Crocs, p.1
Crocs, page 1
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For Wesley Manning White, saltwater born,
the newest member of Sharks Incorporated
ONE
SHARKS AND SURVIVOR TREES
When the shark jumped into the boat, ten-year-old Sabina Estéban jumped out and hit the water with a splash. Immediately, her flotation vest inflated.
The girl surfaced and grabbed a rope. Her thirteen-year-old sister, Maribel, was in the boat trying to calm the small blacktip shark by covering it with a towel. Marine biologist Dr. Marion Ford—Doc Ford to most—had taught them to do this if a fish got loose on the deck.
On the west coast of Florida, there were hundreds of islands and bays to explore. Boaters had to be prepared when unexpected stuff happened.
“Why’d you jump in the water?” Lucas O. Jones, age eleven, complained. “Dang it, you probably scared every fish around for miles. You know the rules.”
As members of Sharks Incorporated, the three kids had also been taught about boating safety. One of the more important rules? To never, ever get in the water while fishing.
“I was trying to make room for the shark,” Sabina sputtered in response.
The girl threw her wet hair back. She was as surprised as the others at what she had just done. One moment, the shark had been at the end of her fishing line. The next moment, the fish had rocketed clear of the surface, whopped her on the chest, and landed at her feet.
Maribel was captain of the small boat—a skiff, it was called—they had borrowed from Dinkins Bay Marina on Sanibel Island. As captain, she was supposed to remain calm no matter what. “Don’t worry about it now,” she said. “Climb out of the water. We have a lot to do.”
Embarrassed, Sabina followed the instruction.
Luke measured the shark. “Sixteen-point-five inches,” he said. “This little guy isn’t even two feet long.” He used the digital scale, reading, “Forty-six ounces—less than four pounds. We’ve landed sharks a lot bigger than this. No one had to jump in the water before.”
Maribel wrote the information on a card. Sabina used a needlelike device to insert a tiny tag into the shark’s dorsal fin. The tag and card were stamped with the same code number. Years from now, if the shark was caught again, scientists would know if the fish had grown, and how far it had traveled.
Gently, the kids revived the shark and released it into the water.
Maribel checked the stopwatch around her neck. “Two minutes forty-one seconds,” she said. “Not good. We cut that way too close.”
Maximum release time was three minutes. Any longer, a shark might not survive. All summer they had tagged small sharks as part of a research program created for kids their age. The trio had become a team—Sharks Incorporated. They had learned to work quickly and professionally. As a team, they had tagged and released a total of 163 sharks. They had also helped bust a gang of shark poachers and earned a $50,000 reward.
This was their slowest release time ever. Sabina knew it was her fault.
“Don’t sweat it,” Luke said. “That shark’s gonna be fine. See how fast it swam off? We all screw up sometimes—but, hey, try to stay in the skiff. Okay?”
This made Sabina feel even worse. One of her secret pleasures was teasing Luke, which he usually tolerated in silence. Why was he being nice to her? The girl fretted about her mistake on the ride back to the marina, where she and Maribel lived with their mother on a houseboat.
The next day, Sabina blamed herself when Doc Ford told them, “You kids won’t be tagging sharks for the next few weeks. Hannah has something else in mind. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
This had to be some sort of punishment. Halloween was only a week away, and Sabina’s birthday was a day later, on November first. Thanksgiving break was in just a few weeks.
Uh-oh, the girl thought.
Luke’s aunt, Captain Hannah Smith, was kind and funny, but also strict. She was a famous professional fishing guide. That summer, the woman had tested them on seamanship, first aid, and emergency drills before allowing them to venture out in a boat alone.
She was serious when it came to safety rules.
Doc lived and worked in an old house built on stilts over the water. It was early Saturday afternoon. Sabina, Luke, and Maribel waited for Hannah in Doc’s lab.
The room smelled of old wood, chemicals, and salt water. Aquariums lined the walls. The glass tanks sparkled with swimming fish, seahorses, crabs, and bright corals. Sabina loved how the colorful corals looked like rocks, but were actually alive.
“We like tagging sharks, and I think we’re good at it,” Maribel said to the biologist. “Did we do something wrong?”
Doc was a large, studious man. He had sharp eyes that didn’t miss much. “If you goofed up, your secret’s safe with me,” he replied, chuckling. “When Hannah gets here, she’ll explain what’s going on.”
The wooden floor creaked as he went out the screen door and left the three kids alone.
Sabina was near tears. She waited through a minute of guilty silence. “This is all my fault,” she said. “You both know it. But look … I promise I’ll never jump out of the boat again, if you don’t tell—”
“Hush,” the older sister interrupted. “Here she comes.”
Captain Hannah, a tall woman, appeared in the doorway, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail. She came into the room carrying a rolled-up nautical chart—a map made for boaters. She also carried a computer bag. On her belt were fishing pliers and a multi-tool that contained a knife and other emergency gadgets.
Maribel had the same tool in a belt holster. Luke preferred just a pocketknife.
“Don’t tell me what, Sabina?” Hannah asked with a mischevious smile. “That you jumped out of the boat? I overheard you through the screen door. Was this yesterday? Tell me what happened.”
Sabina admitted everything. “Doc said we’re not allowed to tag sharks anymore. I figured it was because of me.”
“It has nothing to do with you,” the fishing guide replied gently. “I’m sure he didn’t say you’re done tagging sharks. The tagging program is too important. And you kids are great at what you do.”
Sabina began to feel a little better.
“What Doc meant is that there’s another project you might like,” Hannah continued. “Later we’ll go over what to do if a really big fish jumps into your boat. That can happen. Every few years, someone’s injured or killed, because it’s so unexpected.”
Nearby was a stainless-steel table. She unrolled the nautical chart. “But first, let’s talk about the new project. It’s sponsored by the Department of Agriculture.”
Luke’s ears perked up. Before moving to Florida six months earlier, he had lived on a small farm in Ohio. He had raised Angus cattle, pigs, and chickens, and trained dogs as 4-H club projects.
“Does it have something to do with farming?” he asked.
Hannah replied, “Sure does. In a big way.”
The woman explained that a disease called “citrus greening” was killing Florida’s citrus trees. Citrus included oranges, grapefruits, limes, lemons, and other fruits.
“And not just in Florida,” Hannah said. “It’s everywhere, spread by a sort of fly that arrived in the US a few years back. The disease has killed millions of citrus trees. But here’s what’s interesting.”
The kids scooched closer to listen.
“For some reason, there are a few orange trees that don’t get sick. No one understands why. Scientists call these rare trees ‘survivor trees.’”
The Department of Agriculture needed help, the woman continued. A program had been started for students who were willing to search for these rare survivor trees. Scientists wanted to study them in the hope of finding a cure for citrus greening disease.
“Survivor trees,” Maribel repeated softly. “Where would we look?”
“Wild places,” Hannah said. “Places along the coast where most people don’t bother to go. Trees that don’t have the disease produce big, juicy fruit. If a tree is sick, though, the oranges shrivel and turn green. Soon the roots die. Then the tree dies.”
She motioned the kids closer to the chart. It showed Sanibel Island. Squiggly lines mapped the water’s depth. This was important to boaters.
“We’re here,” she said, pointing to Dinkins Bay. The bay was a salty lake surrounded by tough, rubbery trees called mangroves. The water was seldom more than six feet deep.
Her finger moved an inch or so to the north. “See all these little islands? They’re only a mile or two from where we are right now. Some of those islands haven’t been explored for years. The mangroves are too thick, and there are too many mosquitoes. The islands are so small, they don’t even have names.”
Maribel was studying the chart. “I th ought that area was mostly swamp and nature preserve.”
“It is,” Hannah replied, “but take a closer look. There are a few islands with higher ground. You might find some very old orange trees growing wild there.”
Orange trees weren’t native to Florida, the kids learned. So these trees were called “feral oranges.”
“People have been planting oranges and other types of citrus here for hundreds of years,” the woman continued. “It’s possible that some of these old trees are immune to citrus greening because the disease is so new.”
The fishing guide looked up from the table. “There’s no reward for finding survivor trees. But there are prizes for students who participate. If you kids are interested, there’s a lot more to learn. Wild orange trees are different from modern citrus. They have thorns so sharp, they can be dangerous. Wear gloves, and you can start searching today or tomorrow. And then over Thanksgiving vacation, you’d have a lot of time to poke around by boat.”
“Survivor trees,” Maribel murmured again.
Sabina, a poet at heart, liked the term, too.
Luke didn’t much care one way or the other. But he liked the idea of exploring the nearby islands.
Before she put the nautical chart away, Hannah gave the trio a history lesson about how orange trees had first arrived in North America. The kids listened as she talked about European explorers and Florida’s Native American settlers.
They also learned that descendants of seeds planted hundreds of years ago have long, dangerous thorns. Wild orange trees were different than modern citrus, and everyone needed to wear gloves.
“Okay,” Hannah said finally. “Let’s get back to what happened yesterday.”
Sabina grimaced with frustration. “I already promised I’d never jump out of the boat again.”
“And I believe you,” Hannah replied. “But now, instead of a small shark jumping into your boat, picture a hundred-pound fish. Or a big stingray suddenly landing on the deck. Out of nowhere, something that big falls from the sky? What would you do?”
Maribel, as team captain, said, “I’ve never even thought about that.”
“Almost no one does,” the woman said. “Remember—things can go wrong fast on a boat. If you’re not prepared, you’re inviting the worst to happen.”
They followed the fishing guide outside to where her fast, fancy fishing skiff was tied to the dock.
“Let’s go for a ride,” she said. “But first put on your PFDs.”
PFD stood for personal floatation device. The kids had used their reward money to buy light, inflatable vests that looked more like suspenders. The stylish PFDs inflated automatically if they fell into water, floating them faceup in an emergency. Sabina had been wearing hers the previous day when she’d jumped out of the boat.
On the dock, Hannah continued talking.
“I’m not sure myself how I’d react if a hundred-pound fish crashed down onto my deck,” she admitted. “So we’ll talk it through. With some practice, maybe we can figure out what is probably the best way to handle the situation.”
She gave Sabina’s shoulder a squeeze before adding, “Who knows? Depending on the circumstances, maybe jumping out of the boat is the smart thing to do. I doubt it, but we’ll see.”
TWO
SAVED BY A HAWK!
On their first trip in search of wild orange trees, Luke would have stepped on a rattlesnake if a hawk hadn’t rocketed past his ear.
The bird slammed itself into the weeds. Speckled wings battled a buzzing sound. It was loud, like sizzling grease.
The hawk’s head pivoted. Two fiery eyes warned Luke to back away.
He did.
The bird sat upright with the snake in its claws—talons, they were called. The bird vaulted skyward carrying what might have been a coiled water hose.
It was a big rattlesnake.
High above the trees, the snake untangled. It fell and hit the earth with a fleshy thunk.
Weeds began to vibrate where the rattlesnake landed—there was that fierce sizzling sound again.
Luke wanted to help the snake, but he knew that wouldn’t be smart. There was nothing new about his reaction. He’d grown up on a farm, so he liked animals. They were easier to get along with than people.
Maybe the same was true of snakes. Since moving to Florida, he’d seen videos of rattlers, but he’d never seen one in person.
On the ground was a broken branch. The boy stripped it bare and moved cautiously toward the snake. With the stick, he parted the weeds. Yellow catlike eyes stared back from a coil of glassy scales. The rattler’s body was as thick as Luke’s arm. It resembled a rope basket decorated with bars of cinnamon and gold.
Beautiful, he thought.
“Glad I didn’t step on you,” he whispered. “That would’ve been bad for us both.”
A long, rocky knob exited the coil—the rattlesnake’s tail. Its rattle was a scalding blur.
“Doesn’t look like you’re hurt,” the boy continued. “If you were, I’d take you to that wildlife rescue place. They’ve got a nice veterinarian there.” He pulled the stick back. “You don’t have to worry about me. I won’t bother you.” He searched the trees. “I wonder where that hawk went.”
Months ago, the boy had stopped a cat from killing a large baby bird. An osprey, or “fish hawk,” as some called them, the veterinarian had said.
Luke hadn’t told anyone that he’d pedaled the clumsy chick to the rescue center on his bicycle. Or that he’d visited the place and helped feed the thing a couple of times.
Now he wondered if it could be the same bird.
From the distance came a wild, high-pitched whistling call. Each note higher and louder: Peep-peep-pee! SAR … SAR-SAR-SARR!
No sign of the fish hawk, though.
Luke’s eyes moved to a stand of tall trees that he and the Estéban sisters had spotted earlier from their boat.
“Let’s anchor and take a look,” Maribel had said.
Tall trees were a good sign. There might be high ground where wild oranges could grow. So they’d anchored the skiff, then spread out to explore. Mangrove bushes and vines were thick on the tiny island. There were no houses or people.
The sisters had gone one way, Luke the other. He had struggled through fifty yards of jungle when he found a mound of seashells that formed a massive, tree-covered hill.
Shell mounds were a good spot to search, Captain Hannah had told them yesterday at the lab. More than a thousand years ago, Florida’s Native settlers had lived atop shell mounds. Centuries later, Spanish explorers had arrived on Florida’s west coast. The explorers had killed a lot of the Native people. In the areas they invaded, they had sometimes traded seeds or planted orange trees so they’d have fruit to eat on later trips. Grapefruits, oranges, and limes still grew wild on islands like this.
Such places were rare, Hannah had said. Much of Florida’s coast was now covered with houses and asphalt.
Luke was excited to find this hidden shell mound in a bay that was mostly muck and rubbery bushes.
The boy’s attention returned to the snake. He intended to leave the animal alone. But then the snake flattened itself. It began to carve its way through the weeds toward the top of the mound.
The sizzling sound stopped.
“Guess I’ll follow you,” he said in a friendly way.
Luke followed the snake until they were at the top of the mound. Gumbo-limbo trees with muscular, amber bark grew there.
An animal of some type had dug a hole near the roots, scattering heavy seashells all around. The boy watched the snake slide and disappear into the hole.
“At least I know where you live,” he said. “I’ll tell Maribel and Sabina to leave you alone.”
After a silent moment, he changed his mind. This time he spoke without moving his lips. “Naw … I shouldn’t mention you to Sabina. First thing that girl will do is call me a pig farmer and make me prove I really saw a rattlesnake. Then she’ll try to talk to you. Sabina claims she’s a witch. Isn’t that nuts?”
It didn’t cross the boy’s mind that he often spoke to animals. And it didn’t bother him that, aside from a dog’s wagging tail, he’d never received a response.
