shark attack
/When the summertime comes, many of us keep our eyes peeled on the waves for that blade of darkness rising from the deep. We watch, we shiver, and we remember an almost encounter in the ocean that makes us question why we penetrate the great underwater unknown where we were not born to live.
Everyone has an almost.
An almost swept away by an undertow, an almost full-on collision with something—What was that?—an ass-over-elbows tumble that almost left us broken in pieces.
We’re not talking about the things that do happen. Hallelujah. We’re talking about the things that almost happen, the things that keep us honest when it comes to throwing caution to the wind to plunge into the ocean. So many almosts they hardly count.
Except when it comes to sharks.
Mine was July 2009. It wasn’t yesterday and it wasn’t in the Atlantic or Pacific, so you may be temporarily safe there. Maybe.
I was lounging on the island of St. Martin while Ray was back at the inn, a bit under the weather. I wasn’t nursing him back to health. With all the money we spent on the trip why should both of us suffer? That’s obviously where I went wrong. The sharks were coming to make me pay.
The sun glittered on the turquoise water like diamonds, the waves lapped on the silky shore like baby’s breath, the palm trees rustled like angel wings. Big teeth— somewhere—chomped.
I put on my mask and fins and headed out for a long swim, tracing the shore so I wouldn’t lose my way. A family group drowsed on blankets, children skipped, sand squished.
I swam. One arm over the other—reaching, pulling, gliding—the sea stroking the dorsal spine of the mermaid I was meant to be.
Then ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE.
Hmmm, I thought, as I inhaled and gazed landward, the beach group is going nuts. Something is happening but what does it have to do with me?
I swam.
Did I say NUTS? On my next couple of breaths, I saw from my watery distance that the group had risen from its blankets, had made its way to the shoreline, and was waving, frantically.
Hopping, yelling, pointing—at what, to whom?
Now look, I’m used to open water. I’ve seen scary stuff. I’ve swum in groups with reef sharks, seals, barracuda. I’ve been in the water with whales, sea elephants, giant eels. Watching these screamers, all I could think was stone-cold sissies.
Then I heard it, faint as a purr yet frantic as a roar: “Get in! Get in! Get in!”
Then I stopped thinking.
In the speed with which a doomed fish vaults out of its slippery home, I swam—thrusting, hurling, gasping—until my heaving body slapped the shore and rolled like cheese filling inside a sand tortilla, flopping on the beach.
Whaaat is happening?
With a collapse of relief, their convulsions stopped. A shark, they said—way bigger than me, two times bigger, three times bigger—was my steady companion the whole time. Its dorsal fin glided next to my dorsal, its sleek back shone in the sun, its dark silhouette was solid against the horizon, and its giant teeth were ready to take a nibble, a bite, to create a gouge, a cavern.
I never saw it. I was looking the other way. There is a God.
No, it probably wouldn’t have hurt me if I survived the heart attack from seeing it. Despite awful tragedies, we know shark attacks are rare. This lonely fish would have likely gone its skulking way and I wouldn’t have known a thing if my helpers hadn’t freaked out on the shore.
Or maybe it would have taken a barely noticeable nibble for him to find out I taste terrible, sending a red calling card far and wide to cold-hearted buddies who would quickly surround me, thus sending that poor beach group into high gear to execute a well-intentioned though likely unsuccessful rescue at sea.
Enough!
No, nothing bad happened. It was another almost in the banks of memory that download ever so swiftly—chest pounding, knees buckling, mind racing—with each perilous dive into the murky summer surf.
Happy swimming!
Did I say five times bigger?