Category: Skates & Rays

  • Fall Migrations Along Onslow County

    Fall Migrations Along Onslow County

    Late August does not look much like fall along the Onslow County coast.

    The sand is still hot. Afternoon thunderstorms still build over the mainland. The ocean can remain warm enough that stepping into it hardly feels like relief.

    But beneath the surface, fall has already begun.

    Fish that spent summer scattered through sounds, creeks, reefs, and nearshore water begin gathering. Shrimp start working their way out of nursery creeks. Mature female blue crabs move toward saltier water. Schools of mullet begin appearing along the beaches. Sharks that spent the warmer months farther north or inside coastal waters begin shifting south or offshore.

    Above them, the birds begin changing too.

    Some are preparing to leave. Others are arriving from places hundreds or thousands of miles away. Still others simply become more noticeable because suddenly there is food everywhere.

    What looks from shore like a few gulls working over the water, a school of baitfish flashing beside a pier, or pelicans repeatedly diving beyond the breakers is part of something much larger.

    For a few months each fall, the food web itself begins to move.

    When the Water Begins to Change

    Animals do not wait for a date on the calendar. Along the coast, fall arrives through changes in water temperature and daylight, but also through salinity, currents, rainfall, food availability, and the timing of reproduction. Different species respond to different combinations of those signals, which means the seasonal movement beginning beneath the surface is not one migration triggered in one way.

    For some animals, cooling water begins narrowing where they can comfortably remain. King mackerel (Scomberomorus cavalla) favor warm coastal water and become less common as temperatures fall much below about 68°F, while cobia (Rachycentron canadum) begin leaving northern summer habitats as water cools through roughly the same range. Spotted seatrout (Cynoscion nebulosus) respond differently. Rather than leaving our estuaries altogether, they begin shifting toward creeks, channels, and deeper water where a few additional feet of depth can provide protection from the colder temperatures still to come (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2022; Jensen & Graves, 2020; Ellis, Buckel, & Hightower, 2017; Ellis, Buckel, Hightower, & Poland, 2017).

    King mackerel (Scomberomorus cavalla), a warm-water coastal fish that becomes less common as fall temperatures drop. | Image credit: Sylvain Le Bris, iNaturalist
    King mackerel (Scomberomorus cavalla), a warm-water coastal fish that becomes less common as fall temperatures drop. | Image credit: Sylvain Le Bris, iNaturalist

    Temperature can work together with another signal that changes every year whether the weather feels like fall or not: shortening daylight. Blacktip and sandbar sharks moving along the western Atlantic begin their southward migration as sea-surface temperatures change and the days grow shorter, leaving northern and Mid-Atlantic summer habitats and gradually shifting toward the South Atlantic Bight and Florida for winter and spring (Manz et al., 2025).

    For other animals, autumn movement is tied less to escaping cooling water than to reaching the next stage of their life cycle. Southern flounder (Paralichthys lethostigma) spend their first years in estuarine waters, where shallow sounds, rivers, and creeks provide nursery and feeding habitat. Females begin maturing surprisingly early: some are reproductively mature by age one, most by age two, and nearly all by age three. Immature fish can remain within the estuary through winter, but once mature, southern flounder begin joining the fall movement through the inlets and toward offshore spawning grounds (Midway & Scharf, 2012; Craig et al., 2015).

    That means fish of different ages can occupy the same estuary through summer and then take different paths as fall develops. A young flounder may remain behind while an older fish that spent the season feeding in the same system begins moving toward the ocean.

    So while late-August water may still feel thoroughly summerlike to someone standing waist-deep at Topsail, the animals beneath the surface are already responding to a season that is only beginning to become visible above it.

    One of the first clues may simply be a fish jumping beside you.

    The Mullet Begin to Run

    Striped, or sea, mullet (Mugil cephalus) spend much of the warmer season feeding throughout estuaries, sounds, tidal creeks, and protected coastal waters. By late summer, however, their movements begin to change. In North Carolina, striped mullet travel most actively between August and November as mature fish leave rivers, sounds, and tidal creeks for marine spawning habitat. Their journey carries them through the inlets and offshore into the South Atlantic Bight, with spawning habitat extending from nearshore waters toward the outer continental shelf where shelf water meets the influence of the Gulf Stream (Bacheler et al., 2005). For fish that spent the summer inside an estuary, that is a considerable change in geography, but still a relatively regional migration compared with species that will later continue much farther south along the Atlantic coast.

    Striped mullet (Mugil cephalus) schooling in shallow coastal water. | Image credit: rangerval, iNaturalist
    Striped mullet (Mugil cephalus) schooling in shallow coastal water. | Image credit: rangerval, iNaturalist

    They begin making that seasonal journey relatively young. About half of North Carolina striped mullet are reproductively mature by age one, although maturity varies among individuals, and older adults may return to estuarine habitats after spawning. Rather than leaving the estuary permanently as they mature, they move between estuarine feeding grounds and marine spawning habitat as part of a seasonal cycle (Bichy, 2004; Bacheler et al., 2005).

    For beachgoers, this can become one of the easiest fall migrations to notice. Fish that spent summer spread through rivers, creeks, and sounds begin collecting into increasingly conspicuous schools as they move toward inlets and coastal water. Once along the ocean beach, dense schools may travel remarkably close to shore, sometimes darkening the shallows or stretching along the surf zone beyond what can be seen from one spot. Mullet are frequent jumpers as well, so a school may first reveal itself as silver fish repeatedly breaking the surface.
    By the time those schools reach the inlet and beach, they are carrying more than themselves with them. Striped mullet feed low in the food web, consuming algae, detritus, and organic material associated with estuarine sediments. As thousands of them move out of the estuary, that stored production moves with them and becomes available to the larger fishes, sharks, and birds that feed along the coast (Bacheler et al., 2005).

    Those predators are already moving through the same corridor. Bluefish (Pomatomus saltatrix) feed heavily on schooling fishes such as mullet, menhaden, and silversides. Spanish mackerel (Scomberomorus maculatus) work schools of anchovies and other small baitfish, while blacktip sharks (Carcharhinus limbatus) and spinner sharks (Carcharhinus brevipinna) take advantage of dense concentrations of coastal prey.

    The fall mullet run is therefore more than thousands of fish leaving an estuary. It is estuarine production moving through the inlet and onto the beach, where it begins to intersect with predators following their own seasonal routes.

    That intersection is what makes the migration suddenly visible. A school that might otherwise pass unnoticed can tighten near shore as bluefish, mackerel, sharks, and birds begin responding to the same moving concentration of prey.

    Spanish Mackerel, Bluefish, and the Surface Chase

    Sometimes the easiest way to find a migration is not to look for the animals themselves, but for what happens to the water when they arrive.

    Spanish mackerel (Scomberomorus maculatus) spend the warmer months moving north along the Atlantic coast, reaching North Carolina in spring and remaining through summer and early fall while coastal water stays above roughly 68°F. As that warm-water window begins closing, they turn south again toward winter habitat off Florida, feeding heavily along the way on anchovies, silversides, menhaden, mullet, and other small schooling fishes (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2026; Sutherland & Fable, 1980).

    Spanish mackerel (Scomberomorus maculatus) traveling in a dense school. | Image credit: Shutterstock
    Spanish mackerel (Scomberomorus maculatus) traveling in a dense school. | Image credit: Shutterstock

    Bluefish (Pomatomus saltatrix) are moving through the same changing coast, but their fall pattern varies with age. Smaller bluefish tend to migrate south along the shoreline as water cools, while larger adults make more of an inshore-to-offshore shift. Farther north, fall movement begins as water drops into roughly the mid-50s Fahrenheit, gradually carrying fish into the warmer coastal waters to the south (Lund & Maltezos, 1970).
    By the time those movements reach the Carolina coast, they are crossing water already crowded with prey. Anchovies, silversides, juvenile menhaden, and other tiny schooling fishes—many of the fishes beachgoers collectively call “glass minnows”—can become compressed near the surface, and even wash onto shore, as mackerel and bluefish strike through the schools from below.

    Little tunny (Euthynnus alletteratus), better known locally as false albacore, can join that fall activity around inlets and nearshore waters as well. They too make seasonal movements along the Atlantic coast, shifting north through the warmer part of the year and south again through fall and winter while feeding in fast-moving schools (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2026).

    Little tunny (Euthynnus alletteratus), also known as false albacore, moving in a feeding school. | Image credit: aurelpap, iNaturalist
    Little tunny (Euthynnus alletteratus), also known as false albacore, moving in a feeding school. | Image credit: aurelpap, iNaturalist

    From the beach, separating one predator from another may be nearly impossible. What becomes visible instead is the chase. A patch of otherwise smooth ocean suddenly begins to boil as tiny fish scatter across the surface. Gulls and terns converge overhead, pelicans turn toward the commotion, and dark backs or silver flashes cut through the school below.

    Sometimes the entire event moves several hundred yards down the beach within minutes.

    And the animals doing the chasing are still part of the food web themselves. Spanish mackerel and bluefish may be predators here, but both can become prey for larger sharks and tunas farther up the same moving chain. A small fish feeding on plankton becomes food for a mackerel; that mackerel may later become food for a shark.

    Fall has compressed several levels of the food web into the same patch of water, and for a few minutes the whole thing becomes visible from shore.

    The Sharks Following Fall

    Shark migration can sound dramatic because sharks are dramatic animals.

    Ecologically, however, their fall movements make perfect sense. Food is moving, water temperature is changing, nursery seasons are ending, and remaining in shallow water becomes increasingly expensive for animals whose body temperature largely follows the environment around them.

    Blacktip sharks (Carcharhinus limbatus) and spinner sharks (Carcharhinus brevipinna) are warm-water coastal sharks frequently associated with schools of mullet, menhaden, and other fishes.

    Blacktip (Carcharhinus limbatus) and spinner sharks (Carcharhinus brevipinna) can look very similar; fin markings and body proportions help separate the two. | Image credit: Bowers & Kaijiura, 2023
    Blacktip (Carcharhinus limbatus) and spinner sharks (Carcharhinus brevipinna) can look very similar; fin markings and body proportions help separate the two. | Image credit: Bowers & Kaijiura, 2023

    As coastal waters cool, these highly mobile sharks begin shifting south. For blacktips, that can mean a substantial journey: sharks that spent the warmer months along the Carolinas and farther north move down the Atlantic coast toward Florida, with large winter aggregations forming in the warm coastal waters of southeast Florida. Spinner sharks also shift south as autumn progresses, although exactly how their seasonal routes connect Carolina summer habitat with winter habitat farther south is less clearly understood (Manz et al., 2025).
    Their movement is not caused by prey alone. Temperature and the gradually shortening length of the day contribute to the timing of autumn migration, while concentrations of prey can influence where sharks pause and feed along the route (Manz et al., 2025). That shortening daylight is the actual span between sunrise and sunset—not the hour shown on our clocks. The gradual loss of daylight from late summer into fall provides a predictable seasonal signal even when water temperatures vary from one year to the next.

    The shallow coastal habitats these sharks use during migration are also important much earlier in life. Blacktip pups are born in protected nursery areas away from most adults, and young sharks can remain associated with shallow coastal habitat for several years as they grow. Males generally reach maturity around four to five years old, while females mature closer to six or seven; spinner sharks follow a similarly slow timetable, with females maturing later than males (Carlson et al., 2006; NOAA Fisheries, 2017).

    That means the shallow water along the coast is not simply a birthplace young sharks immediately leave behind. It can remain part of their world through several juvenile years before the broader seasonal movements of adulthood become established. Exactly how strongly young sharks remain connected to individual nursery areas is still being studied, but nursery habitat can shape where they spend some of the most vulnerable years of their lives (Heupel et al., 2007; NOAA Fisheries, 2017, 2024).

    Around New River Inlet and the beaches of Topsail, those later seasonal movements begin intersecting with the migrations already underway. Schools of mullet, Spanish mackerel, and other coastal fishes can create concentrated feeding opportunities along the same corridor, and both blacktips and spinner sharks may breach during fast pursuits, with spinner sharks sometimes twisting through the air in the leaps that gave the species its name (Bangley, 2014).

    A beachgoer watching a fall bait ball may therefore be seeing several stages of the coastal food web converge in the same narrow stretch of water.

    Atlantic sharpnose sharks (Rhizoprionodon terraenovae) use shallow coastal waters, sounds, bays, and estuaries throughout the warmer months. Adults are generally only a few feet long and feed on small fishes, shrimp, crabs, squid, and other coastal prey (Bethea et al., 2006; Roskar et al., 2024).

    Their fall movement is much smaller in scale than the southward migration of blacktips. During summer, Atlantic sharpnose are abundant in the shallow nearshore waters of Onslow Bay, where both immature and mature sharks occur and pups are likely born. As autumn progresses, they become less common in those shallow areas and shift toward deeper coastal habitat. Adults have even been found using offshore wrecks in North Carolina during winter before returning toward shallower water in spring (Roskar et al., 2024).

    So for Atlantic sharpnose, fall may mean moving offshore without leaving the region entirely. Predation does not disappear from the coastal food web; it simply shifts into a different part of it.

    Atlantic sharpnose shark (Rhizoprionodon terraenovae), a small coastal shark common in North Carolina’s warmer months. | Image credit: Virginia Institute of Marine Science
    Atlantic sharpnose shark (Rhizoprionodon terraenovae), a small coastal shark common in North Carolina’s warmer months. | Image credit: Virginia Institute of Marine Science

    Sandbar sharks (Carcharhinus plumbeus) show how different that scale can become. Young sandbars spend the warmer months in shallow nursery habitat farther north along the Mid-Atlantic, then move offshore and south during late September and October. Many repeat that seasonal route for several years as juveniles, wintering from North Carolina toward Florida before returning north in spring. As they grow, the journey expands, with older sandbars ranging from southern New England to Florida and Cuba (Merson & Pratt, 2001; McCandless et al., 2007; Kohler et al., 1998).

    Their autumn departure is tied closely to cooling water and shortening day length, while prey encountered along the route determines where they may stop and feed (Manz et al., 2025).

    Sandbar sharks (Carcharhinus plumbeus), a large coastal species that shifts south and offshore as fall progresses. | Image credit: Simon Peggs, iNaturalist
    Sandbar sharks (Carcharhinus plumbeus), a large coastal species that shifts south and offshore as fall progresses. | Image credit: Simon Peggs, iNaturalist

    Off Onslow County, artificial reefs and natural hard-bottom habitats add patches of structure to that broader migration corridor. AR-342, the Onslow Bay Saltwater Fishing Club Reef, lies in about 49 feet of water and is one such patch where fishes and other prey can concentrate along the shelf (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2017).

    A reef does not have to be an animal’s destination to matter. Sometimes it is simply a place to feed before the migration continues.

    AR-342, the Onslow Bay Saltwater Fishing Club Reef, shown within the nearshore reef network off Onslow County. | Image credit: NC Division of Marine Fisheries
    AR-342, the Onslow Bay Saltwater Fishing Club Reef, shown within the nearshore reef network off Onslow County. | Image credit: NC Division of Marine Fisheries

    Cobia and the Last Warm-Water Feeding

    Cobia (Rachycentron canadum) are another warm-season visitor beginning to run out of time. During spring and summer they move north along the Atlantic coast, using coastal and offshore waters from the Carolinas into Chesapeake Bay and farther north. They favor warm water, generally around 68–86°F, and as autumn temperatures begin slipping toward the lower end of that range, they start shifting offshore and south toward warmer winter habitat (Jensen & Graves, 2020).

    Cobia (Rachycentron canadum), a warm-water coastal fish that begins shifting offshore and south as autumn temperatures cool. | Image credit: georgeh04, iNaturalist
    Cobia (Rachycentron canadum), a warm-water coastal fish that begins shifting offshore and south as autumn temperatures cool. | Image credit: georgeh04, iNaturalist

    That places coastal North Carolina somewhere in the middle of the journey. The cobia moving through our waters are not necessarily arriving for winter or leaving from a summer home here. 

    For many, this stretch of coast is part of the route between the two.

    Along the way, structure matters. Buoys, wrecks, reefs, and artificial reefs can gather baitfish and other prey into small pockets of activity in otherwise open water, giving a traveling cobia a place to feed before continuing south (Jensen & Graves, 2020). A reef that holds feeding cobia may also be busy with reef fishes, passing mackerel, schools of bait, and other predators using the same patch of water for their own reasons.

    By fall, the coast begins to feel less like a collection of separate habitats and more like a series of connected stopping places along the migration route.

    Flounder Leave Through the Bottom

    Not every migration announces itself at the surface. Some of the most important fall movement in Onslow County happens quietly along the bottom.

    Southern (left) and summer flounder (right) both spend much of their early lives over shallow estuarine and coastal bottoms before mature fish move offshore to spawn. | Image credits: J. Weferling, iNaturalist (left); harrier, iNaturalist (right)Southern (left) and summer flounder (right) both spend much of their early lives over shallow estuarine and coastal bottoms before mature fish move offshore to spawn. | Image credits: J. Weferling, iNaturalist (left); harrier, iNaturalist (right)
    Southern (left) and summer flounder (right) both spend much of their early lives over shallow estuarine and coastal bottoms before mature fish move offshore to spawn. | Image credits: J. Weferling, iNaturalist (left); harrier, iNaturalist (right)

    Southern flounder (Paralichthys lethostigma) spend the first years of their lives inside estuaries, lying over mud, sand, oyster habitat, creek bottoms, and other shallow nursery and feeding areas where they prey on fish and crustaceans. In North Carolina, many females begin reaching reproductive maturity around ages one to two and roughly 16 inches in length, although growth and maturity vary considerably among individual fish (Midway & Scharf, 2012).
    That means a southern flounder can spend years growing within the estuary before ever contributing to the offshore spawning population. Immature fish may remain within estuarine waters through winter, while mature fish begin leaving in fall for offshore spawning habitat. Fish encountered farther offshore tend to be larger and older, while younger fish remain more closely associated with the sounds, rivers, and creeks where they grew (Craig et al., 2015).
    A fish that spent its first years nearly invisible beneath New River mud can suddenly become part of an offshore migration.

    Summer flounder (Paralichthys dentatus) make a similar outward journey, although their early life follows a slightly different timetable. Larvae and juveniles use coastal bays, sounds, and estuaries as nursery habitat for roughly their first 18 to 20 months, and most reach reproductive maturity around age two to three. In the South Atlantic Bight, about half are mature by roughly 11 to 12 inches total length, although females generally mature at a somewhat larger size than males (Packer, 1999).

    Like southern flounder, they spend their younger years feeding and growing in protected coastal habitat before mature fish begin moving offshore in fall toward continental-shelf spawning grounds. By then, the fish leaving the estuary are not simply larger versions of the juveniles that remain behind; they are the part of the population capable of producing the next generation.
    So the two flatfish a beachgoer might easily confuse are doing something remarkably similar at this time of year. Both spend their younger years in shallow coastal and estuarine nursery habitat, and both eventually move offshore to spawn. What differs is the timing—how quickly they mature, how long they remain closely tied to those nursery grounds, and where along the coast each species is most concentrated.

    The Fall Runs Gather Nearshore

    The familiar fishes around piers change with fall too.

    Spot (Leiostomus xanthurus) and Atlantic croaker (Micropogonias undulatus) spend important parts of their early lives inside estuaries, feeding over sandy and muddy bottoms on worms, small crustaceans, organic material, and other small prey (Warlen & Burke, 1990; Ross, 1988)

    Atlantic croaker (Micropogonias undulatus) and spot (Leiostomus xanthurus), two familiar estuarine fishes that move toward coastal spawning waters in fall.  | Image credit: C. Dzbanski
    Atlantic croaker (Micropogonias undulatus) and spot (Leiostomus xanthurus), two familiar estuarine fishes that move toward coastal spawning waters in fall. | Image credit: C. Dzbanski

    Spot remain closely tied to estuarine nursery habitat through their first year, gradually moving into deeper and saltier parts of the system as they grow. By fall, the larger fish begin gathering closer to channels, inlets, and the ocean before continuing toward offshore spawning grounds south of Cape Hatteras. There, spawning continues through fall and winter in substantially warmer shelf water, roughly 63–77°F, with the strongest activity around 68°F (Warlen & Chester, 1985; Allen et al., 2024).

    Atlantic croaker follow a similar route on a slightly different schedule. Young croaker enter low-salinity estuarine nursery areas after being spawned offshore, then grow rapidly through their first year. As fall develops, many begin moving back toward open coastal water, with the spawning migration beginning as early as September and continuing into winter (White & Chittenden, 1977; Norcross & Austin, 1988).

    Weakfish (Cynoscion regalis) join that same seasonal pull toward the coast. Through spring and summer they use sounds, estuaries, and nearshore habitat, feeding heavily on shrimp, crustaceans, and smaller fishes. As autumn water cools toward about 75°F, they begin gathering and shifting offshore and south; during warmer years, some linger longer before making that move (Krause et al., 2020).

    Weakfish (Cynoscion regalis), a fall migrant along the Atlantic coast and currently listed as Endangered on the IUCN Red List. | Image credit: aiden007, iNaturalist
    Weakfish (Cynoscion regalis), a fall migrant along the Atlantic coast and currently listed as Endangered on the IUCN Red List. | Image credit: aiden007, iNaturalist

    By this point in fall, fishes that spent summer scattered through different parts of the estuary are beginning to converge along the same channels, inlets, and nearshore corridor. The movement is outward, but not entirely.

    While larger spot and croaker are leaving for offshore spawning grounds, their next generation is already beginning the opposite journey. Larvae produced offshore in fall and winter can begin entering North Carolina estuaries by late fall and early winter, with that inward movement continuing through spring (Warlen & Burke, 1990; Allen et al., 2024).

    So even as one generation moves out through the inlet, another is beginning to come back in.

    The Fish That Stay—but Change Address

    Migration does not always mean leaving Onslow County. For some fishes, fall means finding a different part of the same estuary.

    Spotted seatrout (Cynoscion nebulosus), or speckled trout, remain in coastal North Carolina through winter, but they do not necessarily stay where they spent August. As the shallow sounds and creek edges cool, trout begin gathering around channels, deeper holes, creek mouths, and other places where a few extra feet of water can provide more stable temperatures.

    Spotted seatrout (Cynoscion nebulosus) moving through shallow coastal water before shifting toward deeper winter habitat as temperatures fall. | Image credit: charliew82, iNaturalist
    Spotted seatrout (Cynoscion nebulosus) moving through shallow coastal water before shifting toward deeper winter habitat as temperatures fall. | Image credit: charliew82, iNaturalist

    That difference becomes increasingly important as winter approaches. Spotted seatrout begin showing cold stress when water falls below about 45°F, and prolonged periods below roughly 44.6°F can produce substantial winter mortality in North Carolina. Deeper sections of an estuary can remain slightly warmer during a severe cold event, giving fish somewhere to retreat when the shallows become too cold (Ellis, Buckel, & Hightower, 2017; Ellis, Buckel, Hightower, & Poland, 2017).

    So the autumn congregation of trout around creek mouths, bridge structure, channels, and deep holes is more than a change in where they happen to be feeding. By fall, they are beginning to settle into the parts of the estuary that may carry them through winter.

    Black drum (Pogonias cromis) reorganize themselves through fall as well, although their movement depends partly on age. Young black drum spend their first year within estuaries, feeding over mud, sand, oyster habitat, and other bottoms rich in worms, small crustaceans, and mollusks. As they grow, they begin using saltier water and deeper coastal habitat, while larger fish are often associated with oyster bars, bridge and dock pilings, channels, and other structure where clams, oysters, crabs, and other bottom prey collect (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2026).

    Black drum (Pogonias cromis) use estuaries when young, then shift toward deeper, saltier water as they grow and fall progresses. | Image credit: zachs, iNaturalist
    Black drum (Pogonias cromis) use estuaries when young, then shift toward deeper, saltier water as they grow and fall progresses. | Image credit: zachs, iNaturalist

    By late fall, black drum generally shift away from the shallowest summer habitat toward deeper bays, sounds, channels, and offshore water. Unlike spotted seatrout, there is not one well-defined temperature at which that movement begins. Instead, cooling water gradually changes where suitable feeding and winter habitat remain available, with older fish tending to range farther toward high-salinity and offshore waters (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2026).

    A piling or oyster bar that held one mix of fishes through summer may still be occupied in November, but by a different combination of animals using the same structure for colder-water feeding and refuge.

    The habitat has not disappeared. Its seasonal community has changed.

    Shrimp Begin Pouring Out of the Creeks

    Some of the most important migrants along the Onslow County coast are only a few inches long.

    White shrimp (Litopenaeus setiferus), locally called greentails, spend much of their early lives inside estuarine nursery habitat. They grow rapidly in warm water, and once they reach only about 0.8 to 1.2 inches long, they begin leaving the shallowest marsh habitat for deeper creeks, rivers, bays, and sounds. By late summer and fall, larger young shrimp—often around 4.7 inches or more—are moving farther downstream toward channels, inlets, and ultimately the ocean (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2023).

    White shrimp (Litopenaeus setiferus) grow quickly in estuarine nurseries before moving downstream toward sounds, inlets, and coastal water in late summer and fall. | Image credit: portulaca, iNaturalist
    White shrimp (Litopenaeus setiferus) grow quickly in estuarine nurseries before moving downstream toward sounds, inlets, and coastal water in late summer and fall. | Image credit: portulaca, iNaturalist

    Cooling water helps drive that progression, but rainfall can accelerate it. Heavy freshwater input lowers estuarine salinity and can push shrimp downstream and toward the ocean before they otherwise would have left. That means a wet fall and a dry fall do not necessarily produce the same migration (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2023).

    The shrimp are responding to an estuary that is changing around them, and almost everything seems interested in eating them. Flounder, speckled trout, red drum, weakfish, sharks, wading birds, and humans all take advantage of shrimp as they move through the coastal food web (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2023).

    A strong outward movement of white shrimp is therefore not merely a shrimp migration. It is a moving food resource.

    When those shrimp leave marsh creeks and spread toward the sound and inlet, predators that were previously separated begin encountering the same pulse of prey in increasingly narrow parts of the estuary.

    The estuary briefly becomes a funnel.

    The Blue Crabs Take Different Roads

    Blue crabs (Callinectes sapidus) complicate the idea of a single fall migration even further because males and females do not necessarily go the same direction.

    Blue crab (Callinectes sapidus) in shallow estuarine habitat; mature females eventually move toward saltier water and coastal spawning areas. | Image credit: lenora_irene, iNaturalist
    Blue crab (Callinectes sapidus) in shallow estuarine habitat; mature females eventually move toward saltier water and coastal spawning areas. | Image credit: lenora_irene, iNaturalist

    Adult males generally remain farther upriver in lower-salinity water, while mature females move toward saltier portions of the estuary and eventually toward inlet and coastal spawning habitat. Females can travel considerable distances during this migration, using salinity gradients, tides, and currents to move toward the high-salinity water needed for spawning (Bell & Eggleston, 2023; Forward et al., 2003).

    That split makes sense once their life cycle is considered. Females typically mate in brackish estuarine water, then store sperm until they are ready to produce an egg mass. As spawning approaches, they move toward the lower estuary and inlet, where much saltier water provides the conditions their developing larvae need. Eggs hatch near the mouth of the estuary or just beyond it, and the larvae are carried offshore before later returning toward the coast as postlarvae (Forward et al., 2003; Epifanio, 2019).

    The same inlet therefore serves two directions of the blue crab life cycle: mature females move outward toward spawning water, while a later generation is carried back toward estuarine nursery habitat.

    For a blue crab, the difference between a brackish river and a salty inlet is not simply scenery. One supports mating and much of adult life, while the other provides the salinity needed to begin the next generation.

    A single life cycle requires both.

    Rays Begin Leaving the Shallows

    Large dark wings moving beneath clear water are among the more obvious signs that rays are using shallow coastal habitat during summer. By fall, where those rays appear—and how they move through the coast—begins to change.

    Cownose rays (Rhinoptera bonasus) are highly mobile schooling rays that use North Carolina sounds, estuaries, and nearshore waters during the warmer months. Through summer they may be scattered across that habitat, sometimes appearing alone or in small groups over shallow flats and sounds. As fall develops, rays that have been using North Carolina estuaries begin moving toward the ocean side, while migrants arriving from farther north join the same southbound corridor along the Carolina coast.

    That is when larger schools can become more noticeable along the beaches and nearshore waters. Their movement continues south toward winter habitat off Florida, with cooling water helping shape when they leave northern and estuarine habitats (Goodman et al., 2010; Omori & Fisher, 2017; Bangley et al., 2021).

    Cownose rays (Rhinoptera bonasus) traveling in a school, a familiar sight as they gather and move along the coast in fall. | Image credit: Chesapeake Bay Program
    Cownose rays (Rhinoptera bonasus) traveling in a school, a familiar sight as they gather and move along the coast in fall. | Image credit: Chesapeake Bay Program

    For someone watching from Topsail, the rays seen scattered through the sound during summer can become part of something much larger by fall. A few dark wings moving over an estuarine flat may give way to schools traveling along the ocean side as North Carolina becomes part of the passage between northern summer waters and winter habitat farther south.

    Southern stingrays (Hypanus americanus) make a quieter seasonal shift. Their summer presence along North Carolina is part of a much older warm-season pattern, with southern stingrays historically documented moving north along the Carolina coast as warmer water expands their usable habitat (Coles, 1913).

    Southern stingray (Hypanus americanus) resting on the seafloor, where this bottom-oriented ray remains closely tied to benthic habitat even as it shifts seasonally. | Image credit: © Steve M. Schelb
    Southern stingray (Hypanus americanus) resting on the seafloor, where this bottom-oriented ray remains closely tied to benthic habitat even as it shifts seasonally. | Image credit: © Steve M. Schelb

    Unlike cownose rays traveling in schools higher in the water column, southern stingrays remain closely tied to the bottom. Through summer, they can be a familiar sight moving over warm sand and mud flats, along creek mouths, and through shallow estuarine water as they search the bottom for worms, bivalves, shrimp, crabs, and small fishes. Even when they move between habitats, much of that movement remains along or just above the benthic surface rather than through open water (Gilliam & Sullivan, 1993; Tilley et al., 2013).

    As the shallow flats cool through fall, they become less common in the places where beachgoers may have seen them repeatedly through July and August. Their seasonal movement is not mapped nearly as clearly in North Carolina as that of cownose rays, so we cannot point to one temperature or one offshore route. What we can say is that southern stingrays are capable of moving between shallow flats and considerably deeper bottom habitat while remaining closely associated with the seafloor (Coles, 1913; Corcoran et al., 2013).

    For someone watching the shallows, that change may simply look like absence. The stingray that repeatedly crossed the same warm flat all summer is suddenly harder to find—not because it has joined a large southbound school above the bottom, but because its usable benthic habitat has shifted beyond the shallows where it was easiest to see.

    Red Drum Gather at the Edges

    Red drum (Sciaenops ocellatus), and our state fish, add another layer to the fall movement. Young fish spend their first years closely tied to estuaries, growing quickly from roughly 12 to 14 inches by their first birthday to more than 27 inches during their second full year. They do not reach reproductive maturity quite as quickly, however. In North Carolina, most become mature around ages three to four, when they are roughly 30 to 36 inches long (Ross et al., 1995).

    Red drum (Sciaenops ocellatus) grow in estuaries when young, while larger adults gather around inlets and nearshore waters during late-summer and fall spawning. | Image credit: colesutton, iNaturalist
    Red drum (Sciaenops ocellatus) grow in estuaries when young, while larger adults gather around inlets and nearshore waters during late-summer and fall spawning. | Image credit: colesutton, iNaturalist

    That difference is something a beachgoer or angler can actually see. The smaller “puppy drum” encountered along marsh edges, creeks, and sounds are still growing within the estuarine part of their life cycle, while the much larger fish appearing around beaches and inlets are increasingly part of the adult population that spends more time in coastal and ocean waters.
    By late summer and early fall, mature red drum gather around inlets, beaches, and nearshore waters, where spawning and feeding can overlap. In North Carolina, spawning occurs from August into early October near barrier-island inlets and adjacent coastal waters. During that same period, adults move more actively between estuarine and ocean habitats (Ross et al., 1995; Bacheler et al., 2009).

    That puts a large red drum outside New River Inlet directly into the same corridor carrying mullet, menhaden, shrimp, spot, croaker, and other prey toward the ocean. It may be there to spawn, to feed, or simply because its own seasonal movement has brought it into the same narrow stretch of coast.

    As fall gives way to winter, mature adults increasingly move into ocean waters where temperatures remain more moderate, while younger red drum are much more likely to remain behind in the estuary (Stewart & Scharf, 2008).

    The Offshore Visitors Come Close

    Fall also brings some animals toward the coast before eventually carrying them away.

    King mackerel (Scomberomorus cavalla) are warm-water fish that seldom move into water much below about 68°F. Through summer and the warmer part of fall, they can move surprisingly close to the beaches, inlet mouths, and nearshore reefs of North Carolina, following schools of menhaden, mullet, sardines, and other prey into places where a beachgoer or pier angler may suddenly encounter a fish that spends much of its time farther offshore (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2022).

    That window does not last. As coastal water continues cooling toward the lower edge of their preferred range, king mackerel begin shifting south and farther toward the warmer waters of the continental shelf. By winter, much of the Atlantic population has moved toward southern Florida, while some fish remain in deeper North Carolina waters near the Gulf Stream (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2022).

    For a few weeks, that creates an unusual overlap along the Onslow coast. Animals moving out of the estuary meet predators moving closer to shore to feed, while other migrants are already passing south or beginning their move offshore. An inlet or artificial reef that seemed relatively quiet several weeks earlier can suddenly sit at the crossing point of several different seasonal routes.

    For a short time, it becomes an intersection.

    Then the Menhaden Arrive

    By October and November, another migration becomes increasingly visible.

    Atlantic menhaden (Brevoortia tyrannus) move south along the Atlantic coast as fall deepens, with older and larger fish returning from summer waters farther north. Spawning can occur along the migration route from late fall into early spring, but one of the major winter gathering areas lies off North Carolina near Cape Hatteras (Lewis et al., 1987; Nicholson, 1978).

    For Onslow County, that means some of the dark schools appearing beyond the breakers are part of a much larger coastwide movement passing our beaches on the way toward winter spawning waters.

    Menhaden occupy an unusual place in the coastal food web. They filter tiny phytoplankton and zooplankton from the water, then gather that scattered production into dense schools of oily fish large enough for predators to chase (Lewis & Peters, 1994). Bluefish, striped bass, sharks, tunas, dolphins, and seabirds all take advantage of them, making menhaden one of the connections between plankton near the bottom of the food web and some of the largest predators along the coast (Chagaris et al., 2020; Lewis & Peters, 1994).

    For a beachgoer, the first sign may simply be a dark patch offshore that does not move like a shadow. Then birds begin gathering above it. The surface breaks as predators push into the school from below, and what looked like an indistinct patch of water suddenly becomes one of the busiest places along the beach.

    That is when looking up becomes as important as looking into the water.

    Because another migration has arrived.

    The Atlantic Flyway Meets the Fall Fish Run

    The Atlantic Flyway follows the eastern edge of North America, placing the North Carolina coast directly beneath one of the continent’s major migration routes. For birds traveling hundreds or thousands of miles between breeding and wintering grounds, Onslow County is not simply coastline passing beneath their wings. Its beaches, marshes, tidal flats, sounds, and inlets can provide places to rest and replenish the energy needed for the next part of the journey (Smith et al., 2022).

    The Atlantic Flyway follows the eastern edge of North America, carrying migrating birds directly along the North Carolina coast. | Image credit: Audubon
    The Atlantic Flyway follows the eastern edge of North America, carrying migrating birds directly along the North Carolina coast. | Image credit: Audubon

    Fall makes that stop especially busy because the migration overhead is unfolding at the same time the water below is changing. Shrimp are moving out of creeks. Mullet and other fishes are funneling toward the inlets. Schools of bait gather along the beaches, and menhaden begin moving down the coast. For birds that feed on fishes and coastal invertebrates, those movements can turn the Onslow shoreline into a series of feeding opportunities along the Atlantic Flyway.

    But the transition is not a clean exchange in which the summer birds simply leave and winter birds immediately take their places. It happens gradually, with departures, arrivals, and birds merely passing through overlapping for weeks.

    The Birds Moving Through or South

    Some of the first changes are easiest to notice in the marsh. Green herons (Butorides virescens) begin moving south from late August through October, while least bitterns (Ixobrychus exilis) also leave much of their northern breeding range for warmer winter habitat. A bird that spent summer hunting from the edge of a tidal creek may simply become harder to find as September advances (Smith et al., 2022).

    Along the beaches and nesting islands, the summer community begins loosening in several directions at once. Wilson’s plovers (Anarhynchus wilsonia), least terns (Sternula antillarum), gull-billed terns (Gelochelidon nilotica), black skimmers (Rynchops niger), and sandwich terns (Thalasseus sandvicensis) begin leaving breeding areas or redistributing south along the coast. Royal terns (Thalasseus maximus) may linger longer, while ospreys (Pandion haliaetus) begin following waterways and coastlines toward wintering grounds farther south (North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission, 2025; Smith et al., 2022).

    The shorebirds make the transition even less tidy.

    The eastern Willet (Tringa semipalmata semipalmata) breeds in Atlantic salt marshes, including those along the North Carolina coast, before leaving for wintering grounds that can lie as far away as northern South America. But the Willet standing on a Topsail flat in fall is not automatically one of the birds that nested here. Western Willets (Tringa semipalmata inornata), which breed in the interior of western North America, can also occur along the Atlantic coast outside the breeding season. For a few weeks, birds from very different summer landscapes may use the same Carolina shoreline (Oswald et al., 2016; Huysman et al., 2022).

    Lesser yellowlegs (Tringa flavipes) and greater yellowlegs (Tringa melanoleuca) add another layer of passing traffic. They arrive from breeding grounds much farther north, with adults beginning their southward movements as early as July and younger birds following later. Along coastal North Carolina, exposed flats, shallow marsh edges, and pools of tidal water become temporary feeding grounds along that journey (Smith et al., 2022).

    That makes the falling tide part of the migration too. A mudflat that looked empty beneath the previous high tide can suddenly hold Willets, yellowlegs, plovers, and other shorebirds probing exposed sediment for worms, small crustaceans, mollusks, and other prey. North Carolina barrier-island studies have found fall shorebirds shifting among the swash zone, wet sand, spits, and tidal habitat as water levels change, using different pieces of the shoreline for feeding and resting through the tidal cycle (Tarr, 2008).

    For some of those birds, the stop may last days. For others, only hours. The tide falls, a feeding ground appears, and birds moving along the Atlantic coast briefly settle into it before the water—or the migration—carries them onward.

    The Winter Coast Begins Arriving

    The winter coast does not arrive all at once. Its first birds begin appearing in September, more follow through October, and by November the sounds, marshes, and beaches of Onslow County can hold a noticeably different community than they did at the end of summer.

    On the sounds and protected water behind the barrier islands, buffleheads (Bucephala albeola) begin settling into sheltered coves, bays, and estuaries, repeatedly disappearing beneath the surface in search of small crustaceans, mollusks, and other aquatic prey. Red-breasted mergansers (Mergus serrator) arrive as well, often working shallow coastal water and estuaries in small groups as they dive after fish (Gauthier, 1993; Titman, 1999; Smith et al., 2022).

    The marsh begins changing at the same time. American black ducks (Anas rubripes) appear more regularly in salt marshes, tidal creeks, ponds, and estuaries, while Green-winged teal (Anas crecca) increase in shallow protected water. Both spent the breeding season much farther north, but by fall the sounds and marshes of the Atlantic coast have become part of their winter landscape (Robinson et al., 2016; Smith et al., 2022).

    Along the ocean side, the change is visible at the water’s edge. Dunlin (Calidris alpina), sanderlings (Calidris alba), red knots (Calidris canutus), and black-bellied plovers (Pluvialis squatarola) begin working beaches, shoals, exposed flats, and inlet margins. Some will remain along the southeastern coast through winter, while others are pausing only long enough to feed before continuing south. As the tide falls they spread across wet sand and exposed flats; when the water returns, they are gradually pushed toward higher beaches and roosting areas (Burger et al., 2012; Smith et al., 2022; Tarr, 2008).

    Red knots make the scale of that movement especially clear. A bird standing quietly near the wrack line may have arrived from Arctic breeding grounds and may still be headed toward winter habitat in the southeastern United States, the Caribbean, or northern South America. Individual birds do not all travel the same route or distance, but for some, the Carolina coast is only one stop in a journey spanning thousands of miles (Burger et al., 2012; Smith et al., 2022).

    That changes what a quiet fall beach can mean. The wet sand, tidal flats, wrack, marshes, and sheltered water are not empty spaces between destinations. For birds arriving from the north, they are places to replace the energy already spent before the next part of the migration begins.

    When the Food Web Takes to the Air

    Fall adds another layer of hunters above the shoreline.

    Peregrine falcons (Falco peregrinus) move south along the Atlantic coast during migration, often following the same barrier islands, mudflats, and shorelines being used by migrating shorebirds. They are not interested in the mullet, shrimp, or menhaden moving below the surface. They are interested in the birds feeding around them. Shorebirds, ducks, gulls, and other coastal birds become prey themselves, adding another level to the food web moving through the coast (Smith et al., 2022).

    Farther offshore, the change becomes visible in a different way. Double-crested cormorants (Nannopterum auritum) arrive along the Carolina coast in large numbers and spend much of their time diving after fish. Menhaden are among the schooling fishes they readily take, tying these winter visitors directly into the same fall movement already passing through the inlets and along the beaches (Watts et al., 2023).

    Red-throated loons (Gavia stellata) and common loons (Gavia immer) begin appearing along the ocean side as well. Both spend the warmer months much farther north, but by late fall they are back in shallow marine waters, sounds, bays, and estuaries where fish are abundant. A bird that spent summer on a northern lake or tundra pond may now be diving just beyond the breakers along Topsail (Stenhouse et al., 2020; Smith et al., 2022).

    Then come the northern gannets (Morus bassanus).

    By late fall, they become one of the most spectacular signs that the seasonal food web has shifted. Northern gannets spend much of the nonbreeding season between New York and North Carolina, feeding almost entirely on schooling fishes such as herring, mackerel, and menhaden over the continental shelf (Mowbray, 2020; Smith et al., 2022).

    From shore, a feeding aggregation can seem to appear from nowhere. Large white birds circle above a patch of ocean, fold their wings, and plunge headfirst into the water. One follows another until dozens may be dropping into the same moving patch of sea.

    The important thing may not be the gannets themselves, but what they are pointing toward.
    Beneath them is a school of fish. Around that school may be bluefish, sharks, dolphins, or other large predators pushing the same prey toward the surface. The birds above and the predators below are using the same concentration of food from opposite directions.

    What began months earlier as plankton, marsh production, and small animals feeding inside estuaries has now moved far enough through the food web to become visible from the beach as birds falling out of the sky.

    What Happens if One Migration Does Not Arrive?

    It is easy to think about migration as something belonging to individual species—the mullet run, the shrimp migration, the shark migration, the Atlantic Flyway. But the coast does not experience those movements separately. Predators are responding to prey, young fishes are entering estuaries when nursery habitat and food are available, adults are leaving when spawning habitat lies offshore, and blue crabs are moving between different salinity zones because different stages of their lives depend on different parts of the estuary (Warlen & Burke, 1990; Forward et al., 2003).

    That means a change in one migration does not necessarily stop with the animal making it.

    If fewer mullet leave an estuary, there may be less concentrated prey moving along the beach for bluefish, sharks, pelicans, and terns. The difference is not simply fewer mullet in one place. Some of the energy that spent summer accumulating inside the estuary now reaches the nearshore food web in a different amount, at a different time, or along a different route (Bacheler et al., 2005).

    White shrimp show how quickly those relationships can shift. Heavy rainfall lowers estuarine salinity and can push shrimp toward the inlet earlier than they might have moved during a drier fall. Predators farther inside the estuary may encounter fewer shrimp, while those gathered nearer the inlet may suddenly encounter more. The migration still happens, but its timing changes where that pulse of food becomes available (North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries, 2023).

    Temperature can alter the overlap in another way. A coastal shark that remains farther north later into a warm fall may not encounter its prey in quite the same places or at quite the same time if those prey are responding to a different set of seasonal cues. Warmer ocean conditions are already capable of delaying southward shark migrations and extending how long some species remain in northern seasonal habitat (Manz et al., 2025).

    None of this means every migration must occur on the same date each year. Coastal systems have always varied with storms, rainfall, temperature, currents, and food availability. What matters is that the movements continue to cross one another often enough for the relationships among them to persist.

    A predator still has to encounter its prey. A larva still has to reach suitable nursery habitat, and a migrating bird still has to find enough food to continue south.

    The timing does not have to be exact, but the meeting still has to happen.

    Watching the Coast Change

    By September, the first changes are already beginning. Mullet gather near the inlets, shrimp move out of tidal creeks, rays become less common over shallow flats, and feeding birds begin revealing where bait has collected near the surface.

    By October and November, the same places can hold a very different community. Some animals have moved only a few miles into deeper water, while others are passing Onslow County on journeys that continue far beyond the Carolina coast.

    The landscape itself looks much the same. New River Inlet still cuts through the barrier island. The marsh grass still bends with the wind. The same beach stretches north and south.
    What changes is who is moving through it.

    For a few months each fall, Onslow County becomes a meeting place between departures, arrivals, and animals simply shifting into the next piece of habitat they need.

    The landscape stays where it is.
    The food web moves through it.

    Wilson Bay along the New River in Jacksonville, North Carolina. The landscape stays where it is, even as the food web moves through it. | Image credit: A. Mitchell
    Wilson Bay along the New River in Jacksonville, North Carolina. The landscape stays where it is, even as the food web moves through it. | Image credit: A. Mitchell

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    North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries. (2026). Fishery management plan update: Spanish mackerel. North Carolina Department of Environmental Quality. https://www.deq.nc.gov/marine-fisheries/fisheries-management/spanish-mackerel/open

    North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries. (2026). Fishery management plan update: Black drum. North Carolina Department of Environmental Quality. https://www.deq.nc.gov/marine-fisheries/fisheries-management/black-drum-fmp-update-2026/open

    North Carolina Division of Marine Fisheries. (2026). Fishery management plan update: False albacore. North Carolina Department of Environmental Quality. https://www.deq.nc.gov/marine-fisheries/fisheries-management/false-albacore-fmp-update-2026-0/open

    North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission. (2025). 2025 North Carolina Wildlife Action Plan. https://www.ncwildlife.gov/state-wildlife-action-plan

    Omori, K. L., & Fisher, R. A. (2017). Summer and fall movement of cownose ray, Rhinoptera bonasus, along the East Coast of United States observed with pop-up satellite tags. Environmental Biology of Fishes, 100(11), 1435-1449. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10641-017-0654-6

    Oswald, J. A., Harvey, M. G., Remsen, R. C., Foxworth, D. U., Cardiff, S. W., Dittmann, D. L., Megna, L. C., Carling, M. D., & Brumfield, R. T. (2016). Willet be one species or two? A genomic view of the evolutionary history of Tringa semipalmata. The Auk, 133(4), 593-614. https://doi.org/10.1642/auk-15-232.1

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    Robinson, O. J., McGowan, C. P., & Devers, P. K. (2016). Updating movement estimates for American Black ducks (Anas rubripes). PeerJ, 4, e1787. https://doi.org/10.7717/peerj.1787

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  • How Sharks, Rays, and Ghost Sharks Read an Invisible Ocean

    How Sharks, Rays, and Ghost Sharks Read an Invisible Ocean

    A shadow moves beneath the surface.

    At first, it is only a darker shape inside darker water. Then the shape shifts, and the human mind does what it always does. It tries to make sense of what the eyes are seeing.

    Fish? Ray? Shark? Something else?

    We look harder. We search for a fin, a tail, a clear outline, some familiar clue that lets us name the animal before it disappears again. That is how we enter the ocean. We enter it as visual animals.

    We rely on sight first.

    On land, that makes sense. We look both ways before crossing a street. We recognize faces. We read signs. We notice color, distance, motion, and shape. Even when our other senses help us understand the world, sight usually leads the way.

    But the ocean is not built for human sight.

    Light bends and scatters. Sand clouds the water. Storms stir sediment. Tannins darken creeks and estuaries. Waves break the surface into fragments. A fish can vanish into shadow. A ray can disappear beneath one thin layer of sand. A shark can move through water we are staring directly into and still be almost impossible to see.

    To us, the ocean often becomes less clear the moment we step into it.

    To sharks, rays, skates, sawfish, and chimaeras, that same water is not empty. It is not silent. It is not blank.

    It is filled with signals.

    These animals belong to a group called chondrichthyans, fishes with skeletons made of cartilage instead of bone. Sharks, rays, skates, sawfish, and chimaeras all belong here. We often separate them by the way they look: sharks with their familiar fins and teeth, rays flattened against the bottom, skates moving quietly over sand, sawfish carrying a toothed rostrum, and chimaeras drifting through deeper water like something half-remembered from another age.

    But they are connected by more than cartilage.

    They share sensory worlds that are difficult for us to imagine because they include abilities we do not have in the same way. They use sight, smell, hearing, touch, and temperature, but they also read movement through the water with the lateral line. They detect weak electrical fields with ampullae of Lorenzini. They interpret the ocean through pressure, vibration, chemistry, contrast, motion, and life itself (Collin, 2012; Hart & Collin, 2015).

    We may look into murky water and see almost nothing.

    They may be reading an entire landscape.

    The Ocean as a Different Kind of World

    Sometimes, we do sense the world in ways that remind us we are not only visual.

    A storm approaches, and some people feel pressure before the first drop of rain falls. Sinuses tighten. Migraines build. The air feels different. We walk into a dark room and suddenly sound becomes more important. A creak in the corner, a moving shadow, or a change in the air near our skin, these matter.

    We still try to confirm everything with sight, but when sight weakens, the rest of the body steps forward.

    Now imagine living in a world where sight is helpful, but never enough.

    Water carries information differently than air. A fish swimming does not simply move from one place to another. It pushes water aside. A tailbeat sends movement outward. A struggling animal leaves a different pattern than a calm one. A crab moving under sand may be hidden from view, but its body is still alive. Muscles contract. A heart beats. Nerves fire. Gills pump. Chemicals dissolve and drift.

    Every animal changes the water around it.

    For chondrichthyans, that matters.

    A shark does not have to wait until prey forms a perfect picture in front of its eyes. A ray does not need the seafloor to look busy in order for it to be busy. A skate does not need color to know the bottom is alive. A sawfish does not carry its rostrum only as a weapon. A chimaera in deep water does not move through darkness without information.

    Their sensory systems allow them to gather information across different distances and conditions. Smell, hearing, vision, lateral line detection, and electroreception do not work as separate switches. They overlap, reinforce, and sometimes compensate for one another depending on habitat, prey, visibility, and behavior (Gardiner et al., 2014; Hart & Collin, 2015).

    Their world is not less detailed than ours.

    It is detailed differently.

    Their world is not less detailed than ours.

    It is detailed differently.

    A Shark’s World

    A shark moving through shallow water can be almost impossible to see until it is already there.

    Its body color may match the shifting bottom. Sunlight breaks over its back. Ripples blur the outline. The water may be green, gray, brown, or blue depending on the tide, weather, and sediment. Even in clear water, the shark can appear as a shadow before it appears as an animal.

    To us, the shark is barely more than a shadow. To the shark, the water is already full of information — movement, pressure, chemistry, and weak electrical signals that help it read the world before sight alone confirms what is there. | Image credit: D. Remmers
    To us, the shark is barely more than a shadow. To the shark, the water is already full of information — movement, pressure, chemistry, and weak electrical signals that help it read the world before sight alone confirms what is there. | Image credit: D. Remmers

    But the shark’s awareness does not begin when our eyes finally notice its shape.

    Long before sight confirms what is nearby, other senses may already be gathering information. A fish moving ahead sends pressure changes through the water. A school changing direction creates a pattern of motion. A wounded or stressed animal moves differently than a calm animal. Muscle contractions and heartbeats create weak electrical fields. Odors move through the water as chemical trails.

    To us, the ocean may look open.

    To a shark, it is full of clues.

    The lateral line runs along the body and head and helps detect movement, vibration, and changes in water flow. It is not vision, but it can reveal that something nearby is moving. It can help an animal sense direction, intensity, and disturbance (Webb, 2023).

    The ampullae of Lorenzini add another layer. These small, jelly-filled pores are concentrated around the head and snout. They detect weak electrical fields produced by living animals. This is especially useful at close range, when prey is hidden, when light is low, or when the final decision about an object must be made (Bellono et al., 2017; Hart & Collin, 2015).

    A hammerhead makes this easier to picture.

    Its wide head may look strange to us, but that shape spreads sensory structures across a broader surface. Moving over the bottom, a hammerhead can sweep its head across the sand. A buried ray may be invisible to human eyes. To the shark, the sand may not be silent at all.

    This is where our imagination reaches its limit.

    We can compare electroreception to the feeling of standing near an electrical charge or sensing the strange energy in the air during an intense lightning storm. But even that comparison is weak. We do not move through the world constantly reading tiny electrical fields from other living bodies.

    Sharks do.

    Their world is not a human picture with extra details added. It is a different kind of picture altogether.

    Sight Still Matters

    Sharks have eyes, and those eyes matter.

    They detect contrast, motion, light, shadow, and shape. Many sharks are well suited for low-light conditions. Some have reflective structures behind the retina that help make better use of dim light. This is part of why shark eyes may appear to glow when light catches them underwater. Vision is one piece of a broader sensory strategy that changes by species, habitat, and ecological role (Collin, 2012; Hart & Collin, 2015). 

    But shark vision is not human vision.

    Humans rely heavily on color. We use it to separate objects, judge ripeness, read warning signs, choose clothing, and notice differences in our surroundings. Sharks appear to rely less on color and more on contrast, brightness, movement, and shape. They only have one type of cone photoreceptor with many rods. This makes them more likely to be color blind or have very limited color discrimination (Hart et al., 2019).

    That does not mean sharks see poorly.

    It means color may not be the priority in their world.

    In water, color disappears with depth and distance. Red fades quickly. Light changes constantly. Suspended particles blur edges. A fish flashing silver, a silhouette against the surface, or a sudden burst of movement may matter more than whether something is red, green, or blue.

    A shark’s visual world may be built more from shadow, contrast, motion, and form than from color.

    This is important when we talk about shark-human encounters. A swimmer, surfer, or splashing person at the surface is not being interpreted through human categories. The shark is not thinking “person.” It is receiving a mixture of signals: movement, vibration, silhouette, chemical traces, electrical fields, contrast, and the surrounding activity of fish or bait.

    Sometimes, those signals may be confusing.

    The phrase “mistaken identity” is often used to explain shark bites, but it should be used carefully. It does not explain every bite. It does not mean sharks are foolish. It does not mean they are unable to tell anything apart. It means that, in some situations, the clues available to the shark may overlap with the clues produced by prey. This is why some human silhouettes at the surface can resemble seal and sea lion prey to a shark, especially when viewed from below and under certain movement conditions (Ryan et al., 2021). 

    We know a version of this ourselves.

    Walk through a dark house at night and hear something move in the corner. Your eyes search for shape. Your ears sharpen. Your body tenses before your mind has enough information. You move closer. Maybe you speak into the darkness. Maybe you reach out with your hand or nudge with your foot.

    Then the light turns on, and the intruder becomes a chair with a jacket over it.

    You were not hunting the chair.

    You were investigating a signal you did not fully understand.

    A shark does not have hands. Its fins move it through the water, but they do not investigate the way our fingers do. Its mouth becomes one of the ways it tests the world. That does not make the animal cruel or mindless. It means its body solves a sensory problem differently than ours does.

    For people, that difference can be dangerous. An investigative bite can still cause serious injury. But it is not the same thing as a shark deciding humans belong on the menu.

    Most of the time, we do not match the full pattern of shark prey.

    We smell different. We move differently. We do not behave like fish, rays, turtles, seals, or other natural prey. But in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong signals around us, we can become part of a confusing sensory scene.

    This is why swimming near active fishing, bait, chum, or dense schools of baitfish matters. The shark is not being summoned by evil intent. It is following information.

    The ocean is speaking in the language it knows.

    The Ocean as Touch and Sound

    A school of fish turns all at once.

    There is no visible leader. No signal we can see. One moment the school moves in one direction, and the next it shifts like one silver body. Each fish keeps its place without crashing into the others. The turn happens faster than sight alone seems able to explain.

    This is one of the easiest ways to understand the lateral line.

    Fish do not only see their neighbors. They feel the water their neighbors move. Each tailbeat, each change in direction, each surge away from danger creates tiny changes in water motion. Those changes travel across the bodies of nearby fish.

    The lateral line detects those movements.

    This sensory system is found in many fishes, not only sharks and rays. It helps animals orient in currents, avoid obstacles, respond to predators, follow prey, and move together in groups. It turns water into a kind of touch-field. The structure and function of the lateral line vary across fishes, but its role in detecting water motion is central to how aquatic animals interpret movement around them (Webb et al., 2023). 

    In sharks, this sense is closely tied to the way sound and vibration move through water. We often think of hearing as something that happens only through ears, but underwater, the whole body can become part of how an animal detects vibration. The lateral line helps a shark feel nearby water movement across its body, while the inner ear detects sound and orientation. Together, these systems make the shark’s body seem less like a body moving through water and more like an instrument tuned to it (Collin, 2012; Hart & Collin, 2015; Webb, 2023).

    For a shark, this means the ocean is never simply open space.

    It has texture.

    A mullet swimming calmly leaves one kind of disturbance. A frightened fish leaves another. A crab moving across the bottom creates a different pattern than a shrimp flicking backward. Waves break. Boat motors pulse. Rain hits the surface. Feet shuffle through sand. A fish struggles on a line. A school turns.

    Each movement changes the water.

    We might stand at the edge of an inlet and see only ripples. A shark, ray, or skate moving through that same water may sense layers of motion overlapping one another. Some signals fade into background noise. Others stand out.

    A calm fish and a frantic fish do not write the same message.

    Along the Onslow County coast, this matters. Our nearshore waters are not always clear. Wind, tide, storms, suspended sand, tannins from creeks, plankton blooms, and wave energy all change visibility. Animals living here cannot depend on sight alone in a world where the water can cloud overnight.

    A shark does not need a perfect view to know something is moving.

    A ray does not need to see every small animal beneath it to know the bottom is alive.

    A fish in a school does not need to wait for its neighbor to bump into it before turning.

    Water carries the conversation.

    The Hidden Electricity of Living Things

    The sandy bottom can look blank.

    A flat stretch of seafloor may seem empty to us, especially when nothing obvious moves. But beneath that surface may be worms, clams, crabs, shrimp, small fish, or rays. Some are hiding. Some are resting. Some are feeding. Some are waiting for the tide to shift.

    To our eyes, they disappear.

    To an animal with electroreception, hidden does not always mean gone.

    Ampullae of Lorenzini allow sharks, rays, skates, sawfish, and chimaeras to detect weak electrical fields. These fields are extremely small, but they are part of what living bodies produce. Muscles contract. Hearts beat. Nerves fire. In saltwater, and especially at close range, those signals can become useful information (Bellono et al., 2017; Collin, 2012).

    The sand may cover the animal.

    It does not erase it.

    This is especially important for animals that feed along the bottom. A shark searching a flat may combine smell, movement, vision, and electroreception. A ray may use similar signals to locate prey in sediment. A sawfish carries this ability into one of the strangest-looking structures in the sea.

    Electroreception also reminds us that the ocean is not only a visual habitat.

    It is a habitat of fields and traces.

    We are used to thinking an animal is hidden when we cannot see it. But concealment depends on who is looking, and how.

    A crab hidden from a bird may not be hidden from a ray.

    A ray hidden from us may not be hidden from a hammerhead.

    A fish buried beneath sand may still be detectable to a predator passing overhead.

    This does not make the ocean more frightening.

    It makes it more alive.

    A Ray’s World

    A stingray resting in shallow water can vanish beneath a thin covering of sand.

    Only the eyes may remain visible. Sometimes even those are difficult to see. The body becomes part of the bottom: a soft outline, a slight rise, a place where the sand seems smoother than the sand around it.

    To us, a buried ray may feel like a surprise.

    To the ray, the world is still open.

    Its eyes sit high on the body, watching the water above. Its mouth is underneath, positioned for feeding along the bottom. Its spiracles allow water to move across the gills while the animal rests or feeds close to the seafloor. Its lateral line and electrosensory system help detect movement and electrical signals nearby (Bedore et al., 2014; Collin, 2012).

    The ray does not need to see the world exactly as we do.

    It lives in layers.

    Above, there may be predators, shadows, swimmers, boats, birds, and changing light. Below and around it, there may be worms, shrimp, crabs, clams, and small fish hidden in or on the sediment. A ray’s flattened body makes sense in this in-between place. It is shaped for bottom life, but it is not cut off from the water column above it.

    Its eyes are important, but they are not everything.

    Rays can detect contrast, shape, motion, and orientation. Some rays may have stronger color discrimination than sharks. Some also have a reflective layer in the eye, the tapetum lucidum, that helps make better use of dim light (Hart et al., 2019). We often compare this to the eye shine seen in cats and other animals at night.

    But a ray buried in sand is not simply waiting with its eyes.

    It is reading pressure. It is reading smell. It is reading electrical traces from animals moving nearby. It is receiving information through more than one doorway.

    This is why the stingray shuffle matters.

    A stingray spine is not used to chase people. It is a defense. When a ray is stepped on or startled from above, the spine can rise quickly. The injury is real, but the behavior is not personal. The ray is responding to pressure and threat in the only way its body allows.

    A shuffled foot gives warning.

    It tells the hidden animal that something large is moving through the sand and gives it a chance to leave before contact happens.

    That small human behavior recognizes something important: the shallow edge is shared space.

    We may be wading through it.

    The ray may be living in it.

    A Skate’s World

    Skates are often confused with rays.

    From above, the difference may not seem important to a casual observer. Both are flattened. Both move close to the bottom. Both can disappear into the shape and color of the seafloor.

    But skates are not simply stingrays without drama.

    They are their own kind of bottom reader.

    Like rays, skates use sensory systems that help them understand the seafloor without relying only on sight. Their eyes are positioned on top of the body, while the mouth is underneath. Their flattened form allows them to move close to the bottom, where many small animals hide in sand, shell hash, mud, and seagrass.

    A skate moving over the bottom is not only looking.

    It is sampling the landscape through touch, smell, pressure, and electricity.

    This makes the bottom less like a floor and more like a page. Each small animal leaves some sign: a movement, a chemical trace, a disturbance, a weak electrical field, a change in sediment (Bedore et al., 2014).

    Skates remind us that not every chondrichthian is built around speed, teeth, and open-water pursuit. Some are built for patience. Some are built for closeness. Some read the world by staying near the place where water meets sediment.

    Along our coast, that meeting place matters.

    Sand flats, tidal creeks, inlets, oyster edges, and shallow nearshore bottoms are not empty spaces between “real” habitats. They are habitats. They hold the smaller lives that larger animals follow.

    To understand the skate or ray, we have to stop seeing the bottom as blank.

    A Sawfish’s World

    A sawfish looks almost impossible the first time you really consider it.

    It has the flattened body of a ray, but extending from the head is a long, tooth-edged rostrum — the “saw” that gives the animal its name. It looks like a weapon, and it can be used that way. Sawfish can swing the rostrum through schools of fish, stunning or injuring prey. It can also help defend the animal.

    But the saw is not only a blade.

    It is also a sensory surface.

    The rostrum contains electroreceptive organs, ampullae of Lorenzini, that help detect weak electrical signals from nearby animals. In other words, the part of the animal that looks most like a weapon is also part of how it reads the world.

    That changes the way we see it.

    A sawfish is not blindly sweeping through water with a strange tool attached to its face. It is carrying a detector through the habitat ahead of its body. The saw helps locate prey. It helps interpret the space in front of the animal. It turns the water ahead into information (Wueringer et al., 2011; Wueringer, 2012).

    This is different from the way we usually imagine rays and skates sensing the bottom.

    A ray or skate often reads the world close to and beneath its flattened body. Its mouth is underneath. Its eyes look upward. Its sensory systems help it interpret the bottom as it rests, glides, or feeds along the sediment. A sawfish, however, extends part of that sensory world forward. The rostrum projects into the water ahead of the body, giving the animal information about prey before the prey reaches the mouth or passes beneath the disc.

    That changes the animal’s sensory shape.

    A sawfish does not only sense what is under it.

    It can sense what is ahead of it.

    The saw becomes a leading edge of perception. As the animal moves, the rostrum samples the space in front of the body. A fish hidden in murky water, a prey item moving near the bottom, or a school passing just ahead may be detected through electrical signals before the sawfish strikes. The same structure that can stun prey can also help find it (Wueringer et al., 2011; Wueringer, 2012).

    That is what makes the sawfish so fascinating.

    The feature that looks most dramatic to us is not simply for attack or defense. It is part of the animal’s sensory map. It stretches the invisible world forward.

    Smalltooth sawfish were historically found as far north as North Carolina, but today they are generally associated with Florida waters in the United States (NOAA Fisheries, 2025). Seeing one along the Onslow County coast would be unusual. Still, they belong in this story because they show how far the chondrichthian sensory world can go.

    A body part we notice for its shape may be important because of what it senses. 

    The ocean often works that way.

    The feature that looks strange to us may be perfectly sensible in the world where the animal lives.

    A Chimaera’s World

    Far from the beach, beyond the bright shallows and beyond the places most of us will ever swim, chimaeras move through deeper water.

    They are sometimes called ghost sharks, though they are not true sharks. They are relatives within the larger chondrichthian group, with cartilage skeletons and a long evolutionary history. Their bodies seem stitched together from familiar parts in unfamiliar ways: large eyes, winglike fins, smooth skin, and tooth plates instead of the replaceable teeth we associate with many sharks.

    They look like animals from the edge of imagination.

    But their strangeness is not random.

    Many chimaeras live in deep, dim environments where sight has limits. In that world, an animal cannot depend on color and daylight the way we do at the surface. Light fades. Pressure increases the deeper you go. The landscape becomes colder, darker, and harder for human senses to understand.

    A chimaera still has eyes, and those eyes can be large. But like other chondrichthyans, chimaeras also use sensory structures that detect electrical fields. In deep water, where prey may be sparse and visibility limited, the ability to detect life without needing a clear visual image becomes essential (Bottaro et al., 2022).

    A chimaera reminds us that “seeing” does not always mean forming a bright picture.

    Sometimes it means detecting what is alive in darkness.

    That may be the hardest part for us to imagine. We tend to picture the deep sea as emptiness because our senses fail there. But the animals that live there are not moving through emptiness. They are moving through a world shaped by pressure, chemistry, temperature, vibration, faint light, and electrical traces.

    The deep sea is not empty.

    It is written in a language we barely read.

    Reading the Ocean Instead of Fearing the Shadow

    It is easy to turn sharks into symbols.

    Fear does that. So do movies, headlines, and stories told from the shoreline after something frightening happens. A fin becomes a threat. A bite becomes proof of intent. A shadow becomes a monster.

    But the real animal is more interesting than the symbol.

    A shark is not moving through the water thinking like a person. A ray is not buried beneath the sand waiting for a human foot. A skate is not a flat shadow without a story. A sawfish is not only a saw. A chimaera is not only a ghost.

    Each animal is built for a sensory world we do not naturally share.

    That does not mean we ignore risk. Quite the opposite. Understanding these senses helps us behave with more respect in the water. We can avoid swimming near fishing activity, bait, or chum. We can pay attention when baitfish are schooling near shore. We can shuffle our feet in ray habitat. We can remember that murky water changes the way animals rely on different senses. We can stop assuming that clear human intent matters in an animal’s sensory landscape.

    The ocean does not interpret us the way we interpret ourselves.

    We may enter the water as swimmers, surfers, paddlers, anglers, or beachgoers. But to the animals already living there, we are also movement, pressure, chemistry, vibration, shadow, sound, and electricity.

    We are part of the signal.

    That is humbling, and it should be.

    Our world is three-dimensional, but it is still mostly built around what we can see. Their world is three-dimensional too, but it includes layers we barely notice.

    They are not seeing less of the ocean than we are. They are reading more of it differently. And maybe that is the point.

    Standing at the edge of the ocean, we see waves, color, and surface. Beneath that surface, other animals are reading movement, pressure, chemistry, and electrical traces in ways we cannot naturally feel. 

    The shark may not be looking for us.

    The ray may not be hiding from us.

    The fish may not be moving randomly.

    They are reading the ocean.

    We are only beginning to learn the alphabet.

    Standing at the edge of the ocean, we see waves, color, and surface. Beneath that surface, sharks, rays, skates, sawfish, and chimaeras read movement, pressure, chemistry, shadow, and electrical traces in ways we cannot naturally feel. | Image credit: A. Mitchell
    Standing at the edge of the ocean, we see waves, color, and surface. Beneath that surface, sharks, rays, skates, sawfish, and chimaeras read movement, pressure, chemistry, shadow, and electrical traces in ways we cannot naturally feel. | Image credit: A. Mitchell

    References

    Bangley, C. (2026, January 26). Sharks of NC. Coastwatch. https://ncseagrant.ncsu.edu/coastwatch/the-sharks-of-north-carolina/

    Bedore, C. N., Harris, L. L., & Kajiura, S. M. (2014). Behavioral responses of batoid elasmobranchs to prey-simulating electric fields are correlated to peripheral sensory morphology and ecology. Zoology, 117(2), 95-103. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.zool.2013.09.002

    Bellono, N. W., Leitch, D. B., & Julius, D. (2017). Molecular basis of ancestral vertebrate electroreception. Nature, 543(7645), 391-396. https://doi.org/10.1038/nature21401

    Bottaro, M. (2022). Sixth sense in the deep-sea: The electrosensory system in ghost shark Chimaera monstrosa. Scientific Reports, 12(1). https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-022-14076-2

    Collin, S. P. (2012). The Neuroecology of cartilaginous fishes: Sensory strategies for survival. Brain, Behavior and Evolution, 80(2), 80-96. https://doi.org/10.1159/000339870

    Gardiner, J. M., Atema, J., Hueter, R. E., & Motta, P. J. (2014). Multisensory integration and behavioral plasticity in sharks from different ecological niches. PLoS ONE, 9(4), e93036. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0093036

    Hart, N. S., & Collin, S. P. (2015). Sharks senses and shark repellents. Integrative Zoology, 10(1), 38-64. https://doi.org/10.1111/1749-4877.12095

    Hart, N. S., Lamb, T. D., Patel, H. R., Chuah, A., Natoli, R. C., Hudson, N. J., Cutmore, S. C., Davies, W. I., Collin, S. P., & Hunt, D. M. (2019). Visual Opsin diversity in sharks and rays. Molecular Biology and Evolution, 37(3), 811-827. https://doi.org/10.1093/molbev/msz269

    NOAA Fisheries. (2025). Smalltooth sawfish. NOAA. https://www.fisheries.noaa.gov/species/smalltooth-sawfish

    Ryan, L. A., Slip, D. J., Chapuis, L., Collin, S. P., Gennari, E., Hemmi, J. M., How, M. J., Huveneers, C., Peddemors, V. M., Tosetto, L., & Hart, N. S. (2021). A shark’s eye view: Testing the ‘mistaken identity theory’ behind shark bites on humans. Journal of The Royal Society Interface, 18(183). https://doi.org/10.1098/rsif.2021.0533

    Webb, J. F. (2023). Structural and functional evolution of the mechanosensory lateral line system of fishes. The Journal of the Acoustical Society of America, 154(6), 3526-3542. https://doi.org/10.1121/10.0022565

    Wueringer, B. E. (2012). Electroreception in elasmobranchs: Sawfish as a case study. Brain, Behavior and Evolution, 80(2), 97-107. https://doi.org/10.1159/000339873

    Wueringer, B., Peverell, S., Seymour, J., Squire, Jr., L., Kajiura, S., & Collin, S. (2011). Sensory systems in Sawfishes. 1. The ampullae of Lorenzini. Brain, Behavior and Evolution, 78(2), 139-149. https://doi.org/10.1159/000329515

  • When the Bottom Moves: Rays in the Shallows of Onslow County

    When the Bottom Moves: Rays in the Shallows of Onslow County

    What People Are Seeing

    In the last few weeks, the water along the edges of Onslow County has felt different.

    Not because the water itself has changed—but because something beneath it has become harder to ignore.

    Schools of cownose ray (Rhinoptera bonasus) move just below the surface nearshore, their wingbeats lifting faint clouds from the bottom as they pass. In the soundside shallows, where the water thins over sand and mud, Atlantic stingray (Hypanus sabinus) settle into the substrate, half-buried and nearly invisible until a step comes too close and the outline breaks.

    People are seeing them more often now—but they’re also reacting to them.

    A pause mid-step in shallow water.
    A quick shift backward when something moves.
    Fishermen lifting a line and stopping for a second longer than usual—not what they expected to find.

    There is awe in it.

    And sometimes hesitation.

    Because the same thing that makes them easy to notice now also makes them easy to miss.

    The question follows quickly:

    Are there more of them this year?

    Maybe.

    But that question lingers longer than the answer.

    Cownose rays migrating in Swansboro, NC. | Image credit: Pogie’s Academy
    Cownose rays migrating in Swansboro, NC. | Image credit: Pogie’s Academy

    What Brings Them Here

    As spring settles in along the North Carolina coast, the system begins to reorganize.

    Water temperatures rise, and with that rise comes a shift in metabolism. Rays—like many coastal species—become more active as conditions move into a narrower range that supports feeding and movement (Smith & Merriner, 1987; Schwartz & Dahlberg, 1978).

    For cownose rays, this seasonal transition includes a northward migration along the Atlantic coast, bringing large groups into nearshore and estuarine waters (Smith & Merriner, 1987).

    Large groups of cownose rays like these move north along our coast each season, arriving together in shallow water. | Image credit: Vidyacharan A. Alchi
    Large groups of cownose rays like these move north along our coast each season, arriving together in shallow water. | Image credit: Vidyacharan A. Alchi

    But movement alone does not explain what people are seeing.

    What matters is where that movement meets the structure of the environment.

    The water does not always look the same—some days it is flat and clear enough to see straight to the bottom, and other days the slightest movement turns it cloudy, changing what can be seen and what remains hidden (Peterson et al., 2001).

    And beneath all of it is food.

    Cownose rays move through the shallows, sweeping across the bottom and disrupting what lies beneath them, crushing clams, oysters, and other shelled invertebrates with broad, flattened tooth plates (Collins et al., 2007; Fisher, 2010).

    Atlantic stingrays hold low against the bottom, burying into the sand as they feed and working within the sediment itself—not moving across it—uncovering and drawing in small invertebrates hidden below (Snelson et al., 1988; Schwartz & Dahlberg, 1978).

    Atlantic stingrays hold close to the bottom, often blending in until something shifts and gives them away. | Image credit: Andy Murch
    Atlantic stingrays hold close to the bottom, often blending in until something shifts and gives them away. | Image credit: Andy Murch

    Where prey is accessible, rays follow.

    Where prey is concentrated in shallow, warming water, rays do not just pass through—they stay, turn, feed, and linger.

    And in doing so, they cross into the same narrow band of space where people enter the water (Bangley et al., 2018).

    They are not simply “here more.”

    They are here in ways—and in places—that make them visible.

    What Happens When They Feed

    When a ray feeds, the bottom does not remain the same.

    A cownose ray moving across a flat is not just searching—it is actively restructuring the surface beneath it. As it passes, the bottom is turned over behind it, patches of sand and mud disturbed where clams and other buried life have just been uncovered and crushed (Peterson et al., 2001; Smith & Merriner, 1985).

    Feeding pits left behind by rays. Easy to mistake for crab holes at first—until you start to recognize the pattern and what’s actually shaping the bottom. | Image credit: Giaroli et al., 2024
    Feeding pits left behind by rays. Easy to mistake for crab holes at first—until you start to recognize the pattern and what’s actually shaping the bottom. | Image credit: Giaroli et al., 2024

    Atlantic stingrays leave a different kind of trace. Where they settle, the surface shifts more subtly—small depressions, softened patches, places where the sediment has been worked rather than overturned, as buried invertebrates are uncovered and drawn in (Snelson et al., 1988; Schwartz & Dahlberg, 1978).

    This is bioturbation—the bottom being reworked by the animals moving through it and within it (Thrush & Dayton, 2002).

    As they feed, the bottom lifts into the water—fine particles rising and hanging there, turning clear water slightly cloudy (Thrush & Dayton, 2002).

    The water does not stay still—the bottom here is constantly shifting, the way much of this coastline does, even when it appears unchanged.

    And neither does the system.

    Oysters and clams quietly filter the water as they feed, and when their numbers shift—even in small areas—the water and everything moving through it begins to change with them (Newell, 2004; zu Ermgassen et al., 2013).

    In places where rays have been feeding, those filtering communities can be reduced or redistributed (Peterson et al., 2001).

    Not removed entirely—but changed.

    And that change does not stay in one place.

    It moves outward, carried in the way the water looks, the way it settles, and what it can hold.

    Layers of the Food Web

    Rays do not sit at the top of the system, and they are not at the bottom of it.

    As mesopredators, they feed on what is buried in the sediment, but they are also available to what moves through the water above. That position—between—links parts of the system that do not often meet directly (Myers et al., 2007; Heithaus et al., 2008).

    What they do in that space matters.

    As cownose rays move through andAtlantic stingrays work within the bottom, they are not just feeding—they are shaping what persists there. Clams, oysters, and other invertebrates do not simply accumulate unchecked. Their numbers are reduced, redistributed, and in some places kept from becoming dominant (Peterson et al., 2001).

    Movement like this doesn’t stay in one place for long.

    That pressure shapes the bottom itself.

    Bivalves filter the water. Invertebrates stabilize sediment. When their abundance shifts, the system responds—sometimes toward clearer water, sometimes toward more suspended material, depending on what remains and where (Newell, 2004; zu Ermgassen et al., 2013).

    Rays do not create those conditions alone—but they influence which direction the system moves.

    At the same time, they carry that energy upward.

    Juvenile sharks moving through these shallow waters encounter not just prey, but a system already in motion—areas where the bottom has been disturbed, where feeding has recently occurred, where something has been uncovered or displaced (Bangley et al., 2018).

    And in some cases, the rays themselves become part of that exchange.

    This is what it means to sit in the middle.

    Not just connecting layers—but regulating how energy and movement pass between them.

    If that middle shifts, the balance does not disappear.

    It changes direction.

    Why It Feels Sudden

    There is a moment, standing in shallow water, when the bottom stops feeling like something you can trust.

    What looked like sand shifts.
    What felt still is no longer still.

    Sometimes you notice it in time—a shape lifting away, a shadow moving just beneath the surface. A plume of fine sediment rising to the surface under a paddleboard with a trail following it.

    The moment when the bottom stops looking empty. | Image credit: iStock
    The moment when the bottom stops looking empty. | Image credit: iStock

    Sometimes you don’t.

    A step comes down where something is already settled.
    Hidden in the sand.
    Working within it.

    The reaction is immediate.
    Surprise first. Then pain. Then the realization of what was there all along.

    It is easy, in that moment, to think something unexpected has happened—the same kind of sudden awareness that comes when something just beneath the surface reveals itself.

    But what you are stepping into is not a single event.

    It is a convergence.

    Water temperatures have risen, bringing rays into the shallows as they feed and move through these systems (Smith & Merriner, 1987; Schwartz & Dahlberg, 1978).

    Tides narrow the space, concentrating movement into a thinner band of water.

    The bottom has already been worked—turned by cownose rays moving through, disturbed by Atlantic stingrays holding within it.

    And at the same time, people have returned to the water.

    For a brief window, all of it overlaps.

    Not more.
    But more visible.

    It feels sudden because you are standing at the point where all of these things meet.

    And for a moment, the system lets you see it.

    References

    Bangley, C. W., Paramore, L., Dedman, S., & Rulifson, R. A. (2018). Delineation and mapping of coastal shark habitat within a shallow lagoonal Estuary. PLOS ONE, 13(4), e0195221. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0195221

    Giaroli, M. L., Byrne, I., Gilby, B. L., Taylor, M., Chargulaf, C. A., & Tibbetts, I. R. (2024). The distribution and significance of stingray feeding pits in Quandamooka (Moreton Bay), Australia. Marine and Freshwater Research, 75(18). https://doi.org/10.1071/mf23247

    Heithaus, M. R., Frid, A., Wirsing, A. J., & Worm, B. (2008). Predicting ecological consequences of marine top predator declines. Trends in Ecology & Evolution, 23(4), 202-210. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tree.2008.01.003

    Kolmann, M. A., Huber, D. R., Motta, P. J., & Grubbs, R. D. (2015). Feeding biomechanics of the cownose ray, Rhinoptera bonasus, over ontogeny. Journal of Anatomy, 227(3), 341-351. https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/full/10.1111/joa.12342

    Myers, R. A., Baum, J. K., Shepherd, T. D., Powers, S. P., & Peterson, C. H. (2007). Cascading effects of the loss of APEX predatory sharks from a coastal ocean. Science, 315(5820), 1846-1850. https://doi.org/10.1126/science.1138657

    Newell, R. I. (2004). Ecosystem influences of natural and cultivated populations of suspension-feeding bivalve molluscs: A review. 23(1), 51–61. Journal of Shellfish Research, 23(1), 51-61. https://go.gale.com/ps/i.do?id=GALE%7CA118543914

    Peterson, C. H., Fodrie, J. F., Summerson, H. C., & Powers, S. P. (2001). Site-specific and density-dependent extinction of prey by schooling rays: generation of a population sink in top-quality habitat for bay scallops. Oecologia, 129, 349-356. https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s004420100742

    Schwartz, F. J., & Dahlberg, M. D. (1978). Biology and ecology of the Atlantic Stingray, Dasyatis Sabina (Pisces: Dasyatidae) in North Carolina and Georgia. Northeast Gulf Science, 2(1). https://doi.org/10.18785/negs.0201.01

    Smith, J. W., & Merriner, J. V. (1985). Food habits and feeding behavior of the Cownose ray, Rhinoptera bonasus, in lower Chesapeake Bay. Estuaries, 8(3), 305. https://doi.org/10.2307/1351491

    Smith, J. W., & Merriner, J. V. (1987). Age and growth, movements and distribution of the Cownose ray, Rhinoptera bonasus, in Chesapeake Bay. Estuaries, 10(2), 153. https://doi.org/10.2307/1352180

    Snelson, F. F., Williams-Hooper, S. E., & Schmid, T. H. (1988). Reproduction and ecology of the Atlantic Stingray, Dasyatis Sabina, in Florida coastal lagoons. Copeia, 1988(3), 729. https://doi.org/10.2307/1445395

    Thrush, S. F., & Dayton, P. K. (2002). Disturbance to marine benthic habitats by trawling and dredging: Implications for marine biodiversity. Annual Review of Ecology and Systematics, 33(1), 449-473. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev.ecolsys.33.010802.150515

    Zu Ermgassen, P. S., Spalding, M. D., Blake, B., Coen, L. D., Dumbauld, B., Geiger, S., Grabowski, J. H., Grizzle, R., Luckenbach, M., McGraw, K., Rodney, W., Ruesink, J. L., Powers, S. P., & Brumbaugh, R. (2012). Historical ecology with real numbers: Past and present extent and biomass of an imperilled estuarine habitat. Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 279(1742), 3393-3400. https://doi.org/10.1098/rspb.2012.0313

  • Threshold Species at the Year’s Turn

    Threshold Species at the Year’s Turn

    Winter birds and hidden skates in a changing coastal system

    Late December along the coast does not announce itself loudly. The holidays have passed, the shoreline empties, and the light—almost imperceptibly—begins to return. The winter solstice marks the shortest day of the year, but its ecological counterpart is quieter. The water does not reset. It settles.

    This is the moment when the coastal ecosystem stops negotiating with the season and begins to accept it. That acceptance is visible, if you know where to look—above the waterline in the form of a small diving duck, and below the surface in the stillness of a benthic predator that does not announce its presence at all.

    In our region, ecologists recognize certain animals as threshold species: species whose presence, or subtle change in behavior, signals that the system has crossed a seasonal threshold in energy, behavior, and stability — moving from late year into what comes next.

    Above the Water: When Winter Is No Longer a Question

    Male (left) and female (right) Bufflehead ducks enjoying a winter swim | Photo credit: Judy Gallagher, iNaturalist

    By late December, one species begins to appear with quiet regularity across protected sounds and estuaries: the Bufflehead (Bucephala albeola).

    Buffleheads are not early winter arrivals. They do not surge in during the first cold fronts of autumn, nor do they linger indecisively during seasonal transition. Instead, their presence reflects commitment. By the time buffleheads settle into coastal waters, water temperatures have stabilized at winter lows, turbulence has eased in protected areas, and benthic prey communities—particularly small crustaceans and mollusks—have shifted into predictable winter distributions (Eadie et al., 2000; Goudie et al., 1994).

    Ecologically, buffleheads are specialists. They forage by diving, relying on clear water and reliable prey patches. Their winter distribution is shaped not by calendar dates but by energy economics: cold water increases metabolic demands, and winter habitats must reliably repay that cost (Eadie & Kehoe, 2022). Where buffleheads remain, the system has crossed a threshold from fluctuation to stability.

    In this way, they function less as migrants and more as indicators. Their presence signals that the coastal year has finished rearranging itself. Winter has arrived—not dramatically, but decisively.

    Below the Water: When Stillness Makes Life Visible

    Clearnose skate in winter waters | Photo credit: NOAA Fisheries

    Below the surface, the signal is subtler.

    Skates do not arrive in winter with the clarity of birds overhead. Species such as the Clearnose skate (Rostroraja eglanteria) are present along the southeastern U.S. coast throughout much of the year. What changes in late December is not their location, but their visibility.

    As water temperatures drop, skates reduce activity, conserving energy through decreased movement and prolonged periods of resting on the seafloor (Di Santo & Bennett, 2011). This metabolic slowdown coincides with seasonal increases in water clarity driven by reduced biological productivity, lower sediment resuspension, and diminished boat traffic (Cloern et al., 2014). The result is a paradox: winter reveals what summer conceals.

    In these conditions, skates become easier to observe—not because they have increased in number, but because the system itself has slowed enough to make persistence visible. Their flattened bodies blend seamlessly into sandy or muddy substrates, a strategy optimized for ambush predation and energy conservation rather than movement (Carrier et al., 2012).

    If buffleheads announce that winter has settled, skates confirm it. They represent endurance over motion, patience over migration.

    The Ecological Hinge Between Years

    Neither of these species marks a beginning. Neither signals renewal or arrival in the way spring migrants do. Instead, they occupy the hinge between years—the moment when the ecosystem accepts the constraints of winter and reorganizes around them.

    Late December is not biologically empty. It is a period of recalibration. Energy budgets tighten. Movements become deliberate. Survival depends less on abundance than on efficiency.

    Above the water, buffleheads gather where the math works. Below it, skates persist by minimizing expenditure altogether. One is easily seen, the other almost never. Together, they reveal the same truth: the system has crossed a line.

    After the Turn

    January will bring its own changes. Cold will deepen, or ease. Migratory patterns will sharpen. New signals will emerge. But the moment just after the solstice—just after the holidays—is different. It is when the coast pauses, holds, and commits.

    The year does not turn loudly here.
    It settles, and then it holds.

    References

    Carrier, J. C., Musick, J. A., & Heithaus, M. R. (2012). Biology of sharks and their relatives (2nd ed.). CRC Press. https://doi.org/10.1201/b11867 

    Cloern, J. E., Foster, S. Q., & Kleckner, A. E. (2014). Phytoplankton primary production in the world’s estuarine–coastal ecosystems. Biogeosciences, 11(9), 2477–2501. https://doi.org/10.5194/bg-11-2477-2014 

    Di Santo, V., & Bennett, W. A. (2011). Is post-feeding thermotaxis advantageous in elasmobranch fishes? Journal of Fish Biology, 78(7), 1950–1965. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1095-8649.2011.02976.x 

    Eadie, J. M., & Kehoe, F. P. (2022). Energetics and foraging ecology of diving ducks. In P. G. Rodewald (Ed.), The birds of North America. Cornell Lab of Ornithology.
    https://doi.org/10.2173/bna 

    Eadie, J. M., Savard, J. P. L., & Mallory, M. L. (2000). Barrow’s Goldeneye (Bucephala islandica) and Bufflehead (Bucephala albeola). In A. Poole & F. Gill (Eds.), The birds of North America. Cornell Lab of Ornithology. https://doi.org/10.2173/bna.548 

    Goudie, R. I., Brault, S., Conant, B., Kondratyev, A. V., Petersen, M. R., & Vermeer, K. (1994). The status of sea ducks in the North Pacific Rim: Toward their conservation. Transactions of the North American Wildlife and Natural Resources Conference, 59, 27–49. https://pubs.usgs.gov/publication/70187692

  • More than Armor: How Shark Skin Shapes Survival

    More than Armor: How Shark Skin Shapes Survival

    Have you ever wondered why, if you touch a shark from head to fin, it feels smooth—but from fin to head, it’s skin is rough like sandpaper? Sharks and rays (elasmobranchs) share a common “armor” made of tooth-like dermal denticles (shark skin) embedded over a collagen-rich dermis. This design grants abrasion resistance, drag reduction, and strong defenses against biofouling. And they heal fast!

    But denticle shape, size, density, and even skin thickness differ by species, sex, body region, and life stage. Around Onslow County, that means an Atlantic sharpnose shark doesn’t “feel” or function exactly like a spiny dogfish. A blacktip’s leading-edge denticles aren’t the same as those along its flank, and a cownose ray’s smoother disc tells a completely different hydrodynamic story than nearby requiem sharks.

    This diversity in structure and function is not just fascinating—it’s functional biology in action, shaping how local species move, heal, and interact with the waters along Onslow County.

    What all elasmobranch skin has in common

    Dermal denticles (placoid scales)

    Great white shark denticles
    Great white shark denticles | © Trevor Sewell/Electron Microscope Unit, University of Cape Town

    Sharks and rays share an external armor of dermal denticles—tiny tooth-like structures that reduce drag, resist abrasion, and deter fouling (Domel et al., 2018; Feld et al., 2019). These micro-ridges even inspire engineered materials designed to minimize friction and bacterial attachment (Arisoy et al., 2018; Sakamoto et al., 2014).

    A collagen-rich dermis

    Dogfish dermis
    Dogfish Dermis | From Shark dissection, Mayfield Schools, n. d. https://www.mayfieldschools.org/Downloads/sharkdissection%20%281%29.pdf

    Beneath those denticles lies a collagen-dense dermis that anchors and supports them, distributing stress and contributing to flexibility and toughness (Hagood et al., 2023, 2025). 

    Rapid wound healing

    Examples of wounds found on great white sharks
    Examples of wounds found on great white sharks | From A classification system for wounds and scars observed on white sharks (Carcharodon carcharias), Anderson et al., 2025.

    Many sharks heal rapidly—re-epithelializing within days and closing large injuries in weeks to months (Womersley et al., 2021).

    Where shark skin differs: species, sex, body region & ontogeny

    Shark skin of an Atlantic spiny dogfish
    Shark skin of an Atlantic spiny dogfish | From Dermal denticles of three slowly swimming shark species: Microscopy and flow visualization, Feld et al., 2019.

    Species differences.
    Denticle shape, ridge count, and spacing vary by ecology. Pelagic species emphasize hydrodynamics, while benthic species prioritize abrasion resistance (Feld et al., 2019).

    Body-region mosaics.
    Different zones of the same shark serve unique functions: snouts may have smooth, tile-like denticles; trunk and fin edges feature ridged, flow-controlling types (Gabler-Smith et al., 2021).

    Sexual dimorphism and mechanical variation.
    Hagood et al. (2023) found that male and female sharks differ in denticle structure and stiffness—traits likely linked to mating behavior and mechanical stress.

    Ontogenetic and ecomorphological changes.
    As sharks grow, skin stiffness and collagen fiber orientation evolve, tuning hydrodynamic and mechanical performance (Hagood et al., 2025).

    Sharks vs. rays (and skates): same toolkit, different emphasis

    Fossil dermal denticle of a ray found in North Carolina | From Ray Dermal Denticle (post by user “Al Dente”, May 31, 2011, https://www.thefossilforum.com/topic/21344-ray-dermal-denticle/

    Rays and skates share the elasmobranch blueprint but apply it differently. Cownose rays (Rhinoptera bonasus) maintain smooth discs for gliding over sand, concentrating tougher denticles along midlines or tails. Stingrays, meanwhile, modify certain denticles into venomous spines—an adaptation to benthic life (Smith & Merriner, 1987).

    Mucus: the invisible modifier

    Fischer, Lauder, and Wainwright (2025) discovered that mucus secretion selectively coats certain body regions, altering roughness, ridge exposure, and tactile function. This flexible coating regulates drag, microbial colonization, and frictional properties. Combined with collagen variation (Hagood et al., 2023, 2025), it reveals shark skin as a living, adaptive surface rather than static armor.

    Mucus being collected from blacktip reef sharks | By Mauvis Gore

    Local lens: Onslow County species & mucus implications

    • Atlantic sharpnose shark (Rhizoprionodon terraenovae) — Mucus along fin and tail tips fine-tunes hydrodynamics (Fischer et al., 2025).
    • Blacktip shark (Carcharhinus limbatus) — Fin-tip mucus reduces flow separation during rapid bursts (Domel et al., 2018; Fischer et al., 2025).
    • Spiny dogfish (Squalus acanthias) — Abrasion-resistant denticles limit fouling; mucus films aid transitions (Feld et al., 2019; Pogoreutz et al., 2019).
    • Bonnethead (Sphyrna tiburo) — Mucus along cephalofoil edges smooths high-shear zones (Fischer et al., 2025; Doane et al., 2020).
    • Cownose ray (Rhinoptera bonasus) — Disc-margin mucus reduces friction and microbial buildup (Smith & Merriner, 1987; Pogoreutz et al., 2019).

    Microflow around denticles: visualizing eddies and recirculation

    Feld et al. (2019) used microscopy and micro-Particle Image Velocimetry to reveal recirculation bubbles and coherent vortices downstream of denticle ridges. Even at low speeds, these micro-eddies enhance self-cleaning and reduce fouling by increasing localized shear stress. In Onslow County’s spiny dogfish and other bottom dwellers, such micro-flow effects likely complement mucus modulation (Fischer et al., 2025) and the micro-whirlpools described by Choi (2012), confirming that shark skin actively interacts with flow.

    Microstructure and biomimetic insights

    Gabler-Smith et al. (2022) compared natural shark denticle surfaces to engineered riblet models and found that synthetic designs fail to capture the fine ridge geometry and spacing that real denticles use to control turbulent flow. These ridges, grooves, and curvature features are essential for maintaining boundary layer stability and minimizing drag.

    Flow control and denticle bristling in the shortfin mako shark (Isurus oxyrinchus). The outward flare of dermal denticles reduces drag by preventing flow separation and wake turbulence. |
    From “The speedy secret of shark skin,” by A. W. Lang, 2020, Physics Today, 73(4), 62–63. (2020).

    Building on that foundation, Lang (2020) demonstrated that shortfin mako sharks (Isurus oxyrinchus) take this mechanical sophistication a step further. Their denticles can actively bristle—flexing outward up to 50° in milliseconds when the local flow begins to reverse. This rapid, passive response delays flow separation, reduces pressure drag, and smooths turbulent eddies. In essence, mako skin behaves like a living flow-control surface that adjusts dynamically to hydrodynamic forces.

    Lang’s work underscores that the mako’s speed and efficiency derive not only from its streamlined body but also from this microstructural flexibility. When viewed alongside the mini-whirlpool mechanisms observed by Choi (2012) and the mucus-texture modulation reported by Fischer et al. (2025), it becomes clear that shark skin represents a hierarchy of adaptive flow solutions—ranging from microscopic bristling denticles to chemical and structural tuning at the surface.

    For Onslow County species such as blacktip and spinner sharks, similar flow-adaptive strategies likely exist at smaller scales: flexible denticle alignment, mucus film adjustment, or localized stiffening along the fin and tail margins. Together, these traits demonstrate how elasmobranch skin functions as both armor and engine, a natural template for future biomimetic technologies in marine and aerospace design.

    Mini whirlpools and flexible flow control

    According to LiveScience, flexible shark skin samples generate tiny whirlpools that enhance propulsion when the surface bends dynamically (Choi, 2012). These results, together with mucus smoothing and collagen adaptability, show that shark skin functions as an active flow-control system—part armor, part hydrodynamic engine (Fischer et al., 2025; Hagood et al., 2023, 2025).

    Interfacing skin, gills, and chemical exposure

    Fish gills actively metabolize dissolved substances. Similarly, shark mucus and microbiome layers may act as chemical filters, reducing exposure to pollutants in Onslow County’s estuarine waters (Wood & Giacomin, 2016).

    Conservation and historical context: denticles as time capsules

    Scanning electron micrograph of fossil dermal denticles illustration functional morphotypes and ridge spacing | From Dillon, O’Dea & Norris, 2017, Fig. 2.

    Beyond living sharks, dermal denticles persist long after death, providing a fossil record of shark diversity. Researchers have extracted and identified denticles from reef sediments to reconstruct past shark communities—essentially using these microscopic scales as ecological fingerprints through time (Dillon, 2015). Applying similar sediment-based studies to the Onslow County coast could help reveal how local shark assemblages have changed, offering a baseline for modern conservation and recovery efforts.

    Functional synergy in Onslow County sharks

    FunctionBiological BasisExample in Onslow County Species
    Drag reduction & flow controlDenticle ridges, mucus overlays, and flexible flow (Domel et al., 2018; Fischer et al., 2025; Choi, 2012)Blacktip & sharpnose sharks
    Mechanical resilienceCollagen and denticle variation (Hagood et al., 2023, 2025)Juvenile vs. adult bonnetheads
    Microbiome stabilityDenticle–mucus regulation (Doane et al., 2020; Pogoreutz et al., 2019)Coastal species
    Chemical protectionSkin–mucus detox filtering (Feeding through your gills…, 2016)Estuarine sharks & rays
    Self-cleaning microflowRecirculating eddies near denticles (Feld et al., 2019)Atlantic spiny dogfish
    Paleo-conservation insightFossilized denticle records (Dillon, 2015)Coastal sediment archives
    Healing & maintenanceRapid re-epithelialization (Womersley et al., 2021)Atlantic spiny dogfish & cownose rays

    References

    Anderson, S. D., Kanive, P. E., Chapple, T. K., Andrzejaczek, S., Block, B. A., & Jorgensen, S. J. (2025). A classification system for wounds and scars observed on white sharks (Carcharodon carcharias). Frontiers in Marine Science, 12, Article 1520348. https://doi.org/10.3389/fmars.2025.1520348

    Arisoy, F. D., Gurkan, U. A., Yagci, B. B., Calamak, S., Dokmeci, M. R., & Demirci, U. (2018). Bioinspired photocatalytic shark-skin surfaces with antibacterial properties. Scientific Reports, 8, 16363. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-018-34334-1 

    Choi, C. Q. (2012, February 21). Sharks’ scales create tiny whirlpools for speedy swimming. LiveScience. https://www.livescience.com/18385-shark-skin-mini-whirlpools.html

    Dillon, E. (2015, October 9). Shark skin sleuthing. Save Our Seas Foundation. https://saveourseas.com/update/shark-skinsleuthing/

    Dillon, E. M., O’Dea, A., & Norris, R. D. (2017). Dermal denticles as a tool to reconstruct shark communities. Marine Ecology Progress Series, 566, 117–134. https://doi.org/10.3354/meps12018

    Doane, M. P., Haggerty, J. M., Kacev, D., Papudeshi, B., & Dinsdale, E. A. (2020). The skin microbiome of elasmobranchs follows phylosymbiosis, but in teleost fishes, the microbiomes converge. Microbiome, 8(1), 123. https://doi.org/10.1186/s40168-020-00840-x 

    Domel, A. G., Weaver, J. C., Haj-Hossein, I., Wang, Z., Bertoldi, K., Lauder, G. V., & Vaziri, A. (2018). Shark skin-inspired designs that improve aerodynamic performance. Journal of the Royal Society Interface, 15(140), 20170828. https://doi.org/10.1098/rsif.2017.0828 

    Wood, C., Giacomin, M. (2016) Feeding through your gills and turning a toxicant into a solution. Journal of Experimental Biology, 219(20), 3218–3228. https://doi.org/10.1242/jeb.145625 

    Feld, K., Kolborg, A. N., Nyborg, C. M., Salewski, M., Steffensen, J. F., & Berg-Sørensen, K. (2019). Dermal denticles of three slowly swimming shark species: Microscopy and flow visualization. Biomimetics, 4(2), 38. https://doi.org/10.3390/biomimetics4020038 

    Fischer, M. J., Lauder, G. V., & Wainwright, D. K. (2025). Slippery and smooth shark skin: How mucus transforms surface texture. Journal of Morphology, 286(4), e70046. https://doi.org/10.1002/jmor.70046 

    Gabler-Smith, M. K., Lauder, G. V., et al. (2022). Ridges and riblets: Shark skin surfaces versus biomimetic models. Frontiers in Marine Science, 9, 975062. https://doi.org/10.3389/fmars.2022.975062 

    Gabler-Smith, M. K., Staab, K. L., & Motta, P. J. (2021). Dermal denticle diversity in sharks: Novel patterns on the interbranchial skin. Biology Letters, 17(12), 20210349. https://doi.org/10.1098/rsbl.2021.0349 

    Hagood, M. E., Motta, P. J., Staab, K. L., & Porter, M. E. (2023). Relationships in shark skin: Mechanical and morphological correlates of dermal denticles. Integrative and Comparative Biology, 63(6), 1154–1166. https://doi.org/10.1093/icb/icad085 

    Hagood, M. E., Wainwright, D. K., Motta, P. J., & Vaziri, A. (2025). Ecomorphology and ontogeny modulate the mechanical properties of shark skin. Journal of Experimental Zoology Part B: Molecular and Developmental Evolution. Advance online publication. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jcz.2025.xxxxxx 

    Lang, A. W. (2020, April). The speedy secret of shark skin. Physics Today, 73(4), 62–63. https://digital.physicstoday.org/physicstoday/april_2020/MobilePagedArticle.action?articleId=1575067

    Pogoreutz, C., Yakob, L., Zhang, Y., Al-Saoudi, N. H., Olsson, A., El-Sherbiny, M., … Hajdu, E. (2019). Similar bacterial communities on healthy and injured shark skin samples suggest absence of severe bacterial infections. Animal Microbiome, 1, 11. https://doi.org/10.1186/s42523-019-0011-5 

    Sakamoto, A., Oikawa, K., & Yamaguchi, M. (2014). Antibacterial effects of protruding and recessed shark-skin micropatterned surfaces. Biofouling, 30(5), 593–602. https://doi.org/10.1080/08927014.2014.930720 

    Smith, J. W., & Merriner, J. V. (1987). Age and growth, movements and distribution of the cownose ray (Rhinoptera bonasus) in the western North Atlantic Ocean. Environmental Biology of Fishes, 20, 233–242. https://doi.org/10.1007/BF00004913 

    Womersley, F., Rohner, C. A., Gibbons, M. J., Richardson, A. J., & Jaine, F. R. A. (2021). Wound-healing capabilities of whale sharks (Rhincodon typus). Conservation Physiology, 9(1), coaa137. https://doi.org/10.1093/conphys/coaa137

  • Flat-Finned Neighbors: Rays and Skates Along Topsail & New River

    Flat-Finned Neighbors: Rays and Skates Along Topsail & New River

    If you love watching for fins in Onslow County, remember: not every fin belongs to a shark. Sharks, rays, skates, and sawfishes are all elasmobranchs—cartilaginous fishes with skeletons of flexible cartilage instead of bone. Along our beaches and in the New River estuary, you’ll most often meet rays and skates, the sharks’ closest cousins. Below are the species you’re most likely to spot, when they show up, what they eat, who eats them, their environmental preferences, and their conservation status.

    Quick ID: Ray vs. Skate

    • Rays generally have a whip-like tail; many (not all) have a venomous spine.
    • Skates lack a stinging spine and often have small dorsal fins near the tail tip.
    • Both glide over sand flats, sounds, and estuary mouths where they vacuum up clams, crabs, and small fishes.
    skates and ray anatomical differences
    Credit: Florida Museum

    Atlantic Stingray (Hypanus sabinus) — Our year-round neighbor in the estuary

    Small, spade-shaped, and sand-colored, the Atlantic stingray frequents shallow, warm, and often brackish waters, including the lower New River and surf zones off Topsail. It’s one of the most euryhaline elasmobranchs (tolerant of a wide salinity range), which is why folks see them from tidal creeks to nearshore surf (Johnson & Snelson, 1996).

    When to look: Late spring through fall in very shallow water on warm days (watch for “flying” jumps as they evade predators or parasites).

    Give them space: Shuffle your feet in the shallows to avoid accidental tail-spine contact.

    Diet (Prey): Worms, amphipods, small crustaceans, and mollusks, dug up from the sandy bottom.
    Predators: Large sharks (bull, hammerhead), some large fish (groupers, snappers), and wading birds preying on juveniles.

    Conservation status:

    • IUCN: Least Concern.
    • U.S. Status: Not protected under ESA or CITES; not managed in fisheries.
      Note: Stable populations, though freshwater groups sometimes show reproductive decline tied to water quality.
    hypanus sabinus

    Cownose Ray (Rhinoptera bonasus) — The bronze “wings” of summer

    Bronze-backed and wing-tipped, cownose rays cruise past Topsail in late spring and summer, sometimes in tight schools. Large multi-year telemetry studies show cownose rays migrate seasonally along the Atlantic coast, using mid-Atlantic estuaries for pupping and mating, then overwintering off central Florida (Ogburn et al., 2018).

    Local note: Schools moving along Onslow County beaches are most common mid- to late summer, especially on calm, clear mornings.

    Diet (Prey): Hard-shelled bivalves (clams, oysters, scallops) and crabs, crushed with strong dental plates.
    Predators: Large sharks such as sandbar, bull, and tiger sharks.

    Conservation status:

    • IUCN: Vulnerable.
    • U.S. Status: Not federally protected; some states (e.g., Maryland) have moratoria on killing contests.

    Note: At risk due to low reproductive rates, heavy schooling, and targeted culling in parts of its range.

    Rhinoptera bonasus

    Butterfly Ray (Genus Gymnura) — Rare, paper-thin glider

    Two butterfly rays—smooth butterfly ray and spiny butterfly ray—occur only sporadically here, near the northern edge of their ranges. Long-term sampling in Onslow Bay recorded both species mostly April–November, usually as young individuals (Schwartz, 2011).

    Where to look: Quiet sandy flats adjacent to inlets during warm months—rare sightings, treat them as a bonus.

    Diet (Prey): Small benthic fishes, shrimp, and crabs.
    Predators: Large sharks, particularly sandbar and hammerhead.

    Conservation status:

    • IUCN: Endangered (spiny butterfly ray).
    • U.S. Status: Not listed under ESA or CITES.

    Note: Populations declining globally; extremely rare in NC, where records are incidental.

    Gymnura species

    Clearnose Skate (Raja eglanteria) — The subtle, spotted skate

    Clearnose skates favor our nearshore sandy bottom habitats and show up all year, with peak catches outside the hottest months. In a recent year-round analysis of the North Carolina nearshore elasmobranch community, clearnose skates were among the most abundant species and were often juveniles, highlighting how our inner shelf provides important habitat (Roskar et al., 2024).

    Local tip: Anglers bottom-fishing near the bar or just off the beach encounter skates more often in the cooler seasons.

    Diet (Prey): Worms, amphipods, squid, and small fishes suctioned from the sand.
    Predators: Large sharks (sandbar, sand tiger, smooth dogfish) and occasionally other large rays or skates.

    Conservation status:

    • IUCN: Least Concern.
    • U.S. Status: Not protected individually, but included in the Northeast Skate Complex Fishery Management Plan, from Maine to Cape Hatteras, NC.

    Note: Common, often caught as bycatch; no special protections beyond fishery quotas.

    Raja eglanteria

    Mermaid’s Purses & Season Guide

    Elasmobranch egg cases—often called “mermaid’s purses”—sometimes wash up on our beaches in Onslow County. They are protective capsules laid by skates (relatives of sharks and rays). Each capsule once held a developing embryo. If you find one, it will most likely be an egg casing of a clearnose skate.

    Rays and stingrays (Atlantic stingray, cownose ray, butterfly rays) give birth to live pups—so their egg cases will never be found.
    Skates (like clearnose skate) are oviparous and the main source of egg cases on our shores.

    Clearnose skate egg casing or mermaid's purse

    Seasonal Timing in Onslow County

    SpeciesEgg Case SeasonWhat to Expect on Beaches
    Clearnose SkateSpring–Summer (Apr–Jul)Freshly laid egg cases in spring; more likely to wash ashore in late spring/early summer.
    Little Skate (rare in Onslow)Spring (Apr–May) & Fall (Oct–Dec)Occasionally reported; smaller cases than clearnose.
    Atlantic Stingray, Cownose Ray, Butterfly RaysNoneLive-bearers (no egg cases).

    Environmental Preferences: Temperature & Salinity

    The presence of rays and skates in Onslow County shifts with water temperature and salinity. These factors determine when species move inshore, offshore, or migrate seasonally.

    SpeciesTemperature PreferenceSalinity ToleranceSeasonal Pattern in Onslow Co.
    Atlantic Stingray15–30 °C (59–86 °F); prefers warm shallowsFreshwater → marine (highly euryhaline)Common spring–fall in estuary & surf
    Cownose Ray20–30 °C (68–86 °F)Marine & brackish; avoids freshwaterPeaks summer (Jun–Sep) in schools
    Butterfly Rays20–30 °C (68–86 °F)Marine & estuarineRare, Apr–Nov in warm surf/inlets
    Clearnose Skate10–25 °C (50–77 °F); cooler monthsMostly marine; avoids low salinityMost common fall–spring nearshore
    Smalltooth Sawfish>20 °C (68 °F); cold-sensitiveMarine & brackish estuariesHistorically summer visitor; now extirpated locally

    A seasonal cast: What rotates through Onslow waters and when?

    Multiple studies show our coast hosts a seasonally shifting elasmobranch assemblage—from warm-season rays nearshore to cool-season species on the inner shelf—driven largely by temperature. While many surveys historically emphasized sharks, batoids (rays & skates) make up a large fraction of biomass on our continental shelf, and Onslow’s inner shelf and estuary mouths act as corridors and nurseries through the year (Roskar et al., 2024).

    What about sawfish?

    Smalltooth sawfish (Pristis pectinata)—a ray with a chainsaw-like rostrum—is the most likely sawfish historically near NC, with a U.S. range that once extended to North Carolina. Today, it’s critically endangered and largely restricted to Florida, with only rare Northern reports (Brame et al., 2019).

    Diet (Prey): Small schooling fishes (mullets, herrings) and crustaceans, stunned or stirred up with its saw-like snout.
    Predators: Juveniles preyed on by large sharks; adults have few natural predators.If you ever encounter one, do not handle—it is federally protected.

    Pristis pectinata

    Conservation & Ecology Summary Table

    SpeciesIUCN StatusU.S. StatusPrey (Diet)Predators
    Atlantic Stingray (H. sabinus)Least ConcernNot protectedWorms, crustaceans, mollusksSharks, large fish, birds (juveniles)
    Cownose Ray (R. bonasus)VulnerableNot federally listedClams, oysters, scallops, crabsSharks (bull, tiger, sandbar)
    Clearnose Skate (R. eglanteria)Least ConcernManaged in Northeast Skate FMPWorms, amphipods, squid, small fishSharks, rays, humans (bycatch)
    Spiny Butterfly Ray (G. altavela)EndangeredNo U.S. federal listingSmall fish, shrimp, crabsSharks
    Smalltooth Sawfish (P. pectinata)Critically EndangeredESA Endangered; CITES Appendix ISmall fishes, crustaceansSharks (juveniles); few as adults

    How our community can help

    • Observe & report: Photograph rays, skates, or egg cases (from a safe distance) and note date, location, water conditions.
    • Respect nursery areas: Summer shallows often host juveniles; avoid disturbing resting rays.
    • Support clean water projects: Healthy estuary bottoms = healthy benthic prey = healthier ray & skate populations.

    References

    Brame, A. B., Wiley, T., Carlson, J., Fordham, S., Musick, J., & Grubbs, R. D. (2019). Biology, ecology, and status of the smalltooth sawfish Pristis pectinata in the USA. Endangered Species Research, 39, 9–23. https://doi.org/10.3354/esr00947

    Johnson, M. R., & Snelson, F. F., Jr. (1996). Reproductive life history of the Atlantic stingray, Dasyatis sabina (Pisces, Dasyatidae), in the freshwater St. Johns River, Florida. Bulletin of Marine Science, 59(1), 74–88.

    Ogburn, M. B., Bangley, C. W., Aguilar, R., Fisher, R. A., Curran, M. C., Webb, S. F., & Hines, A. H. (2018). Migratory connectivity and philopatry of cownose rays Rhinoptera bonasus along the Atlantic coast, USA. Marine Ecology Progress Series, 602, 197–211. https://doi.org/10.3354/meps12686

    Roskar, G., Morley, J. W., & Buckel, J. A. (2024). Seasonality and relative abundance within an elasmobranch assemblage near a major biogeographic divide. PLOS ONE, 19(6), e0300697. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0300697

    Schwartz, F. J. (2011). Butterfly rays (Gymnuridae) of North Carolina. Journal of the North Carolina Academy of Science, 127(4), 275–284.

    Sulikowski, J. A., Williams, L. J., Kneebone, J., & Tsang, P. C. W. (2022). Rangewide population structure of the clearnose skate Raja eglanteria. Transactions of the American Fisheries Society, 151(2), 143–155. https://doi.org/10.1002/tafs.10351

    NOAA Fisheries. (n.d.). Smalltooth Sawfish (Pristis pectinata). Retrieved 2025, from https://www.fisheries.noaa.gov/species/smalltooth-sawfish