Last Chance to See

by Mark Carwardine

  Esmeralda Estrella Navarro-Holm was a whale shark researcher. She had also recently been crowned Miss Baja California Sur. Marine biologist and model, she knew a heck of a lot about sharks and looked considerably better in a wetsuit than I did.

  She swam over to where I was treading water and we waited to be picked up.

  ‘Any luck?’ shouted Stephen from the boat. ‘That was a big one – I reckon it was at least 12 metres (40 feet) long.’

  ‘No!’ I called back. ‘It was much too fast and the tape got tangled around my leg. We’ll have to try again.’

  We were in La Paz to measure the lengths of whale sharks with a long yellow tape measure. This involved four simple steps: 1) find a whale shark; 2) dive down and swim alongside it; 3) hold one end of the tape measure at the tip of its snout and the other at the most distant corner of its tail while it swam at the speed of a torpedo; and 4) remember to come up for air.

  We had found several possible contenders in a shallow sandy bay opposite town, within half an hour of leaving dock, but were failing to complete the task in hand. The first step was relatively simple – but the remaining three were proving more difficult.

  Whale sharks in La Paz Bay.

  The larger whale sharks were, quite simply, too fast. They were surprisingly unperturbed by our peculiar antics, but a single, lackadaisical swing of their tails propelled them through the water faster than either of us could keep up. At least, it was faster than I could keep up. Estrella could stay with them for several minutes, but I was struggling. Swimming at top speed, while trying to hold the end of the tape in exactly the right position on the shark’s moving tail, was a lot harder than it probably sounds. Several times, I had to drop back for fear of having a heart attack, or worse.

  The smaller sharks (for ‘smaller sharks’ read ‘five- or six-metre-long sharks’) were a little slower and easier to keep up with. But if they dived more than a few metres beneath the surface, taking accurate measurements was pretty much out of the question.

  It felt as if we were weird and whacky tailors measuring our ‘clients’ for new shark suits – except the clients wouldn’t stay still.

  Stephen decided to stay on the boat.

  ‘I look such a twazzock in a wetsuit,’ was his explanation.

  So he became research assistant for the day. He was ready and waiting on deck, pen poised to write the latest shark dimensions on a scientific chart. But for the first hour or two he didn’t have much to do. Leaping in and out of the water, following one whale shark after another, it was exhilarating, exhausting and fabulous fun, but we didn’t actually measure a single shark.

  We weren’t short of possible contenders. La Paz Bay is among the best places in the world for close encounters with whale sharks.

  But after years of intensive hunting, these extraordinary creatures have all but disappeared from many of their former haunts in other parts of the world. Unfortunately, it’s hard to get most people, let alone governments, excited about shark conservation. There is no shortage of volunteers to care for orphaned orang-utans, campaign against the Canadian seal hunt, dive in front of Japan’s explosive harpoons or climb Mount Kilimanjaro to raise money for endangered rhinos.

  But who is fighting the fight for sharks?

  Some are, thank goodness, but not many.

  Our laissez-faire attitude towards shark conservation is perfectly understandable. Why should we protect an animal that wants to eat us? Protecting dangerous animals of any kind – whether venomous snakes, Komodo dragons or sharks – is always going to be difficult.

  At least part of the blame must lie with the book Jaws, published in 1974, and with the high-profile movies that followed. They literally scared readers and audiences out of the water, and many shark conservationists believe they fuelled the anti-shark hysteria that has gripped the Western world ever since. Although to be fair to the author, Peter Benchley, many experts at the time were just as unenlightened. And he later became actively involved in shark conservation, publicly lamenting the impact of his book on our attitude towards sharks.

  Bioluminescence – made when loads of microscopic marine organisms get together and convert chemical energy into light energy. Or something like that.

  Esmeralda Estrella Navarro-Holm – whale shark researcher and Miss Baja California Sur.

  The truth is that sharks aren’t really dangerous. Even if you spend a great deal of time in the sea, as I do, the likelihood of being attacked by one is ridiculously small. I’ve had hundreds of encounters with sharks over the years and not once have I been bitten. Quite simply, our collective fear has distorted the facts.

  I know you don’t believe me, so let me try to convince you.

  How many shark attacks do you think there are around the world in a typical year? Bear in mind the tens of millions of paddlers, swimmers, snorkellers, divers, surfers and spear fishermen splashing about in the sea every single day. Maybe 1,000? Possibly even 10,000? No. Wrong. In the past ten years, the average number of people bumped, bitten, nipped or chewed by sharks worldwide each year was … 63. And just five of these, on average, have been fatal.

  Given that nearly half of these attacks took place in Florida, it suddenly makes the rest of the world seem surprisingly safe, doesn’t it? In fact, even Florida is surprisingly safe.

  Yet another whale shark.

  There is a simple reason why we think the situation is worse than it actually is: we get to hear about all the worst shark attacks, wherever in the world we happen to live. A headline reading ‘Shark Attacks Man’ sells newspapers – and so we assume it happens more often than it really does.

  Statistics prove that we have nothing to fear. I know you can do anything with statistics, but let’s look at them anyway. It’s fun – and it puts the risk of shark attack into perspective:

  there is a far greater chance of winning a national lottery than of being attacked by a shark;

  for every person attacked by a shark more than a thousand people drown;

  many times more people are killed by coconuts falling on their heads than are killed by sharks;

  and, best of all, according to figures published by the New York City Health Department, for every person around the world bitten by a shark, 25 people are actually bitten by New Yorkers.

  So there we have it: sharks are not intent on hurting people at all. If they were out to get us, there would be many, many more attacks.

  I’m not suggesting you jump into the sea during a feeding frenzy of tiger sharks, or waltz around with a gargantuan great white (although I have done that – and survived to tell the tale), but in the normal course of events your chances of being attacked during a relaxing holiday swim are just about nil.

  Having said that, I have an admission to make: I never wear yellow swimming trunks. There is some evidence to suggest that bright colours may attract sharks and, rightly or wrongly, ‘yum-yum yellow’ has a particularly bad reputation. But then I never run with scissors, either, so I am being over-cautious.

  I also have a private pact with the sharks, which seems to have worked pretty well so far: I won’t eat them if they don’t eat me. I wish more people did the same thing, because sharks are in serious trouble and the fewer people who eat them the better.

  Perhaps the most shocking statistic – and this really puts things into perspective – is that for every person killed by a shark we in turn kill many millions of sharks. In fact, the latest research suggests that 100–150 million sharks are killed by people every year.

  Now that really is frightening.

  The main reason is shark-fin soup. Once a rare delicacy consumed only by the Chinese aristocracy, since the mid-1980s shark-fin soup has become immensely popular with the growing middle classes in China, Hong Kong, Singapore, Taiwan and other Asian communities worldwide. Its traditional association with privilege and social rank makes it an essential dish at everything from weddings and birthdays to business events and Chinese New Year celebrations.

 
The front part of our 21-metre whale shark.

  Since fishermen have been alerted to the commercial value of shark fins, what was once a small trade limited to parts of Asia and to certain species, finning has been transformed into a massive global industry involving more than 125 countries and virtually every known species of shark. Several are on the verge of extinction and many populations have completely disappeared.

  Preparing shark-fin soup is a complex process, involving many different stages. But apparently the clear, glutinous broth is almost tasteless (I haven’t tried it myself – remember my pact) and has little nutritional value. You have to add chicken or vegetable stock to give it any flavour.

  Traditional Chinese Medicine nevertheless considers the soup to be an aphrodisiac and a tonic: strengthening the waist, providing a source of energy, nourishing the blood, invigorating the kidneys and lungs, and improving digestion.

  Chinese medicine – trusted by nearly a quarter of the world’s population – has a lot to answer for. It’s responsible for the demise and collapse of wildlife populations, including tigers, rhinos and sharks, in all corners of the globe.

  But shark-finning is more than a conservation issue – it is incredibly cruel, too. The fins are frequently removed from the sharks while they are still alive and the animals are dumped overboard with terrible injuries, left to die slow, agonising deaths on the sea bed.

  A fairly average sunset in the Sea of Cortez.

  But there is a glimmer of hope.

  In a bizarre twist of fate, recent research suggests that shark-fin soup could be dangerous to eat. It contains up to thirty times the maximum permitted levels of mercury and other marine pollutants, because the sea is heavily polluted and the pollutants get concentrated in the bodies of top predators. Shark-fin soup could actually render men sterile – a little ironic considering the number of people who consume the soup specifically for the qualities that are supposed to do the exact opposite.

  So sharks are dangerous, after all, through absolutely no fault of their own.

  Estrella and I decided to have one last go at measuring a shark. We spotted a particularly large one cruising just beneath the surface and slipped back into the water.

  Suddenly, out of the planktonic gloom came a huge, gaping mouth. It looked more like the open cargo doors of an alien spaceship than the oral cavity of a fish, and I could have tumbled inside with room to spare.

  Briefly, I made eye contact with its owner. The shark’s prehistoric stare was mesmerising, but its eyes gave nothing away. It wasn’t like looking into the knowing, enquiring eyes of the grey whales, and I could not tell if it was inquisitive or uninterested.

  This gentle giant seemed to be swimming a little more slowly than the others and we were able to keep up just long enough to stretch the yellow tape along the entire length of its body. I took the measurement and swam back up to the surface, gasping for breath.

  ‘21 metres!’ (69 feet) I shouted to Stephen.

  ‘Excellent. Brilliant. Well done!’ our research assistant replied.

  I peered under water again and saw Estrella rising to the surface some distance away.

  ‘I got it!’ she called. She had managed to take a DNA sample of the shark, by jabbing a special collecting instrument, like a large needle, into the skin at the base of its dorsal fin.

  ‘How did the shark react?’ I asked, thinking that I would have panicked and disappeared into the murk if someone had unexpectedly jabbed me with a sharp needle.

  ‘It barely flinched,’ came the happy reply. ‘I’m not even sure that it noticed.’

  Estrella was developing a technique to identify individual whale sharks by their DNA. She was looking for a kind of genetic name tag unique to each and every individual. This would help her to find out where they go between visits to La Paz Bay (whale sharks are among the least understood large animals on earth) and would make it easier for other scientists to work out where they came from if – heaven forbid – their fins ever turn up in the shark-fin trade.

  The Horizon offered the exciting prospect of staying unpacked for nearly a week.

  As we returned to La Paz, Stephen twittered something about the day to his half a million followers. The sun was shining, the sea was calm and we must have encountered at least a dozen different whale sharks during the course of the day.

  The response was immediate and unanimous – we were a couple of lucky buggers.

  ‘Yes,’ he responded. ‘It’s been a heavenly day. We are absurdly lucky to be doing this. Preposterously. Outrageously. No excuse for it.’

  We could easily have stayed in the delightful coastal town of La Paz for weeks, but we had a prior engagement: we’d chartered a boat to explore the extraordinary world of the Sea of Cortez.

  The only major body of water entirely under the control of one government, the Sea of Cortez is a well-kept secret that tends to be overshadowed by the more famous grey whale breeding lagoons on the other side of Baja.

  Visiting San Ignacio, without venturing into ‘the Gulf’, as the locals tend to call it, is like buying a book and then reading only the first chapter.

  We boarded the MV Horizon, a spacious 25-metre (82-foot) sportfishing vessel, late one evening and met captain Greg Grivetto and his affable crew. I had travelled with Greg several times before, cage-diving with great white sharks far out in the North Pacific.

  Stephen and I were especially excited about the prospect of unpacking – and staying unpacked for nearly a week. One of the downsides of endless travel is living out of a suitcase, and, after months on the road, it was a rare treat to be in one place for a measurable length of time. The cabins were fairly small, but we had one each and spent a ridiculously long hour or more laying our books, boots, lenses, laptops, iPods and pants in neat rows and piles where we could see them all together for the first time in living memory. It was absolute bliss.

  Stephen wandered upstairs and set up base camp on a table in the salon. Whistling and singing to himself, he carefully placed his laptop centre stage and laid out a motley collection of mobile phones and cables around the edge, like a child decorating a Christmas tree. I’ve rarely seen him happier.

  We met on deck for a late-night beer and, with a well-worn map spread out on the baitfish tank, traced our proposed route. First, we were travelling south, crossing the Tropic of Cancer overnight, to spend a couple of days off the southern tip of Baja. Then we would head north and travel deep into the Gulf. The ultimate aim of our little expedition was to find the ultimate whale – a blue whale – but we had a few other things to do along the way.

  A humpback whale showing off one of its long flippers.

  Stephen was a little worried about seasickness, so he asked Mark, the boat’s cook, for some tablets.

  He looked at them suspiciously and signalled for me to join him in a quiet corner of the salon, out of earshot of the others.

  ‘Do you think he’s given me Viagra,’ he whispered.

  ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Stephen. ‘Look at them.’

  He opened his hand surreptitiously, like a drug dealer on a street corner, and revealed two blue lozenges.

  ‘I don’t know what Viagra looks like!’ I admitted, laughing.

  ‘Nor do I!’ said Stephen, as if I’d accused him of something. ‘But I’ve seen pictures of it – and it looks exactly like this.’

  He tutted, threw both tablets into his mouth and took a swig of beer.

  ‘I’ll await future developments with interest,’ was his parting shot.

  We’d taken a loudspeaker on the Horizon with us, and the next day, while floating about 10 kilometres (6 miles) offshore, we decided to set it up on the rear deck.

  The speaker was connected to an underwater microphone, or hydrophone, which we carefully lowered into the sea at the back of the boat.

  Stephen switched it on and, suddenly, the air was filled with a baffling medley of moans, groans, snores, squeaks and wh
istles. Some of the sounds were like the grating of an old metal hinge, others resembled the last gurglings of a drowning man, and there was one that could only be described as like the squawking of a chicken with a farmer standing on its toe.

  In between, there was a beautiful operatic melody that reverberated around the boat and made the hairs on the back of our necks stand on end.

  We were listening to the plaintive song of a male humpback whale. With elements of jazz, bebop, blues, heavy metal, classical and reggae all rolled into one, it’s hard to describe the feelings that washed over us as we listened. It sparked a rollercoaster of emotions: soothing and melancholic, shocking and unsettling, mesmerising and awe-inspiring. There is nothing else quite like it.

  When these unearthly sounds were first heard by an astonished world in the 1970s, thousands of people rushed out to buy recordings of them – making humpback whales the only animals able to boast a top-selling record in the pop charts.

  Lobtailing – just one of the humpback whale’s favourite party tricks.

  But what we were listening to was not a recording. It was the real thing: a haunting and unforgettable live performance. We were eavesdropping on an unseen humpback whale earnestly singing from somewhere underneath the boat.

  It was one of the few times during our travels together when Stephen was rendered completely speechless. He went to say something at one point – he even opened his mouth and a croaky little noise came out – but he closed it again and carried on listening.

  So we stood there in silence, me leaning against the wooden railings and Stephen a few metres away on deck, his arms folded and his head tilted slightly to one side. He was smiling broadly.

  I always find humpback whale songs a little overwhelming and humbling. I realise it’s not very scientific to admit such a thing, and I’m sure my zoological colleagues will mock me for it, but a singing humpback seems to be so full of purpose and emotion.