The sharks weren’t big. In the bright morning sunlight, they leaped and splashed in the air. They battled until the heavy rods forced them to the boat. Finally, with no adults aboard to help, the trio had the chance to use what they’d learned about shark-tagging protocol.
Maribel had the camera, tags, and data cards ready. With the rod secured, Sabina lifted her shark from the water. Its gray skin was rough like sandpaper. The fins looked metallic black but were a deep dark blue up close. A grapelike membrane over the shark’s yellow eyes blinked at the girl while she placed the animal on the gunnel of the boat and used a measuring stick.
“Thirty-four point five inches,” she reported.
“Thirty-four point five,” Luke echoed to confirm that the measurement was accurate.
Maribel noted the information on a card and snapped photos.
“Weight?”
Sabina used a little hand scale. “Nine … almost ten pounds.”
“Nine pounds, eight ounces,” Luke said looking over her shoulder.
It all went down on the data card.
“How much time do we have?” the younger girl demanded. A shark can’t be out of the water for more than three minutes. That was an important part of the shark-tagging protocol they had learned.
“Two minutes, ten seconds” Maribel replied. “You’re doing fine.”
This was the procedure they had learned. They were getting good at it.
In Sabina’s hands, the shark struggled to get away, then went limp when she gently rolled it onto its back.
The biologist had taught them this technique. Tonic immobility, he’d termed the behavior. Turn a shark upside down and it would “go to sleep” until returned to the water.
“The anal fin is whitish-gray,” Sabina reported. “It’s a male. See the claspers?”
“Definitely a male blacktip shark,” Luke confirmed after viewing the two spines under its tail. “Not a spinner shark. Ready for the tag?”
The shark was too small to require the new tagging pole. Instead, the boy used a hand dart to insert a tiny plastic capsule behind the dorsal fin.
“Next, the hook remover,” he said. He reached for the console where the tools were kept.
When the hook was gone, Sabina cradled the shark and lowered it into the water. The tidal current was strong. She turned the fish’s head into the current so that water flowed into its mouth. “How much time?” she asked again.
“I think you broke the speed record,” Maribel said. She had the camera to her eye, getting it all on video. “How do the gills look?”
On each side of the shark’s head were five flaps, or vents. The vents moved in a healthy rhythm, pumping water to provide oxygen. “He feels strong as a bull,” the girl said. “I’m going to name him El Toro. Make sure to write it on the card.”
Sabina had named every shark she’d caught and released.
Luke removed his rod from a rod holder and reeled in the blacktip he had hooked. The fish had been content to cruise along the mangroves close to the boat, but it made a spectacular spinning leap when it felt the pressure of the line.
The procedure was the same, although their duties were reversed. Sabina used the tagging dart. Luke revived and released the fish. Maribel oversaw it all and offered advice when needed.
After watching their second blacktip shark swim away, the boy flashed a rare smile. He said to Maribel, “Good job … Captain.”
Maribel didn’t know how to react. For a sweet few seconds, the voice in her head that criticized and nagged was silenced.
“We’re a team,” Maribel responded, embarrassed but secretly pleased. “Let’s fish a little longer, then have lunch.”
* * *
Sabina didn’t want to stop for lunch, even though she had prepared the food herself. Thanks to good luck—or maybe the farm boy’s spooky eyesight—they had anchored in the middle of a school of sharks.
Over the next hour, they landed and tagged thirteen blacktips. This was a new record for an afternoon on the boat. And they’d done it by themselves, no adults along. They had also caught a fish they had never seen, but Luke thought he recognized it from a book.
“A nurse shark,” he suggested, but wasn’t quite sure. The fish was cinnamon colored. It had a wide mouth and tiny, crushing teeth beneath long, stringy-looking threads of flesh that resembled whiskers.
“I’ll leave that part blank until Dr. Ford sees the pictures,” Maribel said. She was using a clipboard and a pencil. “Is anyone hungry? We can leave the baits out while we eat.”
Sabina was hungry … sort of. It was hard to be certain because she had to go to the bathroom. The discomfort had been building all morning. On a day as hot as this, she’d downed several bottles of water and tea from the ice chest, as instructed. Now she needed to go—and she needed to go soon.
Luke and Maribel had drunk just as much water. The difference was that they were willing to do what Captain Hannah had suggested when a passenger felt the need to go. They had asked for privacy, turned on music, and carried a bucket to the back of the boat.
Especially Luke. Shy as he was, the boy had requested privacy many more times than Maribel had—every fifteen minutes, it seemed to Sabina, who found this irritating. She had been to parties where less music had been played.
That didn’t bother the farm boy one bit, him and his stupid gloves. After an unusually long wait, she had whispered to her sister, “Maybe they kicked him out of Ohio. Those savages probably don’t even bother with buckets. I bet they sneak outside like goats.”
Maribel had shushed the girl. She had also asked her sister, “Are sure you don’t have to … you know?”
Use the bucket, Maribel had meant.
Sabina had responded with a hiss, like a cat. “Never. I didn’t come to all the way from Cuba on a raft to use a bucket.”
Now the girl was desperate for relief.
Maribel had opened the lunch sack. Luke was munching a disgusting bologna sandwich. They had repositioned the boat so that it was shaded by mangrove trees. Gnarled limbs hung over the back of the boat in a way that Sabina found tempting. Leaves above her were waxen green. The shoreline was a tangle of roots and shells. But the ground looked solid enough to support a small girl’s weight.
Sabina’s eyes moved from the bucket to the shoreline. She looked from the shoreline to the bucket, then back to the tangle of roots.
Somewhere in that jungle of green there had to be a private open space.
“Excuse me,” Sabina said as if making an announcement. “I’ve decided to use the … you know. And don’t rush me!”
Immediately, the boy and her sister swiveled to face the front of the boat, although Maribel reminded her, “Make sure to wear your life vest.”
Sabina turned the music loud. She waited to confirm no one was looking. When it seemed safe, she reached up, grabbed a tree limb, and shuffled ashore.
I’ll be back before they even know I’m gone. That’s what Sabina told herself as she disappeared into the bushes.
TWELVE
A GRUESOME DISCOVERY, A NARROW ESCAPE
Mangrove trees are known as “walking trees.” It’s because their roots sprout like hoops. The roots thicken and travel. They claim every inch of space until one is tangled into another. When mangroves capture an island, their roots lock together like bars.
The trees actually creep across shallow water to form new islands.
Sabina was beginning to think it was a mistake to sneak away into this forest of shadows and swamp. There were no paths, just one rubbery mangrove root after another. It was impossible to walk in a straight line. For a while, music marked the location of the boat. Soon, though, the girl was confused. The music seemed to change direction with every turn she made.
Sabina was worried that by now Maribel would have noticed she was gone. Her tummy hurt with a building pressure, and a haze of mosquitoes had found her. But she kept going, determined to find a suitable spot.
Although o
nly ten, the girl had been toughened by events few adults had experienced. After leaving Cuba, she had spent many days adrift on a raft with her sister—lost at sea. To be lost in a mangrove jungle? It wasn’t a big deal to her.
Sabina wasn’t scared. Just mad that Maribel might realize she was gone, and thus have another reason to act superior.
The girl hated the way her older sister would turn her nose up and sigh with disapproval. Most older sisters would shout and threaten. Not Maribel. Maribel never got angry. She never had doubts. She had never been sad enough to write poetry or brave enough to get into trouble. No … Maribel was like a princess. She had to be perfect in every way.
Sunlight sprinkled flakes of gold into the shadows. Sabina pushed on through the brush in a poetic mood—but still angry.
In her head, she imagined a poem she might write:
The Princess feasted without care
For a poor, starving girl who dared
To explore a stinking stupid swamp
Alone and unafraid at sea
In search of a private place to stop and …
Abruptly, Sabina abandoned the poem. It was because of what she saw through a gap in the trees. There was an open space where cactus grew among piles of old gray seashells. No one around, just tittering birds. The girl battled her way the last few yards toward sunlight.
Finally!
In the clearing was a stump to provide balance. The nearest cactus was a safe distance away. Mosquitoes had stayed behind because they didn’t like bright sunlight. That was important. The girl didn’t mind bites on her arms and legs, but there were other areas more difficult to scratch.
Yes … the perfect spot.
Sabina soon felt comfortable again beneath a circle of clear blue sky. Now all she had to do was find her way back to the boat. But which way was the boat?
The music had either stopped or become too faint to hear. From the other side of the clearing came the sound of water lapping against the shore.
If there was water, maybe the boat was nearby. The girl zigzagged her way through cactus and shells to investigate. As she walked, she noticed a fire pit with a grate for cooking food. Empty cans were strewn around the area. There was a lot of other trash—plywood flats, cigar butts, cellophane, and many beer bottles.
Borrachos, she thought. It was the Spanish word for drunkards. Drunkards had been camping here.
Sabina was sure of it. Beer cans littered a freshly hacked path through the brush. The path angled into a swampy area. She followed the path until a strange buzzing sound caused her to halt. Breathing softly, she tilted her head and strained to listen.
Buzzzzz …
The girl took a few more steps and stopped again. Ahead, in a clearing, was a plywood structure. A heavy square shape appeared to be a table. Or was it a beehive? A beehive would explain the loud buzzing she heard. Either way, the structure suggested that the drunkards might still be in the area.
“Hello?” she hollered. Silence made the girl braver, so she demanded, “Why don’t you pick up your trash? There is a law against littering—even for drunks.”
No answer.
She kept walking. The buzzing grew louder. It was a swarm of flies, not bees, that was making the noise. Thousands of flies. They battled for what looked like chunks of meat spread in rows on a makeshift table.
The girl had seen something similar in Cuba. Fishermen sometimes preserved their catch by laying fish out in the sun to dry. But they were smart enough to cover their fish with salt to keep flies away.
Maybe the drunkards were as sloppy with their food as they were everything else.
Sabina decided to take a closer look—and was horrified by what she discovered. The chunks of “meat” were actually shark fins. Hundreds of them, withered and gray in the heat. The fins resembled wedges of skin from animals that had been killed on a highway.
The girl was furious. “You’re criminals—you should all be arrested!” she hollered, confident that the drunkards were gone. Then, at the sound of heavy footsteps, she gulped and crouched low. Someone was sloshing toward her from the water.
“Who’s there?” grumbled a man’s deep voice.
Sabina crouched lower and touched her necklace of blue and yellow beads. Mangroves blocked her view, but she could see tree limbs thrashing. It was as if a bear were bulling through the mangroves toward the clearing.
Then, a hundred yards away, a dog appeared. It was a large dog with pointed ears. It rippled with muscles beneath brown buckskin fur. The dog stopped as if waiting for its owner. Sabina saw its muscles twitch in the distance. A thick brown nose lifted to sniff the air. The dog’s head pivoted … and its glowing black eyes found Sabina hiding in the weeds.
At the same instant, from the opposite direction, came the muffled blast of an air horn. Their rental boat was equipped with a horn—a pressurized canister as part of the safety equipment.
Maribel and Luke knew she was gone. They were calling for her.
Sabina got a glimpse of a bearded man exiting the trees. She jumped back, then turned and fled.
Behind her a deep voice ordered the dog, “Get that girl!”
* * *
Maribel had the little emergency radio out but was reluctant to call for help. “Sabina might be kicked off our team if they find out she broke the rules,” she said to Luke. “I know it’s what I should do, but I hate to get her in trouble. And look—”
Her sister had left her inflatable life vest behind—another breach of the rules.
The boy didn’t respond. He was staring into the depths of the mangroves. Behind his eyes, the flashing orange light had returned.
Maribel used the air horn again, two piercing blasts. She placed it on the console next to the radio. “I’ll go after her. I’m sure Sabina hears us, but she’s stubborn. My sister hates to be bossed around. Believe me, that silly girl’s not afraid of anything.”
Luke continued to stare far into the shadows. The orange light now had a reddish tinge. In his head, a distant sound had been added: the barking of a dog.
“Sabina’s already in trouble,” the boy said softly.
“I know. I just said that,” Maribel replied. “The question is, what should we—”
Luke interrupted. “I’m going after her. You have to stay here.” Suddenly he was in a hurry.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re in charge of the boat,” the boy reminded her. “You can’t leave. That’s one of the rules, too, remember?”
Maribel couldn’t argue. He was right. But she was also in charge of getting her passengers home safely. “That settles it. I’m calling for help.”
She reached for the radio.
“Don’t,” Luke said. He had removed his gloves for some reason and was reaching for a tree limb. “It wouldn’t be the same without your sister when we go fishing.”
Maribel started to say, “But she’s my sister,” then stopped and watched the boy swing out of the boat and drop to the ground.
“Luke, you can’t,” she insisted. “Not by yourself.”
Too late. The boy from Ohio was already gone.
* * *
The distant drumming of a dog’s feet was the most frightening sound Sabina had ever heard. She panicked and ran blindly, screaming for help.
But there was no one to help—not on a deserted island in a clearing of cactus and shells. The girl knew it. She also knew the dog would catch her if she didn’t find a way to save herself.
Ahead was the mangrove swamp. Sabina sprinted toward the tallest tree while her eyes scanned the ground for a weapon. She needed something to scare the animal away before it bit her.
Old seashells lay in piles. Some were as large as bricks and just as hard. The girl slowed to scoop up a heavy whelk shell and, after a backward glance, kept running until she was in the shadows of the swamp.
The dog was much closer, coming fast. She got a glimpse of it hurdling a bush, its long, sloppy red tongue drooling. The an
imal was whining in its eagerness to obey its owner’s command:
Get that girl!
When Sabina was frightened, she became angry. Sometimes that anger clouded her thinking. She stumbled through a curtain of vines to a tree with low, thick limbs. But instead of climbing to safety, she turned and waited. In her hand, she held the seashell like a club.
Not even a dog could run through mangroves, the girl reasoned. It would have to weave its way over and under roots just as she had done. When the animal appeared, Sabina planned to scamper up the tree at the last instant. Maybe even throw the seashell in a half-hearted way.
She didn’t want to hurt the dog—just punish it for scaring the wits out of her.
The girl waited for what seemed like a long time but wasn’t a long time. She moved away from the tree, then took a few steps toward the clearing, where there was sunlight but no dog that she could see.
Where had it gone?
In the far, far distance someone whistled—a two-finger screech.
She had never heard Luke or Maribel whistle with such ferocity. Had the bearded man called his attack dog home?
The girl stood motionless for what seemed an even longer period of time but was only a minute. She swatted mosquitoes and waited awhile longer, then decided it was safe to go back to the boat.
Sometimes Sabina’s thinking was clouded by anger and her impatience.
Which way was the boat?
She didn’t know. There hadn’t been another blast of an air horn. Fear had blurred her sense of direction. The only way to find her way was to return to the clearing and start over.
Sabina poked her head out from the shadows. The table loaded with shark fins was barely visible in the distance. No sign of the bearded man, either.
Boldly, she stepped into the sunlight and began to jog toward what she hoped was the boat. Then she felt a horrifying chill—to her left, the dog was creeping toward her through the weeds.
On TV, she’d seen lions creep along the ground in the same terrifying fashion. It was their way of surprising smaller animals before they had a chance flee.
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