Reginald: A Profile of My Nemesis

I need to talk about the seal.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: "Pete, it's just a seal. Nantucket has thousands of seals. They're everywhere. This is not remarkable."

And if it were just A seal, you'd be right. But this is not just any seal. This is Reginald.

The First Encounter

I first noticed Reginald in June of 2023. I was positioned at Madaket, equipment deployed, scanning for dorsals. Approximately forty minutes into my watch, a harbor seal surfaced roughly twenty yards from shore. He looked directly at me. Not in my general direction—directly at me. Made eye contact. Then dove.

I thought nothing of it at the time. Seals are curious. Eye contact happens.

But then he appeared again. Same spot, same posture, same uncanny awareness of my presence. Three more times that morning. Each time: eye contact, pause, dive.

The Pattern Emerges

Over the next six months, I conducted 23 shark-watching expeditions. Reginald appeared at 17 of them.

This is statistically improbable.

Harbor seals in this region number in the thousands. The odds of encountering the same individual seal—identifiable by a distinctive scar on his left flipper and what I can only describe as an attitude—at over 70% of my expeditions are astronomically low.

Unless it's intentional.

The Evidence

Exhibit A: Reginald always positions himself between my observation point and the open ocean. Always. As if he's screening. As if he's running interference.

Exhibit B: He surfaces whenever I've identified something that might be a shark. Every time I raise my binoculars with urgency, there's Reginald. Exactly where the potential shark was. "Sorry, just me," his eyes seem to say. "No sharks here."

Exhibit C: The winking. I've documented this. I have video. Margaret says it's "just blinking" but seals have nictitating membranes—they don't blink like humans. This is a deliberate, knowing, single-eye closure. This is communication.

Exhibit D: He follows my drone. When I launch the drone to investigate a sighting, Reginald repositions to be under it. He knows the drone. He recognizes it. He is MONITORING me.

Theories

Theory 1: Coincidence. Dismissing immediately. See statistics above.

Theory 2: Territorial behavior. Possible. Reginald may have claimed these waters and views me as an intruder. But why would he specifically target my shark-watching activities? I'm not fishing. I'm not threatening him. I'm looking for sharks.

Theory 3: He's actually helping sharks. This is where it gets interesting. What if Reginald has developed a symbiotic relationship with local great whites? What if he alerts them to potential threats—i.e., observers—by creating a distraction? What if he's working WITH the sharks?

Theory 4: He just likes messing with me. Margaret's theory. She says animals can't "mess with" humans intentionally. But crows remember faces. Octopuses play with objects. Dolphins exhibit pranking behavior. Is it so impossible that Reginald has identified me as entertainment?

Recent Developments

Last week, I tried something new. I set up at a completely different location—one I'd never visited before, on the north shore, accessible only by 4x4 and known to very few. I told no one where I was going. I took a different vehicle. I even wore different clothes.

Reginald was there when I arrived.

I don't know how to explain this. I genuinely don't. He was sitting on a rock, approximately fifty yards offshore, watching me unload my equipment. He didn't move when I set up. He just watched. And then, at precisely 10:47 AM—I documented this—he slipped into the water, swam to a position between me and the horizon, and began his routine of surfacing, making eye contact, and diving.

I sat there for four hours. I saw no sharks. I saw Reginald approximately sixty times.

What I've Learned

I've spent considerable time researching harbor seal behavior. They are, according to marine biologists, "curious," "intelligent," and capable of "complex social behaviors." They can recognize individual humans. They have excellent memory. They are known to return to preferred locations.

None of this explains Reginald.

The Path Forward

I'm not giving up. The sharks are out there—I know they are. Great whites visit these waters every summer. They've been tagged, tracked, documented by actual scientists with actual credentials.

But between me and those sharks stands Reginald. My nemesis. My shadow. My unlikely adversary in a battle he seems to be winning.

Margaret says this is "concerning." She's bought me a book about mindfulness. She's suggested I take up golf.

I will not take up golf. I will see a shark. And when I do, Reginald will be there to witness it.

Next week for sure.