People often ask me how I became so passionate about sharks.

Some assume there must have been one defining moment—a single encounter that changed everything. The truth is, there wasn’t.

My love for sharks grew naturally from a lifetime of observing animals, spending time in nature, and trying to understand the world from perspectives beyond my own. Long before I ever thought about conservation, research, public speaking, or writing books, I was simply a quiet child who loved being outdoors. I found peace watching wildlife, caring for animals, and listening far more than I spoke.

This story isn’t just about sharks.

It’s about curiosity.

It’s about learning to replace fear with understanding.

It’s about discovering that every species has its own way of communicating, interacting, and experiencing the world.

Over the years, people have formed many opinions about me—some supportive, some critical, and many based on only a small glimpse of my work. Social media, documentaries, interviews, and short video clips can only tell part of the story. They rarely show the decades of learning, the countless hours of observation, the mistakes, the questions, the scientific collaborations, the conservation efforts, or the deeply personal experiences that shaped my perspective.

I wanted there to be one place where I could share that story in my own words.

This is not intended to convince everyone to agree with me. My hope is simply that anyone willing to understand my work will have the opportunity to hear directly from me, rather than relying on assumptions or brief moments taken out of context.

Everything I do has been guided by one simple belief: understanding leads to respect, and respect leads to protection.

If people can truly understand sharks—not the fictional monsters we’ve been taught to fear, but the remarkable animals they actually are—I believe more people will want to protect them.

This story is also about the many incredible people who have walked this journey with me: my family, who taught me to respect all life; my husband, Juan, whose passion for sharks matched my own; my mentors and colleagues; and the countless individuals around the world who have chosen compassion over fear and have dedicated their own time and energy to protecting wildlife.

Most importantly, this story belongs to the sharks.

Everything I’ve learned, every opportunity I’ve had, and every platform I’ve been given ultimately traces back to them. They challenged me to become more observant, more patient, more disciplined, and more present. They taught me lessons no classroom ever could.

If my story inspires even one more person to look at sharks—or any misunderstood species—with curiosity instead of fear, then sharing it will have been worthwhile.

Welcome to my story.

Growing up, I was a quiet kid who loved being outside and caring for animals. Some of my happiest memories are of exploring nature, spending time with our many pets, and simply observing the world around me. Looking back, I realize I was drawn less to excitement than to understanding. I wanted to know how animals moved, how they communicated, how they interacted with one another, and how they responded to me.

My parents nurtured that curiosity from the very beginning. They had a deep appreciation for nature and believed that every species deserved respect. Because of them, our home was filled not only with animals, but with an atmosphere of wonder about the natural world. We seemed to have every pet that was legally possible to have. Rabbits hopped through the house, goats occasionally wandered inside and flopped onto the couch beside us, and there was always another animal needing care, attention, or simply companionship.

Whether my fascination with animals came from nature, nurture, or some combination of both, I don’t know. What I do know is that, from my earliest memories, I found myself paying close attention to the subtle ways animals communicated. Long before I understood the science of animal behavior or knew the word “ethology,” I was quietly studying body language, posture, movement, and social interactions. I wasn’t consciously trying to become an observer—it simply felt natural. I was just as interested in the quiet moments between animals as I was in the obvious ones.

Our home reflected my parents’ lifelong love of the ocean. Alongside our animals were stacks of SCUBA gear, old dive equipment, shells, coral, and countless treasures collected from years of exploring beneath the surface. Every object seemed to carry a story, and I loved hearing where they had come from and what adventures they represented.

One of my earliest and clearest memories is of my father’s dive fins. They leaned against the hallway wall, impossible for me to miss whenever I walked by. They were the classic black U.S. Navy-style fins, but my father had made them uniquely his by spray-painting a bright fluorescent orange dolphin and whale circling together across the blade. For reasons I still can’t fully explain, that image became permanently etched into my memory. It was probably the very first depiction of whales and dolphins I ever consciously remember seeing.

Years later, when it came time to design the logo for One Ocean, I found myself recreating that same image almost instinctively from memory. I added a shark at the center to represent my generation and our kuleana—our responsibility—to help protect sharks and the ocean. Looking back now, I realize that logo wasn’t simply a design. It was a reflection of where everything had begun.

Another vivid memory from my childhood was a remarkable piece of brain coral my mother had collected while living in Taiwan. It naturally resembled a human skull, complete with eye sockets, and fascinated me endlessly. Around it were countless shells, corals, and artifacts from the sea. I would often ask my parents where each one came from, and my father would answer with stories—not just about the object itself, but about the adventure behind finding it. Those stories taught me that nature wasn’t something separate from our lives. It was part of our family history, woven into our memories and our identity.

My mother has always had an extraordinary patience with animals. She approaches them gently, allowing trust to develop naturally rather than forcing interaction. Watching her taught me that kindness and patience often reveal far more than excitement ever could. My father expressed his love of nature differently. He was adventurous, confident, and always eager to explore somewhere new. He introduced me to the excitement of exploration and inspired my own love of night diving. I remember hearing stories about him diving alone at night to catch lobster—adventures that seemed both mysterious and exhilarating to me as a child.

My mother also grew up exploring the ocean with her father. Although she enjoys diving, swimming has always been where she feels most at home. Together, my parents passed along something far more valuable than outdoor skills. They taught me that the natural world deserved curiosity rather than control, respect rather than fear.

Although Hawaiʻi has been home to my family for more than three generations, our ancestry stretches across many islands and cultures throughout the Pacific and beyond. Exploration has always been part of my family’s story. In many ways, I inherited that same desire to discover what lies beyond the horizon. Hawaiʻi will always be my home, but I’ve often felt at home anywhere the ocean exists—although I will admit some oceans are considerably colder than others.

My grandfather continued that legacy of exploration in an entirely different way. He served in the U.S. Navy, eventually becoming a submarine commander. Some of my favorite stories were the ones he told about traveling beneath the ocean, navigating under the polar ice, and encountering what he called “black and white whales”—orca. Those stories made the ocean feel impossibly vast, mysterious, and full of places still waiting to be discovered.

Our family’s connection to Hawaiʻi continued through my grandparents’ own story. They met in Honolulu after my great-grandmother insisted that my grandmother attend a luncheon in Waikīkī. My grandfather eventually proposed to her at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, and they were married at Pearl Harbor. My great-grandmother herself swam off the south shore of Oʻahu nearly every day until the end of her life. Looking back across the generations, I realize that our family’s connection to the ocean wasn’t just recreational—it was part of who we were.

Each member of my family seemed to have a species they felt especially connected to—a kind of personal ambassador from the natural world. Looking back now, I think sharks eventually became mine.

Chapter 3 – Learning to Listen Without Words

• Animal behavior before you knew the word “ethology”
• Growing up with horses
• Silent communication with animals
• Stingrays and early water skills
• How these experiences eventually shaped your shark behavior observations and redirection techniques

If there is one question I’ve been asked more than almost any other, it’s this:

“How do you understand sharks?”

My answer usually surprises people.

I didn’t start by trying to understand sharks.

I started by trying to understand animals.

Long before I ever swam with large sharks, I was fascinated by behavior itself. I wanted to understand why animals made the decisions they did, how they communicated with one another, and how they interpreted the world around them. Every species seemed to have its own language—not one built from words, but from posture, movement, timing, space, energy, and intention.

As a child, I spent much more time observing than talking. Being naturally quiet meant I listened carefully—not only to people, but to animals as well. I noticed how they watched one another. I noticed how they responded differently to different individuals. I became fascinated by the fact that every interaction seemed to have meaning.

Looking back, I realize I was unknowingly training myself to become an ethologist long before I had ever heard the word.

Growing up surrounded by animals gave me thousands of opportunities to observe subtle behavior.

Our dogs didn’t communicate with words.

Neither did our cats.

Our rabbits, birds, goats, horses, or fish didn’t either.

Yet every one of them communicated constantly.

Sometimes it was as simple as the direction of their eyes.

Sometimes it was the position of their ears.

Sometimes it was whether they leaned toward me or away from me.

Sometimes it was the speed of their movements, or the tension—or relaxation—in their bodies.

If you’ve ever shared your life with an animal you love, you probably know exactly what I mean.

You don’t sit down and have conversations with your dog or your horse in the way humans communicate.

Yet somehow, over time, you begin to understand each other remarkably well.

You learn what makes them comfortable.

You learn what causes stress.

You learn when they’re curious, excited, cautious, playful, nervous, or asking for space.

They learn about you too.

That mutual learning fascinated me.

I became increasingly aware that communication wasn’t limited to language. In many ways, body language was far more honest.

Animals couldn’t hide their intentions behind carefully chosen words.

Their bodies spoke first.

One thing I learned early was that observation almost always comes before interaction.

If I wanted to understand an animal, I couldn’t immediately rush toward it.

I needed to slow down.

Watch.

Listen.

Allow the animal to reveal itself before I imposed myself upon the situation.

That lesson would eventually become one of the foundations of my entire approach to sharks.

I think many people underestimate the amount of information animals constantly exchange without making a sound. Once you begin paying attention, an entirely different world opens up.

Instead of asking, “What is this animal doing?”

You begin asking,

“Why?”

Why did it change direction?

Why did it pause?

Why did it speed up?

Why did it approach?

Why did it leave?

Every movement becomes part of a conversation.

Although sharks would eventually become the animals that shaped my career, horses were among my greatest teachers.

People often laugh when I compare horses and sharks.

At first glance, they seem to have almost nothing in common.

One lives on land.

The other in the sea.

One is prey.

The other an apex predator.

Yet behaviorally, I see remarkable similarities.

Both are powerful animals capable of seriously injuring a person.

Both communicate largely through body language.

Both establish personal space.

Both constantly assess the intentions of those around them.

Both respond differently depending on the confidence, predictability, and awareness of the individual interacting with them.

Working with horses taught me to pay attention to incredibly subtle signals.

The position of an ear.

A shift in weight.

A tightening around the eyes.

The angle of the neck.

The tension in the muscles.

A change in breathing.

To someone unfamiliar with horses, these changes might appear insignificant.

To an experienced horse person, they can communicate entire conversations.

The better I became at recognizing those subtle cues, the safer and more enjoyable every interaction became.

Looking back, I believe those experiences helped prepare me for understanding sharks.

Not because horses and sharks behave the same way—they absolutely do not—but because both taught me to appreciate the importance of reading behavior before reacting.

Growing up around horses also taught me something equally important:

Never underestimate a powerful animal.

Even the gentlest horse can accidentally step on your foot, swing its head into you, kick if startled, or push you off balance.

You don’t respond by becoming fearful.

You respond by becoming more aware.

You learn positioning.

You learn timing.

You learn where to stand.

How to move.

How to redirect movement without escalating conflict.

How to maintain mutual respect.

Years later, I found myself using many of those same principles—not the exact techniques, but the underlying mindset—while learning to navigate encounters with increasingly large sharks.

The similarities weren’t physical.

They were behavioral.

Both required awareness.

Both required calmness.

Both required accountability for my own actions.

As I spent more time in the ocean, another group of animals became unexpected teachers.

Stingrays.

Growing up visiting Tahiti, I had opportunities to spend time in the water around large southern stingrays that people hand-fed.

Many people imagine those encounters as chaotic.

What I experienced was something different.

Yes, the rays could be incredibly enthusiastic.

Sometimes they arrived with surprising speed and strength, bumping into people or climbing over one another in anticipation of food.

But they also responded remarkably to movement.

Rather than resisting their momentum, I learned to move with it.

To anticipate it.

To create space.

To stay aware not only of the ray directly in front of me, but of everything happening around me.

At the same time, sharks often circled the area.

That meant remaining aware of multiple animals with different motivations and different behaviors all at once.

Without realizing it, I was developing situational awareness that would become invaluable later in life.

Perhaps the most important lesson I learned growing up is one that still guides everything I do today.

There is no such thing as “just a shark.”

Or “just a horse.”

Or “just a dog.”

Every individual is different.

Some are naturally bold.

Some are cautious.

Some are curious.

Some are highly social.

Others prefer distance.

The longer I spend with any individual animal, the more I notice differences in personality, temperament, decision-making, and behavior.

That realization fundamentally changed the way I view wildlife.

Species matter.

Behavior matters.

But individuals matter too.

Recognizing individuality doesn’t make animals less wild.

It makes our understanding of them more complete.

Growing up immersed in nature also shaped another belief that has only grown stronger with time.

Nature is extraordinarily interconnected.

Nothing exists in isolation.

Predators influence prey.

Prey influences vegetation.

Habitats influence behavior.

The health of one species affects countless others.

Long before I studied marine ecology formally or collaborated with scientists, I could already sense those connections simply by spending time outdoors.

Science has since given us powerful tools to measure and explain many of those relationships.

For me, the research has reinforced what years of observation first taught me:

Everything is connected.

When we lose one species—especially an apex predator like a shark—we don’t lose only that animal.

We begin changing an entire ecosystem.

People sometimes ask whether I have a special gift for understanding sharks.

I don’t think I do.

I think I was simply fortunate enough to spend my childhood surrounded by animals, encouraged to observe rather than dominate, and taught to replace assumptions with curiosity.

The sharks became extraordinary teachers.

But they weren’t my first teachers.

The animals I grew up with prepared me long before I ever realized where that path would lead.

I intentionally strengthened several themes here because I think they’re central to your mission:

• Observation before interaction — this becomes a core philosophy that can be referenced throughout the book.
• Every animal is an individual — one of the strongest recurring themes in your writing.
• Horses and sharks — I reframed this carefully to avoid implying they behave the same while preserving your point that both taught you to read body language and respect powerful animals.
• Situational awareness — I introduced this concept because it naturally sets up the later chapters on shark safety and redirection.

I also have one recommendation going forward.

I think we should begin weaving in small “Field Notes” throughout the book. These would be short callouts drawn from your decades of experience. For example:

Field Note:
One of the biggest mistakes people make around wildlife is assuming every individual of a species will behave the same. Experience has taught me the opposite. Understanding the individual often matters just as much as understanding the species.

There are moments in life that seem ordinary while they’re happening, only to reveal years later that they quietly changed everything.

Meeting Juan was one of those moments.

At the time, neither of us knew we were beginning a partnership that would shape the course of our lives, influence shark conservation around the world, and inspire countless people to see sharks—and ultimately themselves—differently.

We were simply two people who loved the ocean.

Or perhaps more accurately, two people who had each already been called by the sharks.

Long before we met one another, sharks had already become the center of both of our lives. They had quietly shaped our decisions, influenced our careers, and given each of us a purpose that few people around us fully understood. Looking back now, it often feels as though our paths were running parallel all along, simply waiting for the right moment to intersect.

Whether someone believes in destiny, purpose, coincidence, or simply life’s remarkable timing, I’ve always felt that the sharks brought us together.

People often ask what first attracted me to Juan.

Most assume it was his appearance.

I’ll admit, after breaking his back years earlier, he had committed himself to rebuilding his body and maintaining incredible physical strength. Working on boats and spending nearly every day in the ocean certainly didn’t hurt.

But that isn’t what first caught my attention.

He caught my ears before he ever caught my eyes.

At the time, I was taking friends out to swim with sharks from a boat he happened to be working on. Every few minutes, I would surface from my breath-up and hear him talking with people onboard.

What immediately stood out wasn’t simply that he liked sharks.

It was the way he spoke about them.

There was no sensationalism.

No exaggeration.

No bravado.

No desire to make them seem more dangerous than they really were.

He spoke with genuine respect.

He described sharks as intelligent apex predators deserving of understanding rather than fear.

I remember thinking,

“Wait… someone else actually gets it.”

For years, I had felt almost alone in publicly speaking positively about sharks. Suddenly, I was hearing someone else independently sharing that same message.

Someone who wasn’t trying to build fear.

Someone who wasn’t trying to prove how brave he was.

Someone who simply respected sharks for what they are.

That caught my attention far more than anything else ever could.

Looking back now, I don’t believe Juan and I connected simply because we both liked sharks.

We connected because sharks had already changed who we were.

Long before we met each other, we had each independently devoted our lives to understanding and protecting them.

We had both chosen paths that many people couldn’t understand.

We were each spending our lives trying to replace fear with understanding.

We were both taking friends, coworkers, and anyone willing to trust us into the ocean to experience sharks firsthand.

We were both trying to give a voice to one of the most misunderstood groups of animals on Earth.

It wasn’t that one of us inspired the other to care about sharks.

We already did.

It wasn’t that one of us introduced the other to conservation.

We were already walking that path.

The sharks had already called each of us individually.

Meeting one another simply allowed those two journeys to become one.

I’ve often wondered if that was part of something much bigger than either of us.

Sharks have survived for more than 400 million years through multiple mass extinctions, yet today they face some of the greatest threats in their history. At a time when they needed more people willing to stand beside them, somehow two people who had independently dedicated their lives to understanding them found one another.

Whether you call it destiny, purpose, coincidence, or simply perfect timing, I’ve always felt that the sharks brought us together.

Although Juan and I came from different families and had different life experiences, we also shared remarkably similar foundations.

Like me, Juan had grown up deeply connected to the ocean. He had spent years surfing, diving, fishing, working on boats, and developing a genuine respect for the sea and the wildlife that calls it home.

My own upbringing had been equally rooted in the ocean. I grew up surfing, diving, exploring Hawaiʻi’s waters from an early age, and spending countless hours aboard my family’s boats. Over time I became a professional freediver, scuba instructor, U.S. Coast Guard licensed captain, and lifelong student of marine life.

For both of us, the ocean wasn’t simply where we worked.

It was where we felt most alive.

Our individual experiences had been different, but they had led us toward many of the same values.

We both believed wildlife deserved respect.

We both believed curiosity was more powerful than fear.

We both believed conservation begins with understanding.

And perhaps most importantly, we both believed sharks deserved advocates—not because they are harmless or perfect, but because they are profoundly misunderstood, ecologically essential, and increasingly threatened.

Those shared values became the foundation of everything we would eventually build together.

One of the greatest strengths of our partnership has always been that we complement one another.

We both grew up in the ocean.

We both spent years on boats.

We both surfed.

We both dove.

We both developed deep respect for wildlife through firsthand experience rather than through books alone.

Yet each of us naturally focused on different aspects of the same mission.

I’ve always been fascinated by behavior.

Observation.

Communication.

Breaking complex ideas down into something people can understand.

Trying to understand how another species experiences the world.

Juan naturally gravitated toward connecting with people.

Whether speaking with fishermen, surfers, scientists, tourists, photographers, lifeguards, or local families, he has always had a remarkable ability to build relationships and find common ground.

Those complementary strengths became one of the reasons we work so well together.

We challenged one another.

Learned from one another.

Filled in each other’s blind spots.

And together we began imagining something much bigger than either of us could have created alone.

One of the most remarkable things we realized after meeting was that we had both arrived at the same conclusion independently.

Before we ever met, each of us had already been bringing friends, coworkers, family members, and anyone willing to trust us into the ocean to experience sharks.

Not for entertainment.

Not for adrenaline.

But because we genuinely wanted people to see what we saw.

Again and again, we noticed the same pattern.

People who had spent their entire lives fearing sharks would emerge from a respectful, carefully guided encounter seeing them completely differently.

The fear began to dissolve.

Curiosity took its place.

Only then did conversations about conservation truly begin.

People weren’t changing their minds because we had argued with them.

They weren’t changing because we had overwhelmed them with scientific facts.

They were changing because they had experienced something deeply personal.

They had looked into the eye of an animal they had feared their entire lives.

And instead of finding a monster…

They found a shark.

An individual animal.

Beautiful.

Intelligent.

Curious.

Wild.

Exactly as it was meant to be.

That realization became one of the cornerstones of everything we would later build together.

It confirmed something we had both already begun to believe:

Education becomes dramatically more powerful when it follows genuine personal experience.

Facts can change minds.

But meaningful experiences often change hearts.

That simple realization would eventually become one of the guiding philosophies behind One Ocean Diving.

People sometimes ask whether sharks brought us together.

In many ways, I believe they did.

Not because of adrenaline.

Not because of danger.

Not because of excitement.

But because sharks revealed our values.

Compassion.

Respect.

Curiosity.

Humility.

Purpose.

The more time Juan and I spent together, the more we realized we weren’t simply building a relationship.

We were building a shared vision.

Neither of us wanted to simply make a living.

We wanted our lives to contribute to something much larger than ourselves.

We wanted to help change the future for sharks.

That shared purpose became the strongest part of our relationship.

The sharks introduced us.

Conservation united us.

Love allowed us to keep moving forward together.

Neither of us came from wealth.

Everything we built required sacrifice.

For years we worked from before sunrise until after sunset.

Seven days a week.

There were no shortcuts.

No investors.

No guarantees.

Every dollar we earned was carefully reinvested into building the future we believed was possible.

Eventually, after years of hard work, determination, and countless early mornings and late nights, we were able to purchase our own boat.

Owning that boat represented far more than simply buying a vessel.

It represented opportunity.

The opportunity to create the kind of educational experiences we believed people needed.

The opportunity to teach conservation the way we envisioned it.

The opportunity and freedom to dedicate ourselves completely to sharks without compromising our time to things other than fulfilling our mission to protect sharks.

Looking back now, I am so grateful we did everything we could to build the  platform that would eventually help thousands of people experience sharks in a completely different way and get the sharks we loved protected.

People often see a photograph or a short video online and understandably assume that’s what our lives look like every day.

The reality is very different.

Most of our lives have been built around work.

Long before sunrise, we’d already be studying weather forecasts, wind, swell, currents, tides, and ocean conditions. We’d prepare the boat, inspect equipment, review safety procedures, and make sure everything was ready before our guests ever stepped aboard.

The educational experience began long before anyone entered the water.

Returning to the harbor never meant the work was finished.

There were engines to maintain.

Boats to clean.

Equipment to repair.

Educational materials to improve.

Questions from guests to answer.

Photos and videos to organize.

Individual sharks to identify.

Behavioral observations to discuss.

Research projects to contribute to.

School presentations to prepare.

Documentaries to film.

Books to write.

Scientists to collaborate with.

Crew members to mentor.

Community meetings to attend.

Legislative testimony to prepare.

Conservation never stopped when we left the water.

In many ways, that was when another part of the work began.

People often ask me who taught me how to understand shark behavior.

My answer usually surprises them.

No person taught me what eventually became the foundation of my understanding.

Of course, throughout my life I learned countless valuable skills from incredible people.

I learned to dive.

I learned boating and seamanship.

I learned marine science, photography, teaching, research methods, and many other disciplines from mentors, colleagues, friends, and professionals.

But when it came to understanding the subtle behavioral communication of free-swimming sharks in their natural environment…

There wasn’t another person I could learn that from.

There wasn’t a school.

There wasn’t a university course.

There wasn’t a textbook.

There wasn’t another professional spending virtually every day in the water observing free-swimming sharks in the way I had chosen to.

So I made a decision.

I would learn directly from the sharks themselves.

Not by forcing interactions.

Not by trying to control them.

But by quietly watching.

Observing.

Comparing.

Questioning.

Analyzing.

Day after day.

Year after year.

I became fascinated by the smallest details.

Why did one shark approach differently than another?

Why did the same individual behave differently depending on the conditions?

How did posture change?

Swimming speed?

Spacing?

Eye movement?

Body angle?

Timing?

Environmental conditions?

Social dynamics?

I wasn’t looking for dramatic moments.

I was looking for patterns.

Tiny details that most people would never notice because they happened over fractions of seconds or required seeing the same individuals repeatedly over many years.

That became my education.

Every dive became another opportunity to observe.

Every observation raised another question.

Every question encouraged me to pay even closer attention the next time I entered the water.

Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t trying to become an expert.

I was trying to become a better observer.

The expertise came later as the natural result of thousands upon thousands of hours spent paying attention.

People sometimes ask whether I was ever scared.

Absolutely.

Respect and awareness have always been part of this journey.

There were moments that demanded complete focus.

Young tiger sharks rushing in unexpectedly.

Highly motivated individuals testing boundaries.

Situations that required immediate decisions.

Moments that reminded me I was interacting with large, powerful wild animals—not trained animals, not predictable animals, but wildlife deserving of respect.

Those moments became some of my greatest teachers.

Not because they were dramatic.

But because they forced me to honestly evaluate my own decisions afterward.

What did I notice?

What did I miss?

What could I have done differently?

How could I become more aware next time?

Every experience became another opportunity to improve.

The sharks weren’t changing for me.

I had to adapt to them.

That required humility.

It required accountability.

Most of all, it required patience.

Years passed.

Then more years.

Eventually I realized something I hadn’t been thinking about because I had simply been focused on learning.

No one I had heard of had accumulated this amount of firsthand observation.

No one I had heard of was spending day after day, year after year, immersed with free-swimming sharks across multiple species, seasons, conditions, and locations while intentionally studying behavior.

Without realizing it, I had gradually developed an educational framework built entirely from direct observation and continual refinement.

It wasn’t based on theory alone.

It wasn’t based on isolated encounters.

It was built through thousands upon thousands of hours of experience.

That realization came with tremendous responsibility.

Knowledge only has value if it is shared.

If what I had learned could help people better understand sharks…

If it could help surfers, swimmers, divers, photographers, scientists, and ocean users make safer decisions…

If it could reduce unnecessary fear…

If it could reduce unnecessary harm to both people and sharks…

Then I felt an obligation to share it.

Not because I believed I knew everything.

Quite the opposite.

Nature continually reminds us how much there is still left to learn.

But I had been fortunate enough to dedicate my life to observing sharks in a way very few people had the opportunity to do.

I didn’t want those lessons to remain only with me.  I felt compelled to share them for the sake of people and sharks.  I had that "OMG moment" where I literally realized that I will always feel like I dont know everything there is to know (and that's good) but I know more than enough that I could write multiple long books about sharks that could help people and that no one else was in a position to do so.  I lost so much sleep but I truly know to my core that writing the book "What You Should Know About Sharks" was worth the sacrifice and I am so grateful when I hear back from people who say the book has changed their life and helped them out. 

There’s an old saying:

“If you want to truly understand something, teach it.”

I found that to be profoundly true.

Teaching forced me to analyze every decision I made.

Every movement.

Every observation.

Every explanation.

What had once become instinct through years of experience now had to become language.

Guests asked thoughtful questions.

Crew members asked deeper questions.

Researchers asked incredibly detailed questions.

Eventually photographers, filmmakers, scientists, graduate students, conservation organizations, and professionals from around the world began asking to learn alongside us.

Many of the people who now confidently work with sharks—whether guiding educational expeditions, documenting wildlife, or conducting in-water scientific research—spent time learning through One Ocean.

Watching them take what they learned and apply it in their own way has become one of the most rewarding parts of my journey.

Knowledge should continue growing.

It shouldn’t stop with one person.

That has always been my hope.

When I look back now, I don’t think the greatest accomplishment of One Ocean has been the number of people we’ve taken into the water.

I think it’s the community that grew from those experiences.

A community connected not by fear…

But by understanding.

A community that sees sharks not as monsters…

But as wildlife worthy of respect.

A community willing to speak up for them because they are speaking from their own firsthand experience rather than from someone else’s story.

One person.

One dive.

One conversation.

One shark.

That has always been the heart of One Ocean.

And I believe it always will be.

Over the years, Juan and I watched something remarkable begin to happen.

The vision we had worked so hard to build was becoming reality.

People who had once been afraid of sharks were now confidently speaking up for them.

Guests who had joined us simply hoping to overcome a fear returned home with a completely different perspective. They weren’t just sharing stories about an unforgettable experience in the water—they were correcting misinformation, helping friends and family better understand sharks, and becoming advocates within their own communities.

Exactly as we had hoped, the educational experience didn’t end when someone stepped off the boat.

In many ways, that was where it truly began.

Every conversation they had afterward.

Every family member whose perspective changed.

Every classroom.

Every community presentation.

Every social media post they shared.

Every person they inspired.

Those ripples continued spreading outward.

That had always been our goal.

Juan and I believed from the very beginning that if enough people could safely experience sharks, understand their behavior, and replace fear with firsthand understanding, they would become the public voice that sharks themselves could never have.

Sharks cannot write testimony.

They cannot stand before legislators.

They cannot explain their own importance.

They cannot correct decades of misinformation.

People can.

That understanding shaped every decision we made.

Every educational program.

Every interview.

Every documentary.

Every school presentation.

Every book.

Every social media post.

Every public talk.

Every conversation aboard the boat.

We weren’t simply teaching people about sharks.

We were intentionally building a growing community of people who could confidently speak from their own firsthand experiences instead of from fear, myths, or sensationalism.

Helping people safely understand sharks helps people make better decisions in the ocean.

Helping people make better decisions reduces unnecessary fear.

Reducing fear reduces unnecessary retaliation.

Reducing retaliation helps protect sharks.

Human safety and shark conservation have never been separate goals.

They strengthen one another.

That was—and continues to be—the foundation of everything Juan and I have devoted our lives to building.

Years passed.

Our One Ocean family continued to grow.

Thousands of people experienced sharks with us in the water.

Millions more followed our educational work through documentaries, presentations, books, interviews, and social media.

When opportunities arose to strengthen legal protections for sharks in Hawaiʻi, Juan and I knew it was time to ask that community to become involved.

We encouraged people to learn about the proposed legislation.

To understand why it mattered.

To write respectful testimony.

To email their legislators.

To attend committee hearings if they were able.

To become the voice that sharks themselves could never have.

Again and again, people answered that call.

It wasn’t just a handful of people.

Hearing after hearing, members of our One Ocean family showed up.

People drove across the island after work.

Families brought their children.

Guests who had experienced sharks with us submitted testimony before returning home.

Supporters from around the world responded to our calls to action, filling legislators’ inboxes with respectful letters explaining why sharks deserved protection.

Watching that happen reminded Juan and me that education had become action, and action had become conservation.

I remember finishing a full morning on the water, rinsing gear, gathering notes, and driving across Oʻahu to testify at the Hawaiʻi State Capitol.

Many days there was barely enough time to change clothes before walking into another committee hearing.

Some weeks we made that drive over and over again.

Because every hearing mattered.

Every testimony mattered.

Every voice mattered.

Over time, the committee rooms began filling with familiar faces.

Guests who had been through our educational programs.

Crew members.

Friends.

Families.

Students.

Supporters.

People who had followed our educational work for years.

Legislators’ offices received emails and testimony from people responding to our calls to action.

Many wrote not about statistics or headlines, but about their own firsthand experiences with sharks.

They spoke from understanding rather than fear.

Watching people who had once been terrified of sharks confidently stand before legislators to advocate for their protection remains one of the proudest moments of my life.

This was exactly what Juan and I had envisioned years earlier.

The educational platform had become a conservation movement.

One of the biggest misconceptions people have about sharks is believing that they are entering our world when we go into the water.

The opposite is true.

Every time we step into the ocean, we are entering their home.

That simple shift in perspective changes everything.

When we visit another person’s home, we naturally become more observant. We pay attention. We respect the space we’re entering. We recognize that we are the guest.

I believe the same mindset should apply whenever we enter the ocean.

Sharks are not invading our environment.

We are choosing to enter theirs.

That doesn’t mean we should fear the ocean.

It means we should respect it.

The ocean is an incredibly dynamic place. Conditions are constantly changing. Visibility, currents, tides, weather, the availability of food, the behavior of fish, marine mammals, turtles, and countless other species all influence what is happening beneath the surface. Sharks are simply one part of an incredibly complex living system.

The better we understand that system, the better decisions we can make.

Throughout my life, I’ve often heard people describe sharks as though they are constantly searching for humans.

That simply hasn’t been my experience.

After spending thousands upon thousands of hours in the water with sharks around the world, I’ve found that the vast majority are far more interested in going about their own lives than interacting with us.

Like nearly every wild animal, they have things to do.

They are hunting.

Resting.

Navigating.

Socializing.

Avoiding conflict.

Exploring their environment.

Responding to changing conditions.

Humans usually aren’t the center of their attention.

Most of the time, we are simply another unfamiliar animal entering their environment.

Understanding that alone helps remove much of the unnecessary fear that surrounds sharks.

At the same time, respect should never become complacency.

The ocean deserves our full attention.

Wild animals deserve our respect.

The fact that sharks are not mindless monsters does not mean they cannot injure someone.

They absolutely can.

Just as horses can kick.

Dogs can bite.

Moose can charge.

Elephants can trample.

Any large wild animal deserves awareness and respect.

That is why I have never liked the false choice people sometimes make between fear and carelessness.

I don’t believe either is helpful.

Instead, I believe in awareness.

Awareness encourages us to observe.

To remain calm.

To continually assess our surroundings.

To recognize changing conditions.

To understand behavior instead of assuming intent.

That awareness benefits everyone.

It helps keep people safer.

It helps reduce misunderstandings.

And ultimately, it helps protect sharks.

One of the reasons Juan and I built One Ocean the way we did was because we believed education could accomplish both goals at the same time.

Helping people better understand shark behavior makes them better prepared to share the ocean safely.

Helping people safely share the ocean with sharks reduces unnecessary fear.

Reducing fear reduces unnecessary retaliation.

Reducing retaliation helps protect sharks.

Human safety and shark conservation have never been separate ideas in my mind.

They have always been deeply connected.

The healthier our relationship with sharks becomes, the healthier our relationship with the ocean becomes as well.

Because sharks are not separate from the ocean.

They are part of the living balance that has shaped marine ecosystems for hundreds of millions of years.

They help maintain healthy populations.

Healthy reefs.

Healthy food webs.

Healthy ecosystems.

When sharks thrive, the ocean is generally healthier.

And when the ocean is healthier, every species—including our own—benefits.

That is one of the reasons I believe learning to coexist with sharks is about so much more than sharks.

It is about learning how humanity fits within nature.

Not above it.

Not separate from it.

But as one species among many, sharing one interconnected living world.

There is only One Ocean.

Every current connects.

Every ecosystem connects.

Every species connects.

And every choice we make ripples farther than we often realize.

Learning to respectfully share the ocean with sharks is, in many ways, simply learning to become a better participant in nature itself.

One of the questions I am asked most often is,

“Can you really read a shark’s body language?”

My answer is yes.

Absolutely.

Just as horses communicate through posture, movement, muscle tension, ear position, spacing, and countless other subtle signals, sharks also communicate through body language.

Their movements are not random.

Like many animals, they display repeated behavioral patterns that communicate information to one another.

Over decades of observation, I have watched consistent agonistic (conflict-related), territorial, investigative, social, courtship, and avoidance behaviors repeated again and again across many situations. These are real, observable patterns of communication.

The challenge is not whether shark body language exists.

The challenge is learning to recognize it.

Unlike people, sharks don’t have facial expressions that most humans immediately recognize.

Their communication is often much more subtle.

A slight change in posture.

A shift in swimming rhythm.

An adjustment in body angle.

An increase in speed.

A widening of swimming arcs.

Changes in spacing.

Changes in direction.

The way one shark positions itself relative to another.

The way multiple sharks begin responding to one another simultaneously.

To an untrained observer, many of these changes appear insignificant.

To someone who has spent thousands upon thousands of hours intentionally studying shark behavior, they often provide important information about what is happening and how the situation may be changing.

That doesn’t mean every behavior has only one meaning.

Context always matters.

Just as the same words spoken by a person can carry completely different meanings depending on tone, body language, environment, and previous interactions, shark behavior must also be interpreted within the context of everything else happening around it.

Species matters.

The individual shark matters.

Its previous behavior matters.

The number of sharks present matters.

Environmental conditions matter.

The behavior of fish and other marine life matters.

The behavior of nearby boats matters.

Most importantly, human behavior matters.

Every interaction is dynamic.

Every participant influences the situation.

This is one of the reasons I emphasize that people should never oversimplify shark behavior into rigid rules or internet lists.

Nature is more complex than that.

Instead, I encourage people to develop observation skills.

Learn to notice patterns.

Learn to notice change.

Learn to recognize when the overall energy of an interaction begins shifting.

Years of studying animal behavior, psychology, and ethology helped shape the way I approached these questions, but my greatest education came from spending countless hours quietly observing sharks in their natural environment.

I wasn’t looking for dramatic moments.

I was looking for consistency.

I wanted to understand which behaviors appeared repeatedly before particular outcomes.

Which movements consistently preceded increased confidence.

Which patterns commonly occurred before sharks established personal space.

Which changes suggested curiosity.

Which suggested heightened motivation.

Which suggested it was time for me to adapt my own behavior.

Over many years, those observations gradually formed a behavioral framework that I continue refining today.

That framework eventually became the foundation of how I teach shark safety.

At One Ocean, we don’t simply train guides to lead educational experiences.

We train marine biologists and professional Shark Safety Divers to become highly observant students of animal behavior.

Long before a situation ever has the potential to become a physical confrontation, there are often subtle behavioral changes taking place.

Our goal is to recognize those changes early enough to adapt appropriately, giving both the sharks and the people in the water the greatest opportunity to continue the interaction safely and respectfully.

To me, that is what shark safety really is.

Not controlling sharks.

Not dominating wildlife.

Not forcing interactions.

Learning to observe carefully enough that we can adapt ourselves before a situation unnecessarily escalates.

That philosophy extends far beyond sharks.

The better we become at observing nature, the more we begin recognizing that communication is happening all around us.

The ocean is constantly speaking.

The question is whether we are patient enough to truly listen.

Over many years, those observations gradually formed a behavioral framework that I continue refining today.  

As more people began asking the same questions, I realized there simply wasn’t enough time during a single educational program to share everything I had learned.

That realization led me to write What You Should Know About Sharks.

I wanted to create an easy-to-understand resource that explains not only why sharks are so important to healthy marine ecosystems, but also many of the behavioral patterns, body language, and ecological principles that help explain how sharks interact with one another and with us.

Later, that same desire to make this information more widely available led to the development of our online shark behavior and safety courses.

Some courses are designed for anyone who spends time in the ocean—surfers, swimmers, freedivers, scuba divers, photographers, paddlers, fishermen, and ocean enthusiasts who simply want to better understand shark behavior and learn practical ways to safely coexist with these incredible animals.

Other courses are designed for marine professionals, researchers, conservationists, and members of our own One Ocean team who are training to become professional Shark Safety Divers.

Those programs go far beyond identifying species or collecting scientific data.

They focus on developing observational skills.

Learning to recognize subtle behavioral patterns.

Understanding context.

Improving situational awareness.

And learning how to thoughtfully adapt human behavior long before a situation has the opportunity to unnecessarily escalate.

My hope has always been that this knowledge becomes widely shared.

The more people who understand shark behavior, the safer people become.

The safer people become, the more confidently they can appreciate sharks.

And the more people appreciate sharks, the more people are willing to help protect them.

That is why I continue writing, teaching, and refining these educational resources.

Because every person who learns to better understand sharks has the potential to help create a safer future for both people and wildlife.

One of the questions I am asked most often is,

“If sharks aren’t monsters, why do people sometimes get bitten?”

It’s an important question.

And it’s one that deserves an honest answer.

The first thing I tell people is that acknowledging the reality of shark bites does not diminish my respect for sharks.

Nor does respecting sharks require pretending bites never happen.

Both things can be true.

Sharks are powerful apex predators.

They are capable of seriously injuring or killing a person.

That reality deserves respect.

At the same time, the overwhelming majority of sharks go their entire lives without ever biting a human.

Those two facts are not contradictory.

They’re simply part of understanding reality.

One of the biggest misconceptions is the idea that sharks are naturally hunting people.

After spending decades observing sharks around the world, that has never been my conclusion.

Humans are not a natural prey species for sharks.

We are unfamiliar animals entering an environment that was already their home long before we arrived.

When bites do occur, there is almost never a single explanation.

Nature is rarely that simple.

Every incident is unique.

Every environment is different.

Every shark is different.

Every person behaves differently.

Understanding shark bites requires looking at the entire situation rather than searching for one simple answer.

People naturally want simple explanations.

“It was a hungry shark.”

“It was an aggressive species.”

“It was territorial.”

Sometimes there may be elements of truth within those statements.

But rarely is one explanation sufficient.

When I look at an interaction, I consider many variables.

What species was involved?

How many sharks were present?

What time of day was it?

What were the environmental conditions?

What was the visibility?

What prey species were nearby?

Were fish schooling?

Were marine mammals present?

What was the person’s behavior?

What had happened during the minutes leading up to the interaction?

How had the shark been behaving beforehand?

Every one of those factors contributes to understanding what happened.

Nature exists within context.

Remove the context, and you often misunderstand the behavior.

One of the most misunderstood behaviors I observe is curiosity.

Like dolphins.

Like dogs.

Like bears.

Like many intelligent animals.

Sharks investigate unfamiliar things.

Sometimes they approach.

Sometimes they circle.

Sometimes they observe from a distance.

Sometimes they lose interest almost immediately.

Approaching does not automatically mean aggression.

It means information is being gathered.

That doesn’t mean every approach is safe.

It means we should understand the difference between investigation and predation.

Recognizing those differences is one of the reasons I have dedicated so much of my life to studying shark behavior.

When people ask me how to avoid a shark bite, they’re sometimes surprised that I don’t begin by talking about sharks.

I begin by talking about people.

Because our decisions matter.

Where we enter the water.

When we enter.

Our level of awareness.

Who we’re with.

Whether we understand local conditions.

Whether we recognize changing circumstances.

Whether we pay attention.

The ocean asks something of us.

It asks us to participate thoughtfully.

Just as hikers learn about bears.

Divers learn about currents.

Climbers learn about rockfall.

Ocean users can also learn about shark behavior.

That knowledge doesn’t eliminate risk.

Nothing can.

But it can help us make better decisions.

And better decisions benefit both people and sharks.

That is why I have devoted so much of my life to education.

Because every person who better understands sharks becomes someone more capable of safely sharing the ocean with them.

To me, that is one of the most meaningful forms of conservation.

Protecting sharks.

Helping people.

And strengthening the relationship between the two.

That has always been the goal.