Wind and sand pummeled our humble tent while the team and I failed to put ourselves to sleep in the great outdoors, once again. With three of us packed like sardines in our two-person tent, the humidity and cramped quarters compounded our discomfort as the storm worsened. I watched the hours slowly and painfully tick on, every ten minutes feeling like a whole hour. With the clock approaching 2:30AM, I began to feel uneasy about our 4:30AM wake up time rapidly (yet slowly) approaching.
Often, you're covered in salt, with fish guts on your hands, hardly able to sleep outside in the wild, and in my case, holding back vomit on this windy day out at sea at five in the morning. But despite its tribulations, I’ll take it anyday over the monotony of life behind a desk. If anyone thinks this work is a vacation, filled with daily scuba diving missions and the glamor and wondrous shots you see on Instagram, guess again. It’s hard, exhausting, and requires deep patience. This is what we faced off the coast of Isla Partida near La Paz, B.C.S. Mexico. To meet the people protecting the last remaining hammerheads in this region meant we needed to embrace these challenges with all we’d got.
To go to the bathroom meant either dropping trow in the ocean or finding a small shrub to huddle behind. But at least our 4:30 wake-up offered us some privacy to handle our business in the dark. Wiping the fine layer of sand from my face and the crust from my eyes, it was the definition of “hammer time.” Before taking off, I unfortunately had to notify the Explorers Club that we lost our beloved flag while out to sea. The flag, granted to members on expeditions contributing to human knowledge of our natural world, had taken me four applications to secure for the Edges of Earth mission. Losing it was disheartening, but at least it happened while searching for the vortex of mobula rays off the coast of La Ventana, rather than having lost it in some more mundane fashion. It was all in the name of science!
Marla, still annoyed by Adam inadvertently starfishing his limbs on top of her during the night, was on deck for photos topside. Adam was suited up, ready to capture underwater footage, and I was there to recount our experience on June 19th, 2024. At this point, we had officially been on expedition for a full year. We were beaten, battered, bitten, and broken. We had seen so much in such a short time and were immensely grateful. But we were also exhausted. The lack of sleep in the tent under the stars was a brutal yet beautiful hit to our worn-out immune systems and somewhat shattered souls. It was clear we needed a break. It was coming in a day. When none of us could be forced into the water under any circumstances, we knew it was time to wash the salt out of our hair.
It wasn’t that we didn’t appreciate where we were and what we were doing. It was that our bodies were slowly shutting down, little by little and part by part. From busted feet to losing vision in an eye to hardly being able to unclog our ears after freediving, it was time to call a spade a spade: a break was crucial for our survival and the next year of fieldwork ahead.
In those moments, brushing our teeth in pitch black and putting on damp wetsuits in the cold desert morning, it became clear our tolerance for discomfort had changed. Simple comforts had become luxuries to us, and we started weighing our decisions more heavily—what we bought, wore, consumed, and said. It no longer felt right to indulge in things we were accustomed to before, like staying at hotel chains, fine dining, or buying new clothes. Even though these things might be necessitated from time to time, limiting or curbing these behaviors felt like small but fundamentally critical steps since living on the edges. The hammers were another gateway species making us realize there was in fact another, much better, way to live.
By 7:00am, we still hadn’t caught a single hammerhead on the lines out to insert tags and take samples for analysis. My seasickness meds had kicked in, leaving me hardly able to keep my eyes open, and heavy-headed. The sunrise was breathtaking over the red rocks and cacti surrounding us. As the boat swayed, we sat in silence with eleven hooks out on those long lines. Although hungry, I couldn’t stomach another breakfast taco, as over 40 days of having a few too many. Thankfully there was no time for food when there were sharks to catch. It was challenging enough for commercial fishermen to catch ANYTHING out here, let alone the elusive hammerheads. It felt like we were relying entirely on luck and fate.
Typically found around seamounts and offshore islands, they often form large schools, especially during the summer months. Scalloped hammerheads are unique not only for their head shape but also for their complex social behaviors and migratory patterns. They play a crucial role in marine ecosystems as apex predators, helping to maintain the balance of species below them in the food chain. However, their populations are under threat due to overfishing and habitat degradation, making conservation efforts in regions like Baja California essential for their survival. After not catching anything near the Espíritu Santo northern island (called La Partida), we decided to head further out to the seamounts. I welcomed this change in location because it meant I had the perfect spot on the boat to sleep during the ride. Sometimes, sleeping on the job is the only way to do the job out here.
Despite the exhaustion, we were thrilled to be out with Dr. James Ketchum, a seasoned shark and manta ray expert well-known in these parts who we were introduced to by our global partner, Marine Conservation Institute. Originally from Mexico City, James had spent 35 years in La Paz, earning his status as a local scientific authority on elasmobranchs. He was eager to show us his method of shark tagging, and we were equally excited to be right there with him. We were divided into three boats: Adam was with the full science team and two fishermen, another boat had two fishermen searching for bait, and Marla and I were on our own boat manning the cameras. While Marla attempted small talk with the captain in her broken Spanish, I sat alone at the bow, content to avoid conversation as my attempts at Spanish spoken in a mid-Atlantic accent were a bit cringe-inducing, to say the least.
The lines were hooking silky sharks, but we weren’t here for that—we needed to be patient and wait for hammers. But there was no denying that it felt like searching for needles in haystacks. As the hours dragged on, my thoughts kept circling back to what James had said about these waters three decades ago. “We wouldn’t have had to wait this long for hammers back then. They used to be everywhere, especially pregnant females.” But now, there were hardly any. I wondered what this meant for the next generation or the one after that. Would they ever see hammers in the wild? Or any sharks at all?
The thought of a future without these magnificent creatures felt like a harsh reality inching closer. Sometimes over the past twelve months, the grief over our climate and oceans felt overwhelming, like watching our planet decline right before our eyes. Like we might be some of the last to witness earth even in this capacity, which is far from what James was seeing when he first arrived in Baja California for that matter. What would our next reality be?
In our darker and more downtrodden moments, we couldn’t help but succumb to the peril, envisioning a dystopian post-apocalyptic future akin to the Mad Max franchise. But at this point, I’ve realized that this is what happens when exhaustion sets in on a research vessel searching for sharks in remote, far away waters, after not sleeping a lick the night before. The mind wanders, sometimes to the darkest of places, even when optimism is often what fuels one’s cause.
By 9:30am, we had caught ten silky sharks and not one hammer. Running out of time and patience, we tagged four of them. The silkies were thrashing around, which, according to James, is typical behavior when resisting tagging. Silky sharks, or Carcharhinus falciformis, are known for their sleek, streamlined bodies and smooth skin, making them quite distinctive. Highly migratory, they are often found in deeper, offshore waters and exhibit fascinating behavior by forming large schools around abundant food sources. What sets them apart is their adaptability and widespread distribution in tropical and warm temperate seas, making them one of the most widespread shark species out there. They are commonly found in the waters around Baja California, especially near seamounts and oceanic islands, including some coastal islands like where we were, around Espíritu Santo, which is why we were spotting so many.
The point James was making from the moment we met him was panning out in real time: finding hammerheads now required going farther out and searching much harder than ever before—and it’s entirely our doing. On our way back to camp, I fell asleep on the bow, completely drained—both from the relentless Baja sun and the heavy worry about our future, all while wind and salt pelted my face. With over a month living in Mexico and a year of travel behind us, our break was officially upon us.
This leg of the journey ended with a stark reminder of the pressing conservation and climate challenges we face. Despite being worn out from our time at sea, I knew the upcoming break would allow us to regain clarity and come back stronger. A chance to clear our minds of the negative that inevitably invades one’s psyche over enough time, and find ways back to the positive. This break would recharge us, preparing us for round two of the expedition—going even further and more remote to see what life is like on the edges of earth.
To be continued in 1.5 months from now …
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