Tarpon in the Atlantic Ocean

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Beach day was a thing of epic proportions as my daughter jokingly explained to my shocked husband who was standing on the shore, watching everything unfold. Not even Herman Melville could've predicted what I encountered in the crystal-clear, five-foot Atlantic water.

We knew we were swimming dangerously in the 300-foot proximity to a large fishing pier on Lake Worth Beach, a long extension from the famous Benny’s on the Beach restaurant. It is never a good idea to swim or play so close to fishermen who throw fishing chum in the water because large fish come for an opportunistic easy feed. Last time we were here, the emerald water was saturated with needlefish of all sizes and juveniles of other fish.

As I was standing in very calm ocean water, deep to my chin, the serenity of the beach was broken by the long shadow of a large creature whose fin was slicing quickly through the water in my direction; I froze as I knew that it was swimming quite fast and my feet were sinking in the yellow sand, capturing my water shoes like glue; I closed my eyes as the fish almost bumped into me but veered left at the last second before making contact with my left side. It had a greenish blue back, with shiny silver, armor-like scales, a large dorsal fin, and a pink mouth. In the moment, the fin traveling in the water could have been a shark – I would have never known the difference. I panicked to the point that my chest hurt, and I could hardly breathe when a man swimming rather closely with his two sons yelled shark.

My daughter was near me, however, when this man yelled shark, I panicked even worse. My ability to move fast through water was hampered by the sinking sand and by my teal water shoes. Ever since I was barbed by a sting ray, I always wear shoes in the water.

I was the only one who seemed to care that there was a shark in the water. My husband, watching from the shore as I flailed with my daughter, who was attempting to drag us to the shore, just stood there frozen. We got to the shore, and my pulse was racing like I had run a marathon, which is impossible because I'm handicapped.

My husband was still sitting there, perplexed as to what had happened. The lifeguard rode up on his scooter and told us that it was a large tarpon and we were safe. But safe is a relative term – safe from being attacked, safe from being bitten, safe from being bait for the tarpon’s apex predator, the shark?

The large eyes, the upturned lower jaw, the pink mouth, the large size of this predatory fish, the fact that it can breathe air, it has a swim bladder that functions as a lung, and two rows of upper teeth, can pose a serious risk if it feels threatened.

I cannot tell you the scars on my soul from feeling so lost in that water; I thought for sure we would be the next snack for this creature which was circling the water for food. We were no threat to this tarpon but I am positive that he did not know that; after all, we were invading his home, the beautiful ocean.

For the next hour or so, we watched this tarpon (Megalops atlanticus) chase two teenage swimmers who were bold enough to go in.

The moral of the story is, never bathe in the Atlantic Ocean but especially within sight of a fishing pier. I knew better but I did it anyway.

 

 

South Miami Beach

We were “lucky” to visit this famous beach in October 2024, chased away by hurricane Helene from Siesta Key. We were spared thousands of spring break and tourist beach goers, showing off their naked bodies to the world while soaking in the sunshine.

The beach and the mosaiced boardwalk were empty of tourists as a second hurricane [Milton] had not decided yet where it was going to make landfall. After hurricane Helene’s devastation, people stayed home. A few locals were scattered on the beach or riding their e-bikes.

The hotel was one block from the beach, a short three-minute walk. The staff ignored us most of the time since we did not speak Spanish, “gringos” from other lands.

Miami Beach is a country in itself; it is part of U.S.A. in name only. Life here is vibrantly Hispanic and foreign to American culture in the rest of the states. Cubans like it that way and are proud of their Little Havana.  The food is mostly Cuban and tasty.

Nobody drives well at all, some don’t even bother with driver’s licenses, and, if you happen to be embroiled in a hit and run while crossing the pedestrian crosswalk, the police ignore the victim, and take off in a hurry, protecting their Hispanic brethren who broke the law and almost killed you.

The hotel rooms were tiny and humid, nothing ever dried, towels were missing, and service lacked a lot to be desired. Prices were high and parking cost a fortune per day.

The wooden trolleys were free, and the Uber drivers were sketchy. The outdoor spaces designed for walking and shopping were guarded by several armed policemen which left us with a feeling of unease.

The best part was the almost empty beach, with sand so soft that we sank deeply with each step. The lifeguards had interesting towers with sun-protection windows and all sorts of equipment intended to save the lives of those who were daring or reckless enough to brave the dangerous Atlantic Ocean.

The water was a beautiful seafoam blue, so opaque that I could not see my fingers three inches below the surface. We stepped from the water’s edge into this balmy ocean and immediately sank onto a three-foot drop, then another three-foot drop. It was so sudden that we lost our balance and fell in. By the time we touched the floor, the diaphanous water was above our heads, and we had to tread water while the waves were tugging us not so gently away from the shore.

While attempting to swim, I imagined all sorts of frightening scenarios lurking under this beautiful water, such as stingrays, sharks, or jellyfish stinging us with long tentacles. But the water temperature and the salt felt divine to the skin and joints.

I was familiar with the stingray from previous swims in the Gulf of America. Unfortunately for me, once I forgot to shuffle my feet, and I stepped on a juvenile stingray who whipped its tail and stung me in the heel. The tail lashed instantly like a dark stick and stung me. Once I yelped, my husband remarked, “it was just a wooden stick honey,” but then the heel started bleeding, and the sharp pain got worse, necessitating a doctor’s visit and x-ray to identify the potential presence of a barb. Luckily, there was none.

I know that I watch too many shark documentaries and videos of other oceanic creatures that fascinate me, but I have seen sharks come close to the water’s edge on Siesta Key where the gulf waters are infinitely less dangerous than the furious and opaque Atlantic Ocean.