A sand tiger swimming past the bow of the wreck of the Caribsea off of North Carolina. Photo: Tanya Houppermans.
Fifteen miles off the coast of Cape Lookout, North Carolina, I descended through blue-green water along the anchor line that connected our dive boat to a shipwreck resting ninety feet below. This wasn’t just any wreck. It was one of my favorite dive sites in the world: the Caribsea, a cargo freighter torpedoed by a German U-boat in March 1942 during World War II’s Battle of the Atlantic.
What was once a wartime casualty now lives a second life as an artificial reef. Marine animals of all shapes and sizes inhabit the Caribsea, weaving through its steel ribs and shadowed openings. As I descended, the outline of the ship’s bow emerged from the water column. Around it, dark silhouettes glided slowly back and forth. They were sand tiger sharks (Carcharias taurus)—and they were the reason I was there.
I am an underwater photographer and shark naturalist, collaborating with researchers to answer fundamental questions about sand tiger migration and reproduction. On this dive, my goal was to photograph sand tiger sharks for a photo-identification database that allows researchers to distinguish individuals by their unique spot patterns. These images help scientists track movement patterns and better understand the health of sand tiger populations along the U.S. East Coast.
Most of the sand tigers I see on wrecks like the Caribsea are adults. But every so often, I encounter something far rarer—and far more exciting. As I swam around the bow, I approached a cluster of small openings in the wreck where several sand tigers often gather. This time, though, there was only one shark inside—one very small sand tiger, barely three feet long. She was a young-of-the-year, likely born within the last twelve months. Fully grown adults can reach 7 to 10 feet, making her tiny by comparison.
We still know surprisingly little about where and when sand tiger sharks give birth, so sightings of young-of-the-year individuals are especially important. I remained very still, careful not to startle her. Instead of fleeing, she swam slowly past me, her eyes meeting mine the entire time. Then she ducked back into the wreck, stopping just far enough inside that she could still watch me. I inched forward slightly, camera ready, wondering if she might return. She did, swimming past me again, even more slowly this time. I couldn’t help but wonder whether she was seeing her reflection in the dome port of my camera, or whether she was simply curious—trying to make sense of this strange, bubble-blowing visitor hovering in her space. She repeated this pattern several times, swimming past me, retreating briefly into the wreck, then returning to investigate again. At no point did she display even the slightest sign of aggression. That didn’t surprise me. In all my years in the water—often without a cage and often surrounded by sharks—I have never witnessed a shark act aggressively toward a human.
Sharks have one of the most undeservedly negative reputations in the animal kingdom. Popular culture has taught us to fear them as mindless killing machines, lurking just beneath the surface. The reality is far more nuanced—and far less frightening. On average, about six people worldwide are killed by unprovoked shark attacks each year, even as total shark‑human interactions fluctuate from year to year. By contrast, a 2013 global analysis published in Marine Policy estimated that up to 100 million sharks are killed every year in commercial fisheries, including sharks caught for their fins, meat, liver oil, cartilage, and other parts. Sharks have far more reason to fear us than we do them.
Most shark species, including sand tigers, are not aggressive toward humans. Many exhibit behaviors that researchers increasingly interpret as curiosity rather than threat assessment. Sharks investigate unfamiliar objects in their environment, including divers, much as terrestrial animals might cautiously approach something new, retreat, and return. The young sand tiger I encountered was doing exactly that—gathering information, learning about her surroundings, and assessing potential risks. If more people could witness interactions like this one, many deeply entrenched misconceptions about sharks would begin to fall apart.
Sand tiger populations along the U.S. East Coast declined by roughly 70 to 90 percent from the late 1970s through the early 1990s due to overfishing and low reproductive rates, and though protections instituted in the late 1990s have helped, abundance remains below historical levels. They are especially vulnerable because of their slow reproductive rate and unique biology. Unlike many fish species that produce thousands or millions of offspring, sand tiger sharks give birth to just two pups per pregnancy. That makes every juvenile—and every adult—critically important to population stability. Research efforts using photo-identification databases, like the one I was contributing to on this dive, help scientists track individual sharks over time. These data can reveal migration routes, site fidelity to particular wrecks or reefs, and seasonal patterns that are essential for effective conservation. Artificial reefs like the Caribsea have become especially important habitats, offering shelter, hunting grounds, and relative protection from fishing pressure. According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), sand tiger sharks are listed as “Vulnerable,” meaning that without continued protection and monitoring, their populations could decline further.
The young shark I spent that dive with had already survived a journey unlike that of almost any other animal. Mature female sand tiger sharks have two uteruses, each containing hundreds of fertilized eggs. As the embryos develop, something extraordinary—and brutal—occurs. The developing embryos begin to eat one another and any remaining unfertilized eggs. This process, known as intrauterine cannibalism, results in just one surviving embryo per uterus. After a twelve-month gestation, two large, well-developed pups are born—one from each uterus. Among more than 500 known shark species, sand tigers are the only ones known to reproduce this way. By the time they are born, sand tiger pups are already experienced predators. They need to be. Mother sand tigers provide no parental care after birth, and newborns must immediately fend for themselves in an ocean filled with larger predators—including other sharks. The little female at the Caribsea was putting those instincts to good use.
I spent about ten minutes at the wreck before I had to think seriously about my remaining bottom time. At that depth, I could only stay down for another twenty minutes before beginning my ascent. I considered exploring other parts of the wreck in search of more sharks, but I stayed, fascinated by how this young shark navigated her world. I backed up several feet, and she responded by venturing a little farther out of the wreck before retreating again. It was an intelligent strategy. As a small shark, she was vulnerable to predation by larger sharks, but the narrow openings of the wreck provided shelter that bigger animals couldn’t access. Here, she could explore while still maintaining a safe refuge—a perfect training ground for a young predator.
As apex or near-apex predators, sand tiger sharks play an important role in maintaining balance within marine ecosystems. By regulating prey populations, they help prevent any one species from dominating reef environments, thereby supporting biodiversity and ecosystem resilience. When shark populations decline, the effects can ripple outward, altering fish communities and even impacting coral and seagrass systems. Protecting sharks is not just about preserving a single species—it’s about maintaining the health of entire ocean ecosystems.
Much of our fear of sharks stems not from science, but from stories—sensational headlines, dramatic footage, and decades of films that portray sharks as villains. These narratives obscure the reality that sharks are intelligent, cautious animals navigating increasingly human-dominated oceans. Boat traffic, fishing gear, pollution, and climate change all pose daily challenges for sharks. Misunderstanding breeds indifference, and indifference allows harm to continue unchecked. Humans can safely coexist with sharks by respecting their space, supporting responsible ecotourism, and avoiding harmful practices like finning and feeding.
I spent the last few minutes of my dive taking photos while remaining stationary, letting the young shark approach me several more times. Eventually, it was time to begin my ascent. I lowered my camera and simply watched her for a few seconds, silently wishing her a long life, and that conservation efforts will give her and others the space to thrive.
It’s not easy being a shark. The odds are stacked against them, especially from human activity. Yet this young sand tiger had already beaten incredible odds simply by being born. As I made my way up the anchor line, her silhouette faded into the structure of the wreck, still swimming in and out of the steel corridors that—for now—were her home. If we allow sharks the space and protection they need, stories like hers do not have to be rare. They can be the norm.
This adapted excerpt was originally published as “The Most Misunderstood Animal,” from Laura Lee Cascada’s collection of stories, The Dog Who Wooed the World (2024, The Every Animal Project). It is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0) with permission from [Name of Publisher]. It was adapted and produced for the web by Earth • Food • Life, a project of the Independent Media Institute.