By Paul Lebowitz

July 2005

Back when I was still a wet-behind-the-ears saltwater fisherman, one of the first lessons I learned about Big Blue is you never know what might happen out there. A perfect example of the unpredictability of the ocean is the day I first learned sharks can fly.

I rigged up my kayak and tossed my outfits into the rod holders. My rods and reels were already set up with hooks and lures so I’d be ready to fish. I didn’t want the hooks swinging around my head, so I ratcheted down the drag on each reel and tightened up the lines until they sang when plucked.  

I made it through the small surf and paddled out to the fishing grounds, only stopping long enough to pick up some live bait. I don’t know what it is - the view of mile upon mile of sloshing water, or the liter of java I sink on the way to the beach, or maybe just the gentle bouncing of an easy swell – each time I venture out it doesn’t take long before the whites of my eyes develop a yellow tinge, if you take my meaning.    

Not being one to waste fishing time, although I felt an urgent need I hurriedly pinned on a mackerel and sent him down about halfway to the bottom. Time to get some relief. Ah! I’d just settled into the task at hand when you could say I was interrupted mid-stream. The bait clicker was screaming! Something had my bait, and was swimming away with it at warp speed.

I dropped what I was doing to grab the rod and reel. Wondering what new beast had seized my bait, I slammed the reel into gear. The rod instantly loaded up. Whoa! It was all I could do to hold on. Then unexpectedly the line went slack. I had only two or three heartbeats to stare dumbly at the reel, then the water erupted a scant twenty feet to my right.

A gray form soared out of the water. But there was no friendly looking dolphin grin on the front end. No, the figure rocketing into the sky and blotting out the sun belonged to a four or five foot shark with a broad ribbon of a curved tail again as long. My jaw dropped as I found myself in the shocking position of looking up at a flying shark. 

The thresher shark knifed gracefully back into the water. Again the line tightened, my stout fishing rod bent nearly double. It was all I could do to hang on. Dimly I was aware the fishing rod extended over the side of the kayak was a pretty fair lever. And not only was I pulling on the shark, it was pulling on me! I wrapped my legs around the bottom of the kayak as the tension continued to mount. Now the rod tip was underwater. Just when it seemed I’d be following it into the drink the line snapped.