The One That Got Away (Again): Great Point Expedition #34

Fellow shark enthusiasts, what follows is the official expedition report for Operation Apex, Week 34. The hunt continues.

Pre-Mission Briefing

The conditions were, according to my new barometric pressure app, "adequate." Wind: 8 knots from the southwest. Water temperature: 68 degrees. Visibility: excellent. Moon phase: waning gibbous, which my research suggests may influence shark feeding patterns, though I admit the scientific literature is divided on this point.

Margaret wished me luck in that way she does now, where the words say luck but the eyes say "therapy." I chose not to engage with this subtext.

Equipment Manifest

I arrived at Great Point at 0600 hours—that's 6 AM for you civilians—armed with the following:

• Military-grade binoculars (eBay, $47, "like new")
• Drone with allegedly waterproof camera
• Fish-finder I've repurposed for shark-finding (still calibrating)
• GoPro on selfie stick (for documentation purposes)
• Folding beach chair (tactical model with cup holder)
• Thermos of coffee (essential)
• Sandwiches (Margaret's, begrudging)
• Sunscreen SPF 50 (lesson learned, July '23)

The Wait

The first three hours were what I call "reconnaissance." Some might call it "sitting in a beach chair seeing nothing," but those people lack vision. Every great hunt requires patience. The shark does not operate on human schedules. The shark arrives when the shark chooses.

I scanned the horizon methodically. I checked the fish-finder, which continued to register only fish. I drank my coffee. I ate half a sandwich. I maintained vigilance.

The Sighting

At 0947, movement. Approximately 200 yards offshore. My heart rate, as measured by my Apple Watch, hit 112 BPM. This was it. After 34 expeditions. After thousands of hours. After Margaret's increasing concern about my "hobby."

A fin. Gray. Triangular. Moving with PURPOSE.

I raised the binoculars with steady hands (relatively steady; the coffee was strong). I confirmed: fin. Definitely a fin. Definitely gray. Definitely moving in a pattern consistent with predatory behavior.

I scrambled for the drone. Launched it flawlessly—well, on the third attempt, the first two were what I'd call "calibration launches"—and piloted it toward the target with the skill of a man who has watched many YouTube tutorials.

The Footage

The drone achieved position. The camera engaged. I watched the screen with trembling anticipation.

The footage revealed: Reginald.

The seal. MY seal. The one who has appeared at seven of my last nine expeditions. He looked directly at the drone. I swear—I SWEAR—he winked. He WINKED, Margaret.

Then he dove, resurfaced twenty yards away, and appeared to be laughing. Seals do not technically laugh. I know this. And yet.

Analysis

I refuse to believe this is coincidence. Reginald knows what he's doing. He's intercepting my shark sightings. He's positioning himself where sharks should be. He's—and I know how this sounds—he's mocking me.

Margaret says I'm "projecting human motivations onto marine wildlife." Margaret says I should "consider speaking to someone." Margaret says the seal "does not know who you are and does not care about your shark quest."

Margaret did not see that wink.

Equipment Lessons

The drone performed adequately once launched. Battery life was approximately 18 minutes, which is shorter than advertised but sufficient for most reconnaissance. The "waterproof" designation remains untested as I successfully recovered the drone before ocean contact.

The fish-finder continues to find fish. I am considering modifications.

Next Steps

Next week: Madaket. Reginald cannot be everywhere. The western shore has different currents, different seal populations, different opportunities. I've consulted the tide charts. I've reviewed satellite imagery. I've watched three documentaries about great white migration patterns.

The shark is out there. I know it. And one day—one day—I will find it.

Until then, I remain vigilant.

Next week for sure.