Page 1 of Second Tide's the Charm
one
hope
There’s a mother barreling toward me with rage-eyes and a kayak paddle, but it’s not my fault her kid interrupted the lesson to spout fishy inaccuracies. She must catch sight of me eyeing the paddle because she jabs it into the sand—not a whole lot less terrifying—before advancing toward me empty-handed but still radiating anger.
“Did you tell my son there are sharks out there?” She gestures behind her at the sparkling, sharkless blue water of Lake Michigan.
I should probably close my eyes and count to three or something, but instead I ignore her, grab the paddle out of an abundance of caution, and carry it back toward the rack. The squeak of sand lets me know I’m being followed, and the woman calls out, “Is this a joke to you?”
Am I laughing? I am not. Not on the outside at least. Besides, her kid isn’t scared in the slightest, just embarrassed I didn’t let him get away with shaming the younger teen who asked about freshwater sharks. Could I have let it go? Probably. Possibly. Not really.
Misconceptions about sharks abound, and it’s my job to correct that. Well, not in my currentjob description. But it’s a strain to take off my marine biologist hat for the sake of good customer service.
“The website listed paddleboarding as a family-friendly activity. I am this close to giving your company a one-star review.”
That threat brings me up short. My best friend, Zuri, worked incredibly hard to launch her own business, and I can’t be responsible for her losing it. Not when she’s already lost so much.
I suck in a deep breath, then exhale and turn to face the woman. “Like I told your son—” after a circuitous explanation involving salinity and shark adaptations “—there are no sharks in the Great Lakes.”
To illustrate that fact, I swallow down the humiliation and dip my chin toward the T-shirt Zuri insists I wear while on the clock, identical to the ones she sells in the gift shop. The lettering says: LAKE MICHIGAN, UNSALTED AND SHARK-FREE. She thinks it’s cute, and despite my grumbling, I think it’s a great conversation starter. Case in point, this one.
“I can read, thank you,” the woman says through her teeth. “What I want to know is why you told my son some sharks can survive in fresh water?”
“Because they can?” I scrunch my face up. Not the right response, but I can’t bring myself to be sorry. “Bull sharks have been found miles upriver. Their kidneys are uniquely adapted to handle varying salinity levels. However, that’s the exception—”
“To summarize—” my best friend’s voice cuts through the humid air “—there are no sharks here. Right, Hope?”
I clamp my mouth shut as Zuri strides over, her braids twisted into a bun on top of her head, secured with a Surf to Shore visor. She’s right of course. This discussion is a moot point since river sharks don’t live on this continent and regardless, no shark could make its way to Lake Michigan via the waterways.
“Correct.” I turn a closed-lip smile on the woman, making sure to block her access to the canoe paddles with my body, just in case. “There are zero sharks in the Great Lakes.”
“Not even bull sharks?”
“Definitely not bull sharks,” I tell her. “Also, most shark species are harmless to humans, and there’re far scarier things in the Great Lakes than sharks. Take toxic algae—”
Zuri steps between me and the woman. “Did I mention we offer our customers a half-off coupon for shaved ice?” She digs into her belt bag and pulls one out. “And if you stop in at Surf to Shore, you and your son are welcome to pick out a T-shirt for your troubles.” Holding out the coupon, she lifts her chin toward town. “Head up Pine Street and it’ll be on your right after you cross the bridge. Impossible to miss.”
The woman shoots me one last glare before telling her kid it’s time to go. They’re the last of the 12:30 slot of paddleboarders, and I’ve got two hours before the next group arrives, but Zuri’s scowl lets me know I won’t be taking it easy during my break.
“Toxic algae?”
I grimace. “Okay, not exactly tourism website worthy. But—”
“That’s a new low, even for you.”
Harsh, especially since I took this job as a favor when she had trouble finding seasonal help. Though the line’s become blurred as to who’s helping whom at this point, three years after a holiday visit to my hometown became a permanent move in the wake of her husband’s death.
“If you would’ve let me finish, I would’ve told her toxic algae blooms aren’t affecting our area. Yet,” I finish under my breath, and she points a finger at me.
“See, this is why I didn’t want to hire you. You’ve never been able to resist saying scary shit.”
“Sharks are fascinating, not scary.” Not to mention vital and misunderstood. “As for the algae, what’s scary is how uninformed the general public is about the issue.”
She sighs, head tipping to the side.
“Hear me out.” I gather my curls into a high ponytail and use my teeth to pull the hair tie off my wrist. “That woman might go home, fire up her internet browser, read up on harmful algae blooms and decide to—”
“Write a blank check for freshwater conservation?” Zuri’s dark brows disappear in the shadow of her visor.
