Journal Entry
From the journal of Minnow Gray
They call them the Sisters and I’ve yet to see one. Top of the food chain giants, all female, at least seventeen or eighteen
feet and massive. That’s longer than this Boston Whaler we are in, and I am acutely aware of this fact.
When a shark makes a kill, you can often tell by the clouds of birds overhead and a radio call from the spotter up in the
lighthouse—what they call Shark Watch. As soon as it happens, I follow Gordon or Max and run to the landing and help them
swing the boat, which hangs on a crane, out over the water. With arms carved from hard work, they winch the boat down several
stories of crumbling cliff into the roiling sea. We speed out, catching air at the crest of a large swell.
So far, we are above water, not in it, where strangely I feel more at ease. There is only one man who dives down there and
he goes alone, gathering urchins below his boat. Ron Elliott is famous around these parts and the guys talk about him with
a kind of awe. I want to know more about him and have asked Max to introduce us when the time is right.
But back to the kill out near Great Arch Rock.
There is red all around us and the sharp smell of seal, and I gag when I see the body, ripped in two.
Gordon slows the boat and we drift, searching for any signs of shark.
This patch of sea is crawling with white sharks at this time of year, and it feels dangerous to be floating in such a small vessel with who knows what swimming around below us.
We’ve brought underwater video cameras affixed to poles, and Max and I lower them.
Neither of the men say anything, and I can feel our collective heartbeats going through our feet and into the fiberglass hull
of the boat. White sharks can “hear” your heartbeat in the water, and if one came close enough now, I wonder if it would home
in on ours. This is my first time out with the guys in the boat, and I try to keep cool, but my hands are trembling.
Then Gordon yells, pointing. We both turn port and the boat leans uncomfortably. “Holy shit,” Max says. First we see the boil
and then a tail fin breaking the surface. Everything is quiet and the shark cuts toward us, fast. I hold my breath and watch
as its sleek black form darts under us, sending the Whaler rocking. My eyes must be wide, because Max grabs my arm, almost
tenderly. “It’s okay,” he says. This is not my first rodeo, but something about the myth of these islands and the dark foreboding
water gives my skin a chill. And then it comes around again.
She comes around.
At the same time, both guys say, “Greta!”
I’ve just seen my first Sister. Or maybe I’ve seen one of these beauties before, just not here. But I don’t tell them that.