod holder. That fish is too big. Hopefully, the hook will bend free, and it’ll get off.”
“But it’s my fish,” the girl argued.
“Too big,” the man said again. “If you can’t follow the rules, you can’t tag sharks.” He forced a stern look that caused Maribel to hide a smile behind her hand.
“It’s turning this way again,” Luke said. He’d barely blinked since he’d spotted the creature that moved like a large swimming snake. “It’s coming back toward the boat. If it was a shark, wouldn’t I see a fin?”
That’s the way it always was in movies.
“Seldom” was the reply. Dr. Ford studied the boy for a moment. “I’ll be darned. You were right—you did see something, and it wasn’t a cloud. Luke, your eyesight is unusual … extraordinary, even.” He turned to Sabina. “Leave the rod in the holder and start reeling in slack.”
“Slack?” the girl shouted. “What does that mean? Doesn’t anyone speak Spanish anymore?”
“Sit next to the rod and crank in line before it gets tangled,” the man instructed. When Maribel gave him a Should I help her? look, he shook his head. “She can do it.”
Sabina flashed her sister a wicked grin and proved the biologist right by reeling furiously.
Behind her, Luke whispered in awe, “Holy moly—look at the size of that thing. It’s a monster.”
The dark shape was so close they could all see it now. It had a massive blunt head and fins like wings. It was longer than the boat was wide.
“A bull shark,” Dr. Ford said. “A big one. Maribel, get the camera and start taking pictures. Luke, keep your gloves on just in case. I’ll rig the tag pole. Who knows—if it comes close enough, we might get lucky and stick a tag in it.”
Hurrying to ready the equipment, he reminded them, “Hands in the boat. And no leaning over the side.”
When Sabina got her first look at the shark, her mouth dropped open. She muttered a single harsh word in Spanish.
“No curse words,” scolded Maribel. “Keep reeling. Luke, move out of my way and get a tag ready for Dr. Ford.” The older girl was already familiar with the little waterproof camera. She began snapping shots, then switched to video. The viewfinder brought what happened next into sharp focus.
The bull shark, as if unaware of the hook in its mouth, glided slowly toward the boat. Its triangular dorsal fin pierced the surface for the first time. The creature had a broad, gray back. Clinging to it were several smaller fish that had hitched a ride. The size and shape of the shark, and the way it used its tail like a rudder, reminded her of a small submarine.
The biologist appeared in the camera’s viewfinder. He held a pole that resembled a broom handle. The point was sharp as a needle.
“Sabina, it’s your fish,” he said. “If it gets close enough, you’re going to help me tag it. Luke, watch the line for tangles—especially if it gets tangled around you or one of the girls. If that happens, cut the line. Maribel, watch everything. As of now, you’re in charge of the boat.”
In charge?
The older sister lowered the camera for a moment. “What do you want me to do?”
“Whatever you think needs to be done,” the man replied. He said it in a way that meant she really was in charge.
The shark, still on the line, nosed closer to the chum bag near the motor, then sunk out of sight. For several seconds no one spoke.
“There it is,” Luke said, pointing again.
A moment later, the bull shark surfaced beside the boat. It was close enough that Maribel could have touched its tail if she hadn’t resumed shooting video.
“Now,” the biologist said.
With Sabina’s hand on the pole, in a single jab, he inserted a tag behind the shark’s dorsal fin. The needle made a crunching sound when it pierced the rough skin. Again, the water exploded. The rod buckled with the shark’s weight … then the fish was gone.
“The hook bent,” Luke said when he’d reeled in the line. “Just like you said.” He held up the straightened hook for them all to see.
“Excellent job, guys, all of you.” The biologist was grinning. “Teamwork, that’s what shark tagging is all about. I’m impressed.” After sharing some high fives, he became serious. “Big sharks are rare in this bay, so it probably won’t happen again. But you will never try to tag an animal that size. Understood? You’ll leave the rod in the rod holder and tighten the drag until it breaks free. I’ll show you how.”
They all nodded. Maribel began to fill out a data card that matched the number on the tag they’d inserted behind the dorsal fin. The tag would accompany the monster shark wherever it traveled.
“Filling out the card is the shark tagger’s job,” Dr. Ford informed the older sister with a sly smile. “And, Sabina? Write in English or Spanish—it’s up to you. This is an international research project.”
FIVE
THE FIRST SHARK, A POEM, AND A BROKEN POLE
Every day that week the three children fished in the bay as a team. The biologist, or Luke’s aunt, Captain Hannah Smith, observed. On a Monday afternoon, Maribel caught, measured, and tagged their first blacktip shark. It was twenty-eight inches long—small enough to hold in her hands before gently inserting a tag beneath its gritty sandpaper skin.
By their fifth trip, they had tagged and released fourteen small sharks, most of them blacktips. They were learning to work together as a team. Everyone had an assigned task. They took turns reeling in the fish, or shooting video, or readying a new tag. It felt like a game, yet they all knew it wasn’t. They were getting good at what Dr. Ford called the tagging procedure.
“Sharks Incorporated,” Captain Hannah joked after another long day on the water. It was obvious the woman appreciated their enthusiasm and businesslike attitudes.
Maribel liked the name. When they were alone, she wondered if they could have T-shirts made. “Nice ones,” she suggested, “just for the three of us, plus a couple of adult sizes for Hannah and Dr. Ford.”
Luke didn’t have an opinion.
That irritated Sabina, who was busy cleaning the boat. All week the farm boy had been like this. With no adults around, why didn’t he share her mild sense of relief? It was their chance to talk and laugh and say whatever they wanted without being polite. Instead, he got even quieter.
It wasn’t the boy’s reluctance to talk that irked her. It was the odd confidence his silence suggested. It was as if he knew things he wasn’t willing to share. More annoying was that when Maribel spoke, Luke paid attention. But when she, Sabina, said something, he seemed to ignore her.
Sabina didn’t like being snubbed—especially by a boy who, to her, was strange enough to be sort of interesting. She sloshed a scrub brush in a bucket of suds and looked up at Luke. He was futzing with a broken shark-tagging pole that was actually an old broom handle. “You might like Cuba,” she said in a friendly way. “Since you don’t speak Spanish, no one would understand you, even if you did have something to say. There’d be no need to talk at all. Wouldn�
��t that be nice?”
The boy swatted at a mosquito near his ear but might as well have been swatting the question away. The cracked broom handle had his full attention.
Sabina exchanged looks with Maribel. The older sister was separating trash for the recycle bins. “Maybe he’s not interested in getting T-shirts,” she said. “Besides, I think Luke would like Cuba. Everybody plays baseball on the island. Boys, girls, everybody.”
The farm boy was suddenly interested. “Baseball? You play? What position?”
That began a conversation—their first with no adults around. Maribel said she preferred the infield, but mostly she played soccer. In the village where they’d lived, miles from Havana, kids couldn’t afford baseball equipment. But one soccer ball was enough to keep everyone happy.
“What we did,” she explained, “was find a piece of wood and carve it into a bat. For baseballs, you know that black stuff they put on roads that melts when the sun’s hot?” She couldn’t think of the word in English.
“Asfalto,” Sabina suggested in Spanish.
“Asphalt?” Luke asked. “Like tar?”
“Yes, to make baseballs,” Maribel said. “Wait for a hot afternoon. You get a glob about the size of a golf ball and roll it in your hands. Sorta like clay. Then you wrap it round and round with string until it’s big enough. That takes a lot of string, so sometimes we used fishing line. Next, some electrical tape as a cover, but that was hard to find, too.”
“Come on—kids make their own bats and balls?” Luke wondered if Maribel was pranking him. No … it was true. He could tell by her mannerisms, the easygoing way she spoke. “That’s kinda cool, I guess. I never thought about making my own bat.”
They talked about it while they finished their work. What kind of wood did the Cuban kids use? And what about catcher’s gear, shin guards and a mask?
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