St. Joseph's Bay is vast, but shallow. You can be a hundred yards away from the shore and still be up to your... let's say a bit below your waist, in water. That's exactly where I was that evening, wading through the shallows, casting a plastic minnow into the islands of sea weeds, a favorite place of sea trout to hang out. The water was crystal clear. I could see blue crabs crawling backwards, small schools of young sting rays aimlessly wandering around, shadows of mullet minnows making sudden turns...
A small fly fishing charter boat quietly passed me by, heading toward the beach behind me. The captain waived his hand in greeting. I waived in return and kept casting.
"Hey, hey… the sharks… they move towards you", I heard the captain's loud shout a moment later. I turned my head and saw a fin and a shadow of a six-foot-or-so shark below slowly getting closer from behind me. Another monster was lazily following the first one. There was nowhere to run. The shore was too far away and the sharks blocked the shortcut anyway. I grabbed my fishing rod as if it was my Holy Spear of Destiny, ready to poke the shark into the eye, fully realizing how ridiculous the whole idea was. I tried not to move, not to make a single noise. Both sharks slowly, like in a slow motion re-run, passed me by just a few feet away, expressing not a slightest interest to my persona. Maybe for a first time in my life my ego wasn't hurt by being so blatantly ignored. :-)
Next day, walking back to the St. Joseph's Bay, I felt a bit more confident, sensing heaviness of my Wusthof Chef's knife, wrapped into a kitchen towel in my backpack.