The Devil's Teeth: A True Story of Obsession and Survival Among America's Great White Sharks

by Casey, Susan

  “For real?” I asked. He nodded. Under certain circumstances, he’d decided, it would be safe enough to surf in Mirounga Bay. The swell would have to be just so, as would the wind, the visibility, and the tides. If these ideal conditions coincided, a tow-in approach could be attempted. “Because you don’t want to be, like, paddling out there,” he said. “I would jump off the shark boat, catch the wave, and hustle into shore.” I must have looked skeptical, because he immediately added, “All I want is one ride.”

  “Well,” I said, slowly. “I’m not saying you should do it, but if you do, I’d really like to watch.” For the most part, I meant this rhetorically. I was well aware that, as far as outsiders went, this place was locked down tighter than Fort Knox. And I believed that policy was for the best—restricted access had saved the Farallones. If things had been more welcoming out here, there would be condos and a great white shark theme park on this island right now.

  Even so, even though I knew they were necessary and in this case noble, I’d always hated rules. All too often they were stupid and floutable, and begged to be defied. While I wasn’t a complete outlaw, throughout my life I had questioned most rules I’d come up against, and ignored my share of them. I’m not saying that’s the way a person should be, but if the opportunity to sneak back onto the island presented itself, I was game. I suspected the offer wasn’t forthcoming, however, and didn’t want to push the matter.

  I wanted to write the story of this place and its resident sharks, but without access this would be difficult. Ron had offered to let me accompany him when he dove here, which was promising, although day visits were no substitute for being on location. And though I happened to know that Peter disliked rules as much as I did, allowing me a closer look during shark season presented a huge throw of the dice. He’d already noted that there would be an awful lot of scrutiny this year. Stowaways would not be looked upon kindly, and he had once mentioned something about “a six-figure fine,” when a group of liquored-up boaters were caught giving themselves a sightseeing tour of Southeast Farallon. Even Scot required an annual permit from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. His role was that of a privileged guest, his permit revocable, and it wasn’t within his purview to tote me along for the ride. And so, while there were many things I expected to do this fall, sitting in the whaler watching Peter surf Shark Alley wasn’t one of them.

  “Well, maybe you can.”

  I looked at him. He appeared to be serious. “How?”

  There was a lot he had left out of recent emails and conversations. The fight with the cage divers, it seemed, had done some damage. As the biologists tussled with Groth and his partner over attempts to tighten the regulations, certain officials voiced their resentment that the great white shark issues were dominating the agenda. At the same time, higher up the chain of command, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service had begun to note the dangers involved in the Shark Project—and the potential liability. Risky-sounding great white research wasn’t part of their program; they were responsible only for the island, not for the waters around it. And so, in July, as the 2003 season logistics were being arranged, Peter had received an official letter declaring the sharks “a species that is not a management priority for the refuge.” Concerns about use of Farallon facilities and manpower to conduct research on a nonpriority species were raised. Also, the whaler could no longer be winched on and off East Landing due to new, beefed-up safety rules, meaning that Peter and Scot would have to anchor their boat offshore and row out to it whenever there was an attack (which hardly seemed like a “safer” solution, when you thought about it). Permissible dates for this year’s research had been curtailed as well, and included a window in October—potentially as long as a month—when the entire project would be suspended. During that time, several daunting heaps of junk and old diesel tanks and abandoned joists and a rubble-pile navy building or two were slated to be airlifted from the island by National Guard Chinook helicopters, supervised by U.S. Fish and Wildlife and Coast Guard crews. Though it was all part of the worthy plan to return the Farallones to the animals, the endeavor would be complicated and messy and, it was implied, sharks would be an even less welcome distraction.

  And then the final blow. The letter wrapped up by saying that, as of December 2004, the Shark Project could no longer do “boat-based work” from the island—meaning that attacks could be observed only from land. Bluntly speaking, it was the end.

  The timing was harsh. As a result of past triumphs with Tipfin and others, the Farallon sharks had been officially designated part of Barbara Block’s TOPP endeavors, and by association, the Census of Marine Life. Twenty satellite tags were slated to be sent out this fall. That meant rounding up at least twenty individual sharks, a veritable herd, almost as many animals as they’d tagged during the last four years combined. Shutting down for a month at the height of the season would be a hardship at best and, at worst, ruin the chances of success.

  Peter didn’t seem angry, but he was perplexed: How could they continue their work while accommodating all the new restrictions? There had to be a way, he’d reckoned, and had spent the past month mulling over alternate scenarios. Conducting the project from the water, for instance, rather than its current island perch; that could work. They’d still need permission to keep Sharkwatch going—without someone at the lighthouse, the attacks would be far harder to spot, downright impossible in certain conditions. Luckily, keeping a sentinel up there didn’t seem to pose a problem. “So I was thinking,” he continued. “We could get a boat and anchor it in Fisherman’s Bay. Something with three, four bunk spaces that a few people could stay on. The boat would be our research platform. If we can’t work from shore, it’s the way to go. And because we wouldn’t technically be on the island, there’d be no restrictions as to who could be out there…”

  I could see where this was heading, and I liked it an awful lot.

  THE NEXT DAY WAS MY LAST ON THE ISLAND. PETER GAVE ME A LIFT TO Bolinas in the whaler, under sunny skies with a light chop on the water. We’d left early so I could catch a noon plane, and as we approached the harbor all was serene. Surfers bobbed in the channel. The air was filled with softer mainland sounds; the twittering of songbirds replaced the harsh gull cries, and the trees rustled gently. Eucalyptus and other land smells wafted by on the breeze.

  Bolinas Lagoon was shallow, accessible only at high tide, and Peter drove slowly, the whaler putting quietly past funky shoreline houses that jutted on stilts above the water. The town was still asleep. He dropped me at the main dock and then anchored the whaler a few yards away, wading back over the sandbar in his stalwart rubber boots. After dropping our gear in the back of his truck, we walked down the road to grab some breakfast at the Coast Café, a sunny place with a shark-bitten buoy on the wall and surfboards hanging from the ceiling. As I scanned the menu, I glanced at Peter out of the corner of my eye. Somewhere in the fifty-yard span from the dock to the truck to the restaurant, his mood had changed drastically. He had turned quieter, darker, closed, as though a gate had slammed down, shutting out the light. So this was what reentry was like for him, I thought, this was the curtain of the real world lowering. I felt it too, and we ate our eggs and toast with a minimum of small talk.

  After breakfast we retrieved my rental car, which I’d parked on a nearby side street. It sat there, grimy and neglected, but I was delighted that it was still in one piece; Bolinas was infamous for discouraging visitors by ripping down highway signs that pointed the way into town, and I hadn’t supposed that rental cars would be embraced with any great neighborliness. A brindle-colored mastiff stood in front of it, regarding us with a proprietary air. Peter nudged the dog aside. He moved slightly, then padded back to his original spot.

  “So we’re going to find a boat,” I confirmed. “I’ll look for a rental online.” Since yesterday we had been discussing the logistics. Working from the water was the Shark Project’s future, it seemed, and the closure period this season was the perfect opportunity
for a trial run. We’d find a captain to man the vessel, and I would stay on board for a week or two. That was Peter’s version of the plan, anyway. Mine was to get out there and then stay as long as I possibly could.

  “If you can’t find anything, I could put it out to the Farallon Patrol skippers,” Peter said. “They’ve offered before. Or Scot might know someone who’s willing to lend their boat. An old beater would be great. Something we wouldn’t have to worry about too much.” It seemed the two of us had different images in mind. I was imagining a floating hotel room; Peter was envisioning a lengthy stay in a dumpster. Though it didn’t really matter. To visit during shark season, potentially one of the last ever, I’d bunk down on the Dinner Plate if necessary.

  We parted, and I drove off, feeling both elated (I was going back!) and discombobulated (not for six weeks). Between now and the start of the season there was much to do. I would need a cat-sitter. I’d have to make a request for a leave of absence from work. I required better binoculars. Most important, though, I had to find a boat. I fumbled in the glove compartment, pulled out my watch, and noticed that I had badly misjudged the time, leaving me eighty minutes to make the two-hour drive to the San Francisco airport. Clearly there would be no stopping for a shower. The weekend traffic didn’t help. The entire Bay Area, it seemed, was headed for the beach. I crawled along the shoreline highway in my dusty Taurus, behind an endless stream of kayak-and surfboard-laden Range Rovers and BMWs.

  By the time I returned the car and caught the shuttle to the terminal, I was sweating, and hopelessly late. The ticket agent shoved a boarding pass across the counter and told me to run. Headed for the gate, I mistakenly ducked under some ropes, forgetting that the days when you could do such a thing were good and over. Buzzers exploded, sirens went off, policemen, airline personnel, overempowered security guards all came at me. No one was particularly friendly about it, either. A sour-faced luggage screener grabbed my backpack, which was smeared with drippy gull guano, while a stout woman with a billy club hitched to her waist patted me down. I realized that I looked suspicious: unkempt, dirty, almost feral. During a week on the Farallones, it seemed, I’d forgotten the rules back on Earth, misplaced my copy of the social contract. I barely made the plane.

  Book Two

  * * *

  Shark Season

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  I’m scared of sharks. I’ve always been scared of sharks and I’m still scared of sharks and I imagine I’ll continue to be, because I think that anybody who’s not frightened of a shark really is a bit out of his mind.

  —PETER GIMBEL, DIRECTOR, BLUE WATER, WHITE DEATH

  SEPTEMBER 21, 2003

  A day upon which you are traveling to meet your yacht is a good day by anyone’s reckoning, and that’s exactly what I was doing at the moment, sitting on a bench in the cabin of a fishing boat called the Flying Fish, slamming over the bunker swells of the San Francisco Bar en route to the Farallones. The morning was magnificently wild: gusty and bright with salt spray whipping raucously over the stern and sparkling in the sun. As the Golden Gate Bridge shrank in the distance, I felt myself unwinding. Last week I’d spent marathon hours working around the clock, writing last-minute magazine headlines, eating greasy take-out food for every meal, and drinking gin with my colleagues. During this unhealthy stretch of days, I’d counted the minutes until my escape. And now, on board, it was just me, the Flying Fish’s captain, Brian Guiles, his first mate, Dave, and a thousand dollars’ worth of groceries.

  I’d chartered the Flying Fish to take me to the islands, where I would meet up with Peter and a marine biologist named Kevin Weng, a shark-tagging expert from Hopkins Marine Station in Monterey. Scot was due to arrive in two weeks. Today, at Southeast Farallon, Peter, Kevin, and I would rendezvous with a sixty-foot steel-hulled yacht named Just Imagine, a Farallon Patrol boat whose captain was dropping it off on the return leg of a two-week trip to Seattle. Sometime early this afternoon we would anchor Just Imagine in Fisherman’s Bay, its crew would hop aboard the Flying Fish and return to Sausalito, and I would settle into my new, floating home. And then, I imagined, we would toast the yacht with champagne and watch sharks frolicking off the bow at sunset. Or something like that.

  I didn’t know much about the boat, other than that, as mentioned, it was sixty feet long. In the end, it had been found close to home. After weeks of online searching had resulted in exactly zero suitable boats (and revealed that owners of large, live-aboard vessels are not especially eager to rent them), Peter had mentioned the situation to several Farallon Patrol skippers. Four of them instantly offered their boats; the first person to respond had been a man named Tom Camp, captain of the alluringly named Just Imagine. As it turned out, though, Tom Camp wasn’t available to man his yacht, so I’d happily agreed to be responsible for it, making sure its batteries stayed charged and its hatches stayed battened and it stayed right side up and whatever else. I knew virtually nothing about large boats, but I couldn’t imagine that babysitting one would be very difficult. The thing was going to be lying at anchor the entire time it was at the Farallones, somewhere in the neighborhood of five weeks, depending on conditions. When the sucker-punching northwest storms rolled in around November, Just Imagine would be whisked back to San Francisco. In the meantime, it would just float, a two-minute boat ride away from the island. Peter and Scot would be sharing the house with Brown and Nat, who were back for the bulk of the fall once again, along with two interns. During the day, the sailboat would serve as the Shark Project base of operations, with the whaler tied alongside for convenient access to attacks.

  I was looking forward to the setup. As shark season had drawn nearer, I’d become increasingly excited about being back here, seeing the sharks, catching up with Peter, Scot, and Ron, finally getting a good look at one of the Sisters. What better way to ensure this than to spend all my time on the water?

  Arranging a leave of absence from my job had been smooth; the timing was good, and in my business it was standard practice to tear off in pursuit of a story. I couldn’t wait to go native again, to abandon the tamer version of my life. The effect was more than psychological. Each time I had visited the Farallones I’d left New York puffy and office-worn and come back glowing and sleek with extra angles and an uncontrollable dusty mane of hair and dirt jammed under my fingernails. And even when I didn’t get to shower for a week out there, I always felt sexier than I’d ever felt walking around Manhattan all cleaned up and wearing Gucci heels or La Perla underpants.

  Last week I’d had a staticky cell-phone conversation with Tom, a jovial fifty-five-year-old lawyer from Berkeley, who was remarkably enthusiastic about lending his boat to the Shark Project. He’d touted Just Imagine in the booming voice of a game show host. “I don’t mean to sound like a hotelier Susan, but you should see my stateroom!” From the sounds of it we’d hit paydirt, and despite Peter’s desire to procure a beater, the opposite had happened. “I’ll take care of Just Imagine as if she was my own,” I promised.

  “Well, I’d just like to get her back in the same shape I left her in,” he said.

  “Tom, you’ll get her back in better shape.”

  “Haaaaannnnggg on!!!” Guiles yelled from the cabin. In the next instant the Flying Fish cratered hard into a giant trough, and I was hurled from the bench onto the floor. I could hear the two men laughing up front. Guiles, who had grayish hair and a lean build and looked to be somewhere in his early fifties, was a hard-core fisherman. He didn’t think a lot of the Farallones. To him, as to most skippers, the islands weren’t much more than a fine opportunity to wreck your boat, a place you passed on your way out to the albacore that schooled along the edge of the shelf.

  As I’d arrived at the dock this morning, he’d greeted me with a smirk: “So, had your last shower?” When I replied that I actually enjoyed not having to brush my hair, he’d laughed knowingly. “Yeah, well, that’ll be all right for the first couple of days,” then added, “Oh and by the way
, they’ve got a few flies out there.” When he’d noticed that I was carting about five hundred bags of groceries and another several dozen cases of water, beer, wine, and Diet Coke, however, his eyes bugged. “How long are you going to be out there, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. Depends on the weather. Maybe five weeks?”

  Guiles let out a snort. “That’s what you think. Here’s my card. If I’m not booked, I’ll come out and get you. You’ll be calling me.”

  Buying groceries for five weeks on a boat had proven surprisingly vexing. Yesterday I’d roamed the aisles of the Mill Valley Whole Foods for several hours, considering the inventory. Tossing things into the cart with abandon wouldn’t do; this particular grocery shopping had to be approached strategically. Over the years there had been memorable food tantrums at the Farallones; people had hoarded food, hidden it, fantasized about it, fixated on it, fought over it. Peter had mentioned that an intern once became physically threatening upon being told that the mayonnaise had run out.

  I realized that I didn’t even know if I could cook on Just Imagine. Surely, I figured, there would be a stove of some kind, but I’d forgotten to ask Tom. He had mentioned a large refrigerated compartment that worked like a dream and kept things very cold. Knowing that, I’d stocked up on frozen burritos and other perishables.