Yesterday afternoon, while walking the tide-washed stretch of Surf Drive Beach in Falmouth, Massachusetts, I came upon an unexpected and somber sight: a deceased sand shark, gently curled against the pebbled shoreline. Its body, partially torn and tangled in seaweed. I stood there, an ocean breeze against my face, wondering how this once-nimble swimmer had come to such an end. Was it illness, injury, the confusion of shallow water, or an entanglement in human debris? In death, he seemed both mysterious and vulnerable—a creature out of his element, returned to sand.
I found myself imagining the life this sand shark had lived beneath the surface—gliding through eelgrass beds, navigating currents, sensing the electric whispers of prey. These small coastal sharks are rarely aggressive toward humans, their sleek bodies designed for quiet efficiency rather than fearsome attack. Perhaps this one had passed under fishing boats, through warming waters, or among reefs eroded by climate change. Perhaps he had once been a pup in a shallow nursery cove, surviving long odds to grow into a lone hunter of the nearshore. The ocean, like memory, holds far more than we ever see. Standing beside him, I felt the quiet immensity of the lives that go on beneath the waves—and the fragility that links us all.
As I walked away, the shark's presence lingered with me like a ghost story told by the sea. His body will soon return to the salt, to scavengers, to time. But that brief encounter sharpened my awareness of the wild, unseen world just beyond the shoreline. Encounters like this are more than marine curiosities; they are moments of connection and reflection. The sand shark is a reminder of the delicate balance marine life endures—often unnoticed until it washes up, asking us to look closer. I left the beach with a heavy heart, but also a renewed reverence for the life beneath the tide. FYI: My brother put the shark back in the water.