I remember the late afternoons at Staniel Cay when we sat together on the concrete steps with a small bucket of fish scraps between us. The water below was calm and clear, and the sharks moved through it in slow, steady lines. You kept your feet pulled up tight at first, watching every shadow like it might suddenly jump. You looked so careful, so alert, and so unsure of what would happen next.

Then you noticed how gentle the nurse sharks were. They moved quietly, almost shy, with no interest in anything but the scraps drifting down. Little by little you relaxed. You started leaning forward, talking softly, letting the moment feel safe. And before long you were tossing pieces into the water, watching a shark glide up and take them with a slow, almost thoughtful slurp.

It was a small moment, but I remember it clearly. You found your courage quietly, without fuss or drama, just by being there and letting yourself trust what you saw. And I felt proud in that simple, steady way that comes when you see your kids take a step forward without even realizing it.