Shadows Beneath the Surface
In recent years, I’ve captured countless moments where great white sharks swam near humans—completely unnoticed. Most of the time, the people in the water had no idea what lurked beneath. This chilling reality sets the tone for what’s to come. With drones flying above popular beaches, more people are starting to understand that their presence signals something nearby—often a shark. But still, many remain unaware. In one particular clip, locals casually paddle, unaware that massive creatures follow just below. These aren't juvenile sharks either. Their size and behavior suggest something far more mature—and more curious. The waters may appear calm, but what swims beneath tells a very different story.
Enter the Subadult Predators
What made this encounter unique was the size of the sharks. Typically, this beach sees smaller, younger great whites. But not this time. As the paddleboarder glides through the water, it's immediately clear the shark approaching is anything but juvenile. Using the board as a measuring tool, we estimate the shark is between 11 and 13 feet long—marking it as a subadult. These sharks are not just larger—they’re bolder. Their behavior isn’t erratic, but purposeful. Calmly cruising at first, this one suddenly changes course, as if reassessing the situation. Sharks often remain indifferent, but sometimes, they assert their dominance. And when they do, it’s unforgettable.
Shifting the Power Dynamic
The most consistent reaction I’ve observed in great whites is this: once they realize they're being followed, they reverse roles. Instead of being the pursued, they become the pursuer. That’s exactly what happens here. The shark subtly repositions itself—not in panic, but with authority. This isn’t aggression; it’s calculated control. The paddleboarder has no idea how close they are to becoming a subject of interest. Then, just as quickly as the shark appears, it leaves. Why? That’s unclear. But this switch from passive observation to taking command is a pattern I've seen repeatedly in subadult sharks.
A Second Presence
As the first shark departs, another looms. This one reacts faster, darting with more urgency when approached. Unlike its predecessor, this shark appears genuinely disturbed by the sudden nearness of a human. It quickly moves to a more defensive—and curious—position. For a brief moment, it follows. Not long, but long enough to raise hairs. These aren’t frenzied attacks, but investigative motions—still, they’re nerve-racking. When sharks are startled, they don’t always flee. Sometimes, they assess. This second encounter confirms a vital observation: each shark has a personality, and some are more reactive than others.
The Invisible Threat
It’s one thing to see a shark when you know to look for it—but what about when you don’t? This summer, I filmed one of the closest encounters I've ever seen. Swimmers and surfers played freely, with no idea a great white was just feet away. As I tracked one shark swimming calmly away, something caught my eye: another shark—bigger, faster—heading straight toward the group. I quickly zoomed out, switched back to a wide angle, and assessed. The second shark was committed, its trajectory unchanging. The beachgoers remained blissfully unaware. That’s when the situation truly escalated.
Warning From Above
As the shark drew closer to the swimmers, I made a split-second decision: I flew the drone directly over the group, hoping they'd recognize the signal. To most coastal locals, a hovering drone now means one thing—shark nearby. But in this moment, they didn’t seem alarmed. Instead, they looked up, smiled, and began waving. I tried again—dipping and rising the drone repeatedly. Still, no urgency from the swimmers. Below them, the shark kept moving. It was now within striking distance. Despite my warnings, they didn’t realize the danger just beneath the surface. The disconnect between the aerial perspective and the swimmers' oblivion was chilling. I could only watch.
A Body Length Away
The shark approached so closely that only a single body length separated it from an unaware swimmer. I rarely feel nervous while filming sharks—I’ve spent years documenting their behavior. But this time, I felt it. Something about the way this shark moved, its proximity, and the swimmer’s vulnerability struck a different chord. Then, just feet away from the human, the shark made a decision. Without any obvious cue, it changed course and calmly veered away. It never touched anyone, never sped up—but the moment was razor-thin. No one in the water realized what had just happened. But I did.
The Scarred Visitor
As the shark disappeared into deeper water, something clicked—I had seen this one before. A distinctive scar trailed along its flank, a massive gash from a boat’s propeller. This wasn’t just another shark. This was that shark. I’d filmed it weeks earlier. Its injuries had been severe, but it was healing—remarkably so. What troubled me, however, was the pattern forming. This shark kept showing up. Again and again, I found it near people. Was it coincidence? Or had something in its behavior changed? Injuries alter creatures. Pain leaves marks not just on the body, but on behavior. Was that what I was witnessing?
Unseen in Plain Sight
Earlier that summer, I’d kayaked near this same shark. It was so close—nearly within arm’s reach—yet I saw nothing. Only later, reviewing drone footage, did I realize it had been there the whole time. If I couldn’t spot it from above, how could anyone swimming at surface level hope to? The water may be clear, but great whites are stealth masters. They glide silently beneath, their coloration rendering them near-invisible. This terrifying realization reframes everything. The danger isn't just proximity—it’s invisibility. And the thought that this injured shark continues to return? It raised more questions than answers.
A Pattern Emerges
Most sharks I’ve filmed near people don’t return to the same spots—at least not frequently. They pass through, investigate, then leave. But not this one. This scarred shark has now appeared multiple times, each visit closer, each interaction bolder. Is it curious? Cautious? Or simply altered by its experience with the boat propeller? It’s impossible to say for certain. But among the dozens of sharks I’ve documented, this one stands out—not for aggression, but for frequency. The question nags at me: does trauma change a shark’s approach to humans? Or are we seeing a rare personality trait? One thing’s certain: I need to see it again.
The Return Mission
There’s only one way to answer the growing list of questions—I have to find this shark again. I’ve begun scanning the coastline more frequently, hoping for another glimpse. Its movements aren’t random. There's a pattern, and I’m starting to recognize it. The area it frequents, the depth it prefers, even the time of day. Every pass of the drone is a chance to reconnect with this anomaly. I want to see how it reacts—not to swimmers or paddleboarders—but to me. If I’m in the water, will its behavior change again? Will it still approach, or has it learned to associate me with something different? Caution? Curiosity?
Faces in the Deep
Most great whites avoid prolonged contact with humans. They check us out, then move on. But some linger. These are the outliers—the ones I study most closely. I’ve started to recognize individual sharks, not just by their scars or size, but by behavior. Some are passive. Some assertive. And then there’s the scarred shark. It doesn’t just pass through. It engages. Repeatedly. Its face, despite its injuries, is almost familiar now. Watching these animals through a drone gives me an eerie advantage. I see the silent decisions they make. And with this shark, those decisions are... different.
Human Habits, Shark Reactions
We humans are predictable in the water. We splash, float, paddle, surf. From above, we must look almost mechanical—our movements rhythmic, repetitive. Sharks, on the other hand, move with pure efficiency. When these two worlds intersect, it often goes unnoticed. But what if some sharks notice more than we think? This scarred shark, in particular, seems drawn to human activity. It’s not just passing by; it’s choosing proximity. I can’t help but wonder—does it associate humans with food, or familiarity? Has its injury pushed it to experiment? Or is this just one curious shark in a sea of cautious ones?
When Proximity Becomes Pattern
The more I reviewed my footage, the more it became clear: this shark wasn’t just wandering. Its proximity to people was becoming a pattern. And patterns matter. That’s how science begins—through observation. Again and again, I see this one shark approaching swimmers, surfers, and even boats. Never aggressively. Just... close. It doesn’t act injured. In fact, it moves with confidence. The propeller scar is healed now, but something about that trauma may have changed how it behaves. I’m not ready to claim it seeks humans—but I can’t ignore the repetition. No other shark in my footage has come this close, this often.
The Science of Curiosity
Shark behavior is still largely mysterious. We can document patterns, but intent? That’s trickier. Is this scarred shark demonstrating curiosity? Intelligence? Or is it simply coincidence that it keeps returning to humans? I’ve spoken with marine biologists, and opinions vary. Some say sharks can recognize individual boats or people. Others argue it's instinct—nothing more. But after filming this one multiple times, I’m leaning toward something more deliberate. If this shark returns again, I need to be in the water. I need to see if it reacts to me the same way it does to strangers. The line between curiosity and something deeper is razor-thin.
Into the Water
The only way to understand this shark’s behavior is to meet it—face to face. I prepare carefully: calm water, clear skies, and the right tide. I launch my kayak, knowing full well the scarred shark could be near. The drone is up, scanning the area. And then—there it is. Cutting through the shallows, moving slowly but deliberately. My heart rate quickens. From above, the shark begins to circle back. Not away from me—toward me. I’ve never felt more exposed. But this isn’t fear. It’s focus. If I can observe its reaction up close, I might find the answer I’ve been looking for. It’s approaching.
Recognition or Reaction?
As the shark draws near, I keep still. My camera is rolling. It doesn’t dart, doesn’t charge. It drifts past—slowly, confidently. Then something remarkable happens. It turns, loops back, and passes again. This isn’t a fluke. Most sharks make one pass and vanish. But this one—this one lingers. Did it recognize my presence from past encounters? Or is this simply how it behaves with everyone? I don't know. But I’ve never seen this kind of repetition. The shark finally glides off into the deeper blue, leaving behind only ripples... and more questions than answers.
Revisiting the Archive
Back at home, I begin combing through every frame I’ve captured of this shark. There are more than I remembered. Different days. Different times. Different people. But always the same result—it gets closer than the others. I compare angles, reactions, behaviors. And a realization starts to take shape. This shark doesn’t just approach. It investigates. Consistently. With boats. Boards. Swimmers. And now, me. The data may be anecdotal, but the pattern is real. What causes one shark to become a repeat visitor? Is it environmental? Is it neurological? Or is it something we haven’t even begun to understand?
Beyond the Scar
The shark’s physical injury is stark—but what’s more fascinating is what that injury may have caused beneath the surface. Scientists know trauma can alter behavior in wildlife. A wounded lion hunts differently. A struck bird migrates oddly. Why not sharks? The scar may not just be a mark—it might be a shift. A behavioral fork in the road. I can’t say for sure if this shark’s curiosity stems from trauma, intelligence, or some unknown driver. But one thing is certain: it is not like the others. And I’ve never seen a shark change so little over so many interactions.
One Last Encounter
I return to the beach one last time before the season ends. The sky is calm, the water glassy. I launch my drone, scanning the usual zones. Nothing. Hours pass. Then—movement. Just at the edge of visibility. It’s the scarred shark. I follow it silently, watching as it brushes close to a surfer who has no idea. The shark slows, pauses... and turns away. Just like before. It's the same script, almost to the second. I film until it disappears once again into deeper water. That moment sticks with me—not because of danger, but because of restraint. This shark isn’t hunting. It’s choosing.
The Unanswered Question
As the footage ends, I’m left with one question that has no clean answer: Why this shark? Why the repeated encounters? Why the proximity? Why the calm? I don’t know if this shark is truly different—or if I’m just lucky enough to witness a rare pattern. But what I do know is this: the ocean holds far more mystery than we can ever film. And sometimes, it's not the shark you fear—but the one you begin to understand. The scarred shark changed how I see these creatures. Maybe not more dangerous. But definitely more complex. And I’ll be watching. Just in case it comes back.