It was legal to fish bull sharks in Florida as long as they met the size requirements. The fishermen hadn’t done anything wrong. They just didn't have the right fish.
Ariel Riven was present. She didn’t miss the opportunity to step in front of the lens for an interview with Paris. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. There are hundreds of boats out there right now, fishing sharks out of the water for no good reason. There's no way that most of these boats could even handle a shark the size that killed the prior victims.”
This was a powder keg waiting to explode. It started with the protesters hurling bottles and cans at the fishermen. Glass shattered against the hull of the fishing trawler.
The fisherman threw stuff back.
Uniformed deputies closed in to break up the crowd, but there was a lot of pushback.
One of the fishermen transferred to the dock and had a few heated words with a protester.
The protestor shoved him.
The fisherman shoved back.
The protestor threw a right hook, which looked like the first punch he’d ever thrown.
A bad move.
The fisherman made short work of the protester. His heavy fist connected with the protester’s jaw and dropped him. The guy was out.
The angry crowd closed in and started beating and kicking the fisherman. Soon, he was down on the ground.
The protestors swarmed.
More fishermen joined in.
JD and I weaved through the crowd with the other deputies and started pulling people apart. It was pure chaos, like a mosh pit at a metal concert. Random punches flew in all directions.
Paris and her crew backed up but managed to keep the camera rolling. This was valuable footage. Prime time entertainment.
More deputies arrived in riot gear with pepper spray, shields, and face masks. The sharp smell of capsaicin filled the air as the red mist brought pain and misery. Even if you didn't get shot in the face with it, the over-spray was enough to sting and water your eyes.
We finally broke up the fray and made arrests, but not before Ariel got a stray punch to the face. The wayward fist missed its intended target and crunched her cheek.
She flopped like a rag doll, out cold.
The guy who hit her took off running.
I rushed to her, knelt down, and did a quick check. A purple knot already swelled her cheek, which was scuffed with a minor abrasion. Her jaw didn't look broken. No trauma to her neck.
I scooped her up and carried her out of harm’s way as the horde stampeded off the dock, trying to escape arrest. Footsteps shuffled. People pushed and shoved. Screams and shrieks filled the air. Ariel’s limp body sagged against my arms, deadweight.
EMTs and paramedics were on the scene to treat the injured.
By the time I got to them, her eyes began to flutter. A little dazed, Ariel glanced around with confused eyes.
The EMTs did a quick eval, shining a light into her eyes, asking her basic questions. “What’s your name?”
“Ariel.”
“What day is it?”
She went blank for a moment. “Today.”
The EMT chuckled. “Where are we?”
“Coconut Key.”
