Is this legit?
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Roughtail Stingrays: Adventure and Awe
"Quick, Norm, quick! You've got to come and save Joel."
Judy was agitated, upset, almost desperate. Joel, who is her husband and my brother, had taken hold of a stingray and was being carried out to sea.
"He won't let go," she said tearing with concern and anxiety. "And if he doesn't, he's going to drown or be run over by a boat."
The latter was a very real possibility in Vineyard Sound, the stretch of ocean between Cape Cod and Martha's Vineyard, which is widely known as a boater's paradise. We had had several close encounters with boats over the years while swimming and snorkeling there, even when we had a dive flag with us.
However, I wasn't especially worried. I knew that Joel was a strong swimmer and an experienced hunter underwater. Furthermore, he kept close track of the tides and currents. I was glad that Judy had come to find me, but my lack of worry only frustrated her and added to her desperation.
Despite her agitation, I managed to elicit a few details from her. Joel had slipped a noose around the tail of a roughtail stingray and was hanging on to the rope. That was why, even though he wasn't using scuba gear, he didn't have to let go. Usually when a member of the family rode a stingray, it would pull him or her underwater in a jiffy. The ride was limited by how long we could hold our breath, which, due to the exertion, wasn't long at all; although we were learning that we could sometimes grasp another breath when the ray came to a stop in shallow enough water. Even so, the ray was always totally in charge. However, this time, the rope allowed Joel to remain on the surface and to breathe through his snorkel.
Judy was urgent, but I wasn't at all prepared for the water. With slow deliberate haste, I changed into a swimsuit and T-shirt, fastened my weight belt, and grabbed my snorkeling gear. Then I followed Judy the short distance down the pebbly road to the community beach.
By now Joel had dragged the stingray much of the way back to shore. When a roughtail stingray is accosted, rather than making a beeline for some distant point, it will often swim a pattern. Our previous rides sometimes brought us back to the same point, that is, if we were able to hold on long enough for the ray to complete a triangle. But this time the ray had been pulling pretty steadily outwards.
I spit into my mask to prevent fogging, rinsed it, put it on, dashed into the water, and donned my fins while submerged. Then I swam out to join Joel.
Joel indicated that he wanted me to grasp the rope, so I did. After a while it seemed that we were beginning to make steadier progress. Then our Dad swam out to join us. Shortly after he grabbed the rope, the ray stopped pulling; and we were able to haul it to shore, tail first. Joel estimated that the struggle had taken a total of nearly an hour.
Until that day, our sightings of roughtail stingrays had been an open secret. We would discretely tell people about these massive creatures, eight to fourteen feet long, which we would sometimes find in as little as three to fifteen feet of water, often with their tails curved up to the surface; but few would believe us. Long time residents would tell us that we were seeing skates, which, of course, are magnified when viewed under water; and that the visibility is low, so that mistakes of identification are easy; and so on and so on. We knew that these were not skates, and we used our own bodies to determine relative size. I was perfectly happy with not being believed, but Joel was not. He wanted to deliver proof.
As a matter of fact, Joel had been conversing with a relative about the stingrays, telling about his plan to rope one, and meeting with the usual skepticism. Joel was in the water and our relative was up on a jetty. Soon after putting his face into the water, he found this ray at the end of the jetty, almost as though it had been eavesdropping. He clutched its tail with his gloved hands and slipped the noose on, working it from his wrist down over its tail; although Judy had to bring him the rope first. So the story began.
The ray was a shade under ten feet long, from its snout to the tip of its tail -- just medium sized. I stayed near the head of the ray in the water, examining it and making sure that it could continue to breath, while Joel held its tail to make sure that nobody would be harmed.
Actually the beast showed no signs of posing any danger to anyone whatsoever, except that it seemed agitated when Dad momentarily placed his booted foot on the base of its tail. Its lack of hostile action fit our previous experience of roughtail stingrays. They are shy, gentle creatures, endowed with much curiosity. Indeed, our first experience of them had probably been many years earlier when our mother waded into the ocean and felt the sea floor lift right up under her feet. No harm. Only fright.
The beach crowd gathered round to look at the roped stingray. Some people felt the rough prickly skin, which bears small tubercles (thorns). Others took photographs. (The photos below are by Judy.) Joel pointed to the slime-covered tail spine to prove that it was in fact a stingray. Then it was time to release the creature.
We loosened the noose. I was dismayed to see a ring of rawness around the tail where the noose had been but could otherwise observe no damage. With a little help, the ray was free from the sand and low surf; and it began a slow languid swim straight out, towards the Vineyard.
Joel and I followed it for a long way. He took some underwater photographs, which are too dark and foggy to post; so here's a photograph of another roughtail stingray underwater, which he took.
When the boat traffic started to pose a serious danger, we turned around and fought our way through the current back to shore to meet a welcome as the celebrities of the moment.
The roughtail stingray (dasyatis centroura), which is also known as the northern stingray, is one of the largest of all stingrays, growing to fourteen feet long and seven feet wide. Alfred Perlmutter's Guide to Marine Fishes (1961) mentions a seven-foot wide specimen that weighed 350 pounds. It is similar to the southern stingray (dasyatis americana), which is often illustrated in field guides in place of the roughtail, as, for instance, in The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Fishes, Whales, and Dolphins (1983).
Individuals vary considerably. Even in murky water, size, sex, and coloration can help differentiate individuals. Frequently portions of tails are missing or scarring can be observed.
Apparently roughtail stingrays, like manatees, have occasional run-ins with propellers. This might be expected given their habits of frequenting shallows and curving their tails up to the surface. (Are they measuring thermoclines? sensing movement? communicating moods?)
I have rarely if ever seen two individuals at once. Water visibility seldom allows that. But I have seen up to three individuals in the same vicinity within half an hour or so, which suggests that these are not solitary animals.
Sightings are rare. It may take two weeks of searching by half a dozen people to have just one brief sighting, even when we know that the rays are close.
We can tell that the rays are nearby in a number of ways. Sometimes we can hear them shifting sand and crunching shells (at least, I presume it's shells they're crunching). Sometimes we dive through clouds of sand and debris that they have just stirred up while passing through. Occasionally pilot fish will abandon rays for a while and follow us instead. These, of course, are transient signs.
Easier to find and less transient are their pits, which the stingrays dig hydraulically (so the Peterson Field Guide says) in order to nab edible creatures hidden in the sand. Pits are also made by horseshoe crabs, conches, and scup. It's sometimes hard to tell the difference between the different pits, and a pit made by one creature may be taken over by a different kind of creature.
However, experience can clue a person in to tell-tale signs, especially when the pits are fresh. Horseshoe crabs leave distinctive trail marks; conches can generally be found buried at the bottoms of their pits; and the nests of scup tend to have a settled look; whereas stingray pits tend to have an empty blown-out look.
Coming upon a roughtail stingray in the wild is an awesome experience. Even in my most recent sighting, which was last August (1997), my breath was momentarily taken away; I threw out my arms and legs to come to a complete halt in the water; and I just hovered over the head of the still creature, taking in its massive magnificence. Only after a while of summoning up my courage and overcoming my tendency to be a detached observer did I carefully swing around to grab its tail and hitch a brief exhilarating ride. (I estimated the ray's length to be eight to nine feet, with another foot of tail missing.) I hung on until the ray came to a dead stop. Then I floated to the surface to catch a breath. But in order to do so, I had to release one hand. At that moment the beast powered off and slipped through my other hand, not to be found again.
I wear gloves in the water to protect against barnacles and crab bites and such things, but also for these occasions. Without gloves, my hands would have been torn to shreds.
Our questions about the rays abound.
We have been quite taken with these wonderful creatures. I hope that more will be done to examine their habits in the wild and that roughtail stingrays will thrive for as long as the oceans exist!
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Roughtail Stingrays: Adventure and Awe
A True Story
By Norman E. Anderson
With Photographs by Joel and Judy Anderson
By Norman E. Anderson
With Photographs by Joel and Judy Anderson
"Quick, Norm, quick! You've got to come and save Joel."
Judy was agitated, upset, almost desperate. Joel, who is her husband and my brother, had taken hold of a stingray and was being carried out to sea.
"He won't let go," she said tearing with concern and anxiety. "And if he doesn't, he's going to drown or be run over by a boat."
The latter was a very real possibility in Vineyard Sound, the stretch of ocean between Cape Cod and Martha's Vineyard, which is widely known as a boater's paradise. We had had several close encounters with boats over the years while swimming and snorkeling there, even when we had a dive flag with us.
However, I wasn't especially worried. I knew that Joel was a strong swimmer and an experienced hunter underwater. Furthermore, he kept close track of the tides and currents. I was glad that Judy had come to find me, but my lack of worry only frustrated her and added to her desperation.
Despite her agitation, I managed to elicit a few details from her. Joel had slipped a noose around the tail of a roughtail stingray and was hanging on to the rope. That was why, even though he wasn't using scuba gear, he didn't have to let go. Usually when a member of the family rode a stingray, it would pull him or her underwater in a jiffy. The ride was limited by how long we could hold our breath, which, due to the exertion, wasn't long at all; although we were learning that we could sometimes grasp another breath when the ray came to a stop in shallow enough water. Even so, the ray was always totally in charge. However, this time, the rope allowed Joel to remain on the surface and to breathe through his snorkel.
Judy was urgent, but I wasn't at all prepared for the water. With slow deliberate haste, I changed into a swimsuit and T-shirt, fastened my weight belt, and grabbed my snorkeling gear. Then I followed Judy the short distance down the pebbly road to the community beach.
By now Joel had dragged the stingray much of the way back to shore. When a roughtail stingray is accosted, rather than making a beeline for some distant point, it will often swim a pattern. Our previous rides sometimes brought us back to the same point, that is, if we were able to hold on long enough for the ray to complete a triangle. But this time the ray had been pulling pretty steadily outwards.
I spit into my mask to prevent fogging, rinsed it, put it on, dashed into the water, and donned my fins while submerged. Then I swam out to join Joel.
Joel indicated that he wanted me to grasp the rope, so I did. After a while it seemed that we were beginning to make steadier progress. Then our Dad swam out to join us. Shortly after he grabbed the rope, the ray stopped pulling; and we were able to haul it to shore, tail first. Joel estimated that the struggle had taken a total of nearly an hour.
Until that day, our sightings of roughtail stingrays had been an open secret. We would discretely tell people about these massive creatures, eight to fourteen feet long, which we would sometimes find in as little as three to fifteen feet of water, often with their tails curved up to the surface; but few would believe us. Long time residents would tell us that we were seeing skates, which, of course, are magnified when viewed under water; and that the visibility is low, so that mistakes of identification are easy; and so on and so on. We knew that these were not skates, and we used our own bodies to determine relative size. I was perfectly happy with not being believed, but Joel was not. He wanted to deliver proof.
As a matter of fact, Joel had been conversing with a relative about the stingrays, telling about his plan to rope one, and meeting with the usual skepticism. Joel was in the water and our relative was up on a jetty. Soon after putting his face into the water, he found this ray at the end of the jetty, almost as though it had been eavesdropping. He clutched its tail with his gloved hands and slipped the noose on, working it from his wrist down over its tail; although Judy had to bring him the rope first. So the story began.
The ray was a shade under ten feet long, from its snout to the tip of its tail -- just medium sized. I stayed near the head of the ray in the water, examining it and making sure that it could continue to breath, while Joel held its tail to make sure that nobody would be harmed.
Actually the beast showed no signs of posing any danger to anyone whatsoever, except that it seemed agitated when Dad momentarily placed his booted foot on the base of its tail. Its lack of hostile action fit our previous experience of roughtail stingrays. They are shy, gentle creatures, endowed with much curiosity. Indeed, our first experience of them had probably been many years earlier when our mother waded into the ocean and felt the sea floor lift right up under her feet. No harm. Only fright.
The beach crowd gathered round to look at the roped stingray. Some people felt the rough prickly skin, which bears small tubercles (thorns). Others took photographs. (The photos below are by Judy.) Joel pointed to the slime-covered tail spine to prove that it was in fact a stingray. Then it was time to release the creature.
Joel and I followed it for a long way. He took some underwater photographs, which are too dark and foggy to post; so here's a photograph of another roughtail stingray underwater, which he took.
The roughtail stingray (dasyatis centroura), which is also known as the northern stingray, is one of the largest of all stingrays, growing to fourteen feet long and seven feet wide. Alfred Perlmutter's Guide to Marine Fishes (1961) mentions a seven-foot wide specimen that weighed 350 pounds. It is similar to the southern stingray (dasyatis americana), which is often illustrated in field guides in place of the roughtail, as, for instance, in The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Fishes, Whales, and Dolphins (1983).
Individuals vary considerably. Even in murky water, size, sex, and coloration can help differentiate individuals. Frequently portions of tails are missing or scarring can be observed.
Apparently roughtail stingrays, like manatees, have occasional run-ins with propellers. This might be expected given their habits of frequenting shallows and curving their tails up to the surface. (Are they measuring thermoclines? sensing movement? communicating moods?)
I have rarely if ever seen two individuals at once. Water visibility seldom allows that. But I have seen up to three individuals in the same vicinity within half an hour or so, which suggests that these are not solitary animals.
Sightings are rare. It may take two weeks of searching by half a dozen people to have just one brief sighting, even when we know that the rays are close.
We can tell that the rays are nearby in a number of ways. Sometimes we can hear them shifting sand and crunching shells (at least, I presume it's shells they're crunching). Sometimes we dive through clouds of sand and debris that they have just stirred up while passing through. Occasionally pilot fish will abandon rays for a while and follow us instead. These, of course, are transient signs.
Easier to find and less transient are their pits, which the stingrays dig hydraulically (so the Peterson Field Guide says) in order to nab edible creatures hidden in the sand. Pits are also made by horseshoe crabs, conches, and scup. It's sometimes hard to tell the difference between the different pits, and a pit made by one creature may be taken over by a different kind of creature.
However, experience can clue a person in to tell-tale signs, especially when the pits are fresh. Horseshoe crabs leave distinctive trail marks; conches can generally be found buried at the bottoms of their pits; and the nests of scup tend to have a settled look; whereas stingray pits tend to have an empty blown-out look.
Coming upon a roughtail stingray in the wild is an awesome experience. Even in my most recent sighting, which was last August (1997), my breath was momentarily taken away; I threw out my arms and legs to come to a complete halt in the water; and I just hovered over the head of the still creature, taking in its massive magnificence. Only after a while of summoning up my courage and overcoming my tendency to be a detached observer did I carefully swing around to grab its tail and hitch a brief exhilarating ride. (I estimated the ray's length to be eight to nine feet, with another foot of tail missing.) I hung on until the ray came to a dead stop. Then I floated to the surface to catch a breath. But in order to do so, I had to release one hand. At that moment the beast powered off and slipped through my other hand, not to be found again.
I wear gloves in the water to protect against barnacles and crab bites and such things, but also for these occasions. Without gloves, my hands would have been torn to shreds.
Our questions about the rays abound.
- Where do the rays go at night? Joel and I have no idea, except we suspect that they bury themselves in the sand. We have looked and looked for them without finding any trace.
- Do the rays migrate seasonally? We strongly suspect so but know little about that. McClane's New Standard Fishing Encyclopedia (1974) says that "Warm temperatures bring them into the Middle Atlantic area from June to October, and thereafter they move offshore into deeper water."
- What is the daily range of the individuals that we see? Again, we have no idea, except that it is much bigger than our swimming range.
- What is the role of the rays in marine ecology? They obviously have a significant impact, judging from the number of pits we see; but we don't have a handle on precisely what that is.
Posted, February 8, 1998; new url, January 28, 2004; last modification, January 28, 2004
Text copyright ©1998-2004 by Norman E. Anderson
Photographs copyright ©1998 by Joel and Judy Anderson
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Text copyright ©1998-2004 by Norman E. Anderson
Photographs copyright ©1998 by Joel and Judy Anderson
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