Coca hugs his
battered life-saver. PHOTO: ERIK KUNZ
AFISH HUNTED
Patrolling the Bean Hollow beat. PHOTO: CALLAGHAN FRITZ-COPE/PELAGIC SHARK RESEARCH FOUNDATION
hard way, by surviving a near fatal great white attack some 20 years ago while surfing in South Africa. “Physically, I’ve never fully recovered,” von Broembsen says. “I have only 10 percent use of my left hand, no use of my left wrist, no left calf, extensive skin grafts and permanent hip damage.” He remains committed to enjoying the ocean, but never ventured out kayak fishing on the open sea until he installed a Shark Shield. “It’s a personal choice. I researched the Shark Shield heavily and I’m satisfied with pub- lished independent test results. I’m not saying it’s 100 percent effective, but I believe it’s a lot better than going without one.” Even the courageous von Broembsen has his limits. “The metric I use I
call hair on the back of my neck. The first time I looked at Bean Hollow I felt those hairs rise, and I will never fish there,” he says. This choice may be the most effective safety strategy of all, choosing not to fish a particular area on a particular day, if ever. Those anglers who have had a close interaction with these apex predators likely have considered their chances and the odds more carefully than the rest of us. But, a note for anyone who has fished Bean Hollow with any regularity. Even if you have not seen a white shark there, chances are a white shark has seen you.
SHARK TALK
“I stopped to set up my gear just outside the point at Bean, and caught sight of the shark angling towards my boat. My first thought was, ‘This thing is the size of my truck!’ I never felt truly threatened due to the shark’s placid demeanor. He seemed very nonchalant towards me and my kayak. He just cruised by like a big disinterested bass. I did put my feet back in the ‘yak and closed up the Rod Pod just in case.”
—Ben “Guitarzan” Williams, California.
DAM COCA’S CLOSE CALL
ON AUGUST 14, Adam Coca paddled out of Bean Hollow at the head of a small group of friends and family he was guiding into the sport. The ocean was millpond flat, a near- perfect mirror for the gray sky above. In the preternatural calm, Coca decided it was time for his trainees to earn their wings. Saying he was going south to look for good struc- ture, the experienced kayak angler known to his friends at NorCal Kayak Anglers as Fishunter paddled off alone, dig- ging hard. Only minutes later, he’d battle for his life against a 4,000-pound great white.
I leave the pack, paddling in a zigzag. I walk the dog for half a mile. I’m looking at my depth finder knowing I’m about to hit a shelf, so I put the brakes on with my paddle. I reach for a pole and that’s when I feel the surge, like a vroom, boom! A shark tries to take the head off my kayak. I’m in the water. I can’t see a thing. It shoves the kayak into me, into my chest. The kayak is sideways. I’m pressed against it, my high-back PFD like a big frickin pillow on my chest, locked in, dug into the seat of my P13, water rushing over my back and I’m thinking what the fuck, this is it Adam.
I’m going in a circle. I can’t move. I must be kicking him in the mouth. The gashes in my shoe go all the way through the booty. It tries to take a couple of big, hard bites. It can’t get a hold of the kayak, like bobbing for apples. Then a tooth sticks and it continues to shove me around. Ten seconds later, it finally shakes off. I grab the scupper holes and work my way to the top of the kayak. It comes back and hits again. Oh my God, the feeling. It isn’t over yet. I’m looking at its mouth, at its eye, the triangular snout, now teeth,
pushing and grinding on the front of the kayak. I’m going to have to come down and punch you, buddy. I want to think it got the vibe. It lets go, my leashed paddle flailing behind it like a buzzbait. It rears up, turns around, grabs the paddle and takes off. The kayak jerks, the leash snaps. I slide off the back of the kayak, flip it over and get back on. I don’t even remember doing it. —As told to Paul Lebowitz
Fellow kayak anglers came quickly to Coca’s aid. He walked away with bruises and a few cuts, underlining the razor’s edge margin of his close call. In the days following the event, Coca returned to the Bean Hollow shore to meditate and pay his respects. Later, he patched the tooth holes in his battle-scarred Prowler with red epoxy. Coca figures the shark is still there, a resident that decided, “Today’s the day I check out one of those kayakers.”
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