# Read the first page of Untamed Shore by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Read the opening of Untamed Shore by Silvia Moreno-Garcia free, no signup. In 1979 Baja California, a restless girl gets entangled with dangerous foreigners.

- Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/untamed-shore-silvia-moreno-garcia
- Genre: Horror
- Year: 2020
- ISBN: 9780593600511
- Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9780593600511&s=read-page
- Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780593600511
- Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780593600511

## The opening

The beach smelled of death. Half a dozen sharks lay under the sun, waiting to be salted. Whenever Viridiana saw them, glistening belly-up in the midday heat, they reminded her of dominoes set upon a table before the game begins.

An angry shark can bite through tin and metal, the locals said; it could cut through the boats they took out to sea. And looking at the jaws hanging from the wooden rack, Viridiana might concur. But she liked the sharks, she even liked the stench of their livers roasting on a fire. It was a bitter, foul smell, but she had pleasant memories of her father cooking it, attempting to extract oil. He'd done things like that when she was young, trying to make himself comfortable in Desengaño, to leave his city roots behind. He eventually stopped. It was obvious he was a city boy, with his books and his diploma from the university under his arm, and no amount of shoving a shark’s liver across a pan was going to make him a fisherman. Besides, there was no point in trying to master the nets and the boats, anyway, since sharks were almost worthless.

Once upon a time, during World War II, fishermen could make a fortune selling shark livers, and many a fool in search of quick cash had steered his boat towards Baja California. Synthetic vitamins had killed that business. In Desengaño, stubborn fishermen still dragged the sharks out of the water, but many others dedicated themselves to hauling shrimp or an assortment of fish. The ones left chasing sharks sold them to merchants who inevitably passed them off as valuable “cod” fillets. No one would pay more than a pittance for shark meat, but shark meat wrapped in plastic and advertised as “genuine Norwegian cod” was worth the effort. Not that this helped the fishermen, since they sold the meat for a peso while the merchant sold it for fifteen in the city.

But people had to make a living.

Shark skin was sold to make boots, and the fishermen hung the sharks’ large jaws from a wooden rack, hoping tourists might purchase one, or else they might peddle the shark teeth dangling from strings.

There were not many tourists. The highway now brought Americans in their cars, pulling their boats behind them, dollars stuffed in their pockets, but Desengaño was out of the way. There was one hotel with two dozen rooms. The owner had a brother in Mexico City who owned a travel agency, and he convinced foreigners to take a trip to scenic Baja and funneled them into the hotel.

Desengaño was really nothing at all.

Viridiana stared at the sea, at the sharks. Reynier had asked her to stop by, but the Dutchman never woke before noon. She should have waited until later to leave home, but her mother had popped out another kid and it wailed day and night—a colicky monster.

Viridiana scratched her leg and looked at the shadows traced by the sun. She wasn’t wearing a watch, but there was no need for that here. You could figure the time by observing what the fishermen were doing by the seashore, or paying attention to the noises of the town. The church bell clanged early every morning and every evening to further mark the day. At nine Don Tito opened his tiendita, and everyone else followed suit, doors banging open or metal curtains going up. Around noon the doors banged shut again. They didn’t bother lowering the curtains; all the locals knew it was time for a nap.

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