I’m trying to get better at not explaining away the fun of a good read, I knew before the incident that bull sharks were territorial and white fins are a no-no around sharks. I touched my first shark in 2015 and now I have around 10 years of experience being a Dobert

I was sailing solo through the shallows of the Bahamas, guiding the largest sailboat I could responsibly handle alone, a 30 foot wide, 50 foot long, ninety foot high carbon three-hulled monster that sat high enough in the water but had the storage and accommodations that I could take it farther and penetrate deeper than other vessels above and below its class. It was one of a kind and we had just spent several hundred thousand dollars accommodating it so instead of three crew it could be run by just me. I was threading it through unmapped cuts and coral heads, searching for submerged cave entrances—places where the limestone crust gave way to mystery.

I wasn’t anchoring for rest. I was looking for a purchase—just enough grip with my anchor to hold the boat in a recoverable position as the summer weather had a tendency to turn quite quickly in this part of the world. I only ever needed the boat steady long enough for me to make first contact with new waters. The goal was to scout the area so the right tools for the right job could be brought in later. It was a system I’d gotten used to. Too used to.

The boat was equipped for this kind of exploration. I had multiple sensors building me a 3-D map underwater as I navigated. It was as though 300 feet in every direction was as measurable to the inch for me even though my peers still called it the matrix. A high definition underwater camera pointed towards my splash location, connected to the saloon TV, always on, always streaming for these operations. And my saloon merged seamlessly with the cockpit—three steps, maybe five seconds, and I could’ve absorbed the information I needed: visibility, reef structure, current, life forms, threats.

But I didn’t check the screen.

The engine was spinning down. I’d gone through this sequence so many times I didn’t even think. I grabbed my mask, slipped on my fins—white, reflective, flickering like fish bellies, features I enjoyed as recovering them was easier when I needed to take them off for obstacles—and jumped in.

Two bull sharks. Big ones. Close. Not curious— they were claiming their territory.

They didn’t dart or scatter. They circled. They cut angles. They didn’t like that I’d entered without permission. Complacency is quiet. It doesn’t announce itself. It just waits for the right moment to remind you how wild the world really is.

I stayed calm, stayed vertical, moved slowly. I didn’t splash. I didn’t run. I backed toward the boat, watching them with every heart beat, every inch. And I climbed out as I thought one had just successfully removed my fin.

When I sat on the deck, dripping, it wasn’t fear that hit me—it was the awareness that I had everything I needed to avoid this. The tech. The time. The habit. But I’d let routine blind me.

Complacency doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels comfortable—until the sharks show up.

That moment reminded me why I sail alone: not to prove something, but to learn. And that day, the ocean taught me that even experience, if left unchecked, can make you reckless.

Now the camera always gets a glimpse. The white fins stay with the female guests who seem to love them for photos. And I remember that no matter how capable I get, the ocean doesn’t care.