Sharks, Surfing, and the Waters of Northeast Florida

There are two kinds of people who talk about sharks.

Those who know them from movies.

And those who know them from the ocean.

My earliest shark memory doesn't come from the beach, or a film. It doesn't come from a surfboard. It doesn't even come from a fishing rod.

It comes from me being with my grandfather.

Captain Dave Tuttle ran the King Neptune out of Mayport, and some of my earliest childhood memories were spent aboard that boat. I was only two or three years old, too young to understand much about the ocean except that I loved being on it. While the crew worked and the fishermen watched their lines, I would wander the deck, ask too many questions, and eventually fall asleep in the captain's chair.

One day, a shark was brought alongside the vessel.

I couldn't tell you what species it was. I couldn't tell you how much it weighed. Time has washed away those details.

What I remember is its size.

The shark seemed to run the length of the boat itself. Looking over the rail, I realized there were creatures beneath the surface larger than anything my young mind could comprehend. It wasn't fear that I felt.

It was awe.

That feeling never left me.

Growing up in Jacksonville, sharks were simply part of coastal life. Fishermen talked about them. Boaters encountered them. Surfers saw their fins slicing through the water. Nobody I knew spent much time worrying about sharks. They belonged to the ocean just as much as the tides, the mullet, and the dolphins.

Jaws.

When Steven Spielberg released the film in 1975, it became more than a movie. It became a cultural event. For millions of people around the world, Jaws transformed sharks from animals into monsters. Beaches suddenly seemed dangerous. Every shadow beneath the water became suspicious. Every dorsal fin became a threat.

The fear spread far beyond movie theaters.

In the years that followed, shark fishing exploded in popularity across many coastal communities. Shark tournaments, fishing contests, photographs with giant catches, and public displays became common sights. Looking back now, it almost feels like the Wild West era of shark hunting.

As I was growing up, Jacksonville celebrated sharks in ways that would seem unusual today.

The Greater Jacksonville Shark Festival was one of those events. Around 1990, when I was about thirteen years old, Mayport was always the gathering point. Sharks caught offshore were brought in, displayed, prepared, cooked, and served to attendees. Blackened, Fried and grilled. For many locals, it wasn't controversial. It was simply part of life on the First Coast.

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if that period marked the end of an era.

As shark harvests declined and conservation efforts expanded, more sharks were allowed to survive into adulthood. Could that be part of the reason we encounter more sharks today?

Perhaps.

Or perhaps we're simply paying more attention.

The truth is probably somewhere in the middle.

There may be more mature sharks in some populations. There are certainly more people surfing, swimming, fishing, and documenting what they see. Social media can turn a single fin sighting into headline news within minutes.

What once went unnoticed now gets photographed, shared, and discussed worldwide.

At the same time, science is finally catching up with the mystery.

Today, Mayport is home to the research vessel OCEARCH. The same waters that once hosted shark festivals now help scientists unlock the secrets of shark migration and behavior. Satellite tagging has revealed that many of the sharks moving through Northeast Florida travel thousands of miles each year. What was once speculation has become data.

We now know that our coastline sits directly within one of the Atlantic Ocean's great migratory highways.

Despite all the technology and scientific breakthroughs, one of the most unforgettable lessons I ever learned about sharks came while surfing The Poles.

One late October afternoon while surfing The Poles with my cousins after a hurricane, I paddled outside to test the depth and locate the sandbar. As I lowered my feet into the water, something nipped—both feet. It happened so quickly that I couldn't identify what made contact. It felt like both my feet entered its mouth. My reaction and response, I pulled my feet and legs up as fast as possible to be raised above the water on my surfboard.

The shark didn't bite down on me.

It touched me with its teeth. It felt me, with its teeth and mouth.

 When I pulled my feet up and saw blood dripping, I started paddling back to shore as fast as I could. I was scared but I had my cousins with me and I didn't want this to deter them from the love I have for surfing, the ocean and the beach. I noticed blood coming from small puncture wounds on both feet when I hit the beach. Whatever had made contact had decided I wasn't on the menu.

It happened almost instantly.

At first, I wasn't entirely sure what had happened. It wasn't the crushing force people imagine when they think of a shark attack. It felt more like a quick investigation.

I can laugh about it now, but at the time it certainly got my attention. I was genuinely frightened but could not project that fear. My cousins looked up to me.

Then the ocean revealed what had happened.

Suddenly, blacktip sharks appeared everywhere.

Not one.

Not two.

Dozens on Dozens...Looked like hundreds.

The water erupted with life as sharks and dolphins worked together around massive schools of baitfish. Fins cut across the surface. Mullet scattered in every direction. The water boiled with activity.

It was one of the most incredible wildlife encounters I have ever witnessed.

The sharks weren't hunting me.

They weren't interested in surfers.

They were doing what they had been doing for thousands of years before Jacksonville existed, before Mayport existed, before there was a pier, before there were surfboards.

They were feeding.

And I had accidentally paddled into the middle of their world.

What struck me most that day was not fear.

It was respect.

The dolphins and sharks weren't enemies. They were opportunists taking advantage of the same abundance of food. Every movement had purpose. Every creature had a role.

For a brief moment, I wasn't watching nature.

I was inside it.

Experiences like that remind us...

When we enter the ocean, we are not stepping into our environment.

We are stepping into theirs.

Sharks are not visitors to Northeast Florida.

We are.

The more we learn about these animals, the more we discover that they are not the villains popular culture made them out to be. They are ancient survivors. Essential predators. Indicators of a healthy ecosystem.

And perhaps that's the greatest lesson of all.

The ocean is still wild.

It still contains mysteries.

It still demands respect.

And somewhere beneath the surface, descendants of the sharks I saw beside the King Neptune continue their endless journey along the waters of Northeast Florida.

As for the shark that left puncture marks in both of my feet?

I'm glad it knew I was cool.

At least that's what I told my cousins when we left the beach.

Jeremie, always a friend.