he surfs, something that makes me
think he knows more than anyone else. When I watch him, it’s as if he’s having
a love affair with his board and the waves. That may sound foolish, but it’s
true—he is truly different. It gives me a feeling of pride to see him down
there today. I know that guy, and he wants me.
I begin to get lost in
the competition. The cheering of the crowd, the many leering eyes. I feel like
I am on Mick’s team and I am very nervous. I want Mick to catch every wave, hit
every trick. I am now utterly immersed in his success. Never in my life had I
ever thought I would be so into competitive surfing. Surfing, to me, has always
been about so much more than competition—it’s a place to go to find peace. It’s
a quieting of the mind, a place for self-reflection and growth. This is
entirely the opposite, the ultimate in consumerism aggression and tension. But
I love it. I am thoroughly enjoying the moment… until the sirens ring out.
People begin to scream, others begin to run. I am frozen, stunned. I have no
idea why there is a siren blaring. There is mass chaos in the crowd as people
jostle and push each other. Then I hear the word I will never forget.
“Shark!”
Fear and adrenaline jolt through my body like a fuse
on stick of dynamite. Sharks are a totally unexpected side-effect of surfing. I
try to look over the rail to see if Mick is in trouble, but the crowd is
pushing so violently, jostling me in every which direction, all I can do is try
to maintain my balance. We are packed so tightly together that even though
everyone is moving, now one is moving in any specific direction.
The horns blaring and the sound of Jet Ski engines
firing up mean that rescue is going to get the surfers out of the water. Words
cannot express the fear I feel, and somehow, I know Mick is in trouble. I push
to get closer to the rail as others push to get away. I see the Jet Ski
speeding out to the surfers. I scan the water for Mick and my heart drops when
I see blond hair and blood in a gruesome trail in the water.
Tears stream down my face as I scream to him. He
cannot hear me over the horns, the crowd, and the Jet Skiis. I am not even sure
if he is alive. I fight my way back off the pier. The crowd is thick and immobile,
and my efforts to get close are futile. After a some long moments, I am able to
push my way through and at least see what is happening. A big crowd has formed
around Mick and he’s lying on a spine board. A towel drenched with red is
wrapped around his leg. The paramedics are making their way up the beach with
some difficulty. The crowd has fallen eerily silent as he is taken to a waiting
ambulance.
The towel wrapped around Mick’s leg was a stark
reminder of what had happened. It is heavily stained with blood. Sobbing, I
cannot help but yell his name, the word piercing through the silence around us.
“Mick!”
There is no response. He is unconscious, at the very least. At the very worst,
he is dead. As I hitch and cry, a woman standing beside me grabs a hold of me
and pulls me in close. I don’t know who she is, but I am quite glad someone was
there to hold me. The crowd clears a path so I can get through, there is a
realization among them that I am more than just a spectator to Mick. I run as
fast as I can and get to his side just as the paramedics are finished loading
him into the ambulance.
“Ma’am, please step back. We have to take him to the hospital.”
“I am coming with you.”
“Please, ma’am, we don’t have time.”
The ambulance driver turns to the man I’m speaking to and says, “Put her in.
She’s the woman from the picture.”
The medic looks me over from head to toe. Never has such an inappropriate look
been given at a worse time. I push the offending
think he knows more than anyone else. When I watch him, it’s as if he’s having
a love affair with his board and the waves. That may sound foolish, but it’s
true—he is truly different. It gives me a feeling of pride to see him down
there today. I know that guy, and he wants me.
I begin to get lost in
the competition. The cheering of the crowd, the many leering eyes. I feel like
I am on Mick’s team and I am very nervous. I want Mick to catch every wave, hit
every trick. I am now utterly immersed in his success. Never in my life had I
ever thought I would be so into competitive surfing. Surfing, to me, has always
been about so much more than competition—it’s a place to go to find peace. It’s
a quieting of the mind, a place for self-reflection and growth. This is
entirely the opposite, the ultimate in consumerism aggression and tension. But
I love it. I am thoroughly enjoying the moment… until the sirens ring out.
People begin to scream, others begin to run. I am frozen, stunned. I have no
idea why there is a siren blaring. There is mass chaos in the crowd as people
jostle and push each other. Then I hear the word I will never forget.
“Shark!”
Fear and adrenaline jolt through my body like a fuse
on stick of dynamite. Sharks are a totally unexpected side-effect of surfing. I
try to look over the rail to see if Mick is in trouble, but the crowd is
pushing so violently, jostling me in every which direction, all I can do is try
to maintain my balance. We are packed so tightly together that even though
everyone is moving, now one is moving in any specific direction.
The horns blaring and the sound of Jet Ski engines
firing up mean that rescue is going to get the surfers out of the water. Words
cannot express the fear I feel, and somehow, I know Mick is in trouble. I push
to get closer to the rail as others push to get away. I see the Jet Ski
speeding out to the surfers. I scan the water for Mick and my heart drops when
I see blond hair and blood in a gruesome trail in the water.
Tears stream down my face as I scream to him. He
cannot hear me over the horns, the crowd, and the Jet Skiis. I am not even sure
if he is alive. I fight my way back off the pier. The crowd is thick and immobile,
and my efforts to get close are futile. After a some long moments, I am able to
push my way through and at least see what is happening. A big crowd has formed
around Mick and he’s lying on a spine board. A towel drenched with red is
wrapped around his leg. The paramedics are making their way up the beach with
some difficulty. The crowd has fallen eerily silent as he is taken to a waiting
ambulance.
The towel wrapped around Mick’s leg was a stark
reminder of what had happened. It is heavily stained with blood. Sobbing, I
cannot help but yell his name, the word piercing through the silence around us.
“Mick!”
There is no response. He is unconscious, at the very least. At the very worst,
he is dead. As I hitch and cry, a woman standing beside me grabs a hold of me
and pulls me in close. I don’t know who she is, but I am quite glad someone was
there to hold me. The crowd clears a path so I can get through, there is a
realization among them that I am more than just a spectator to Mick. I run as
fast as I can and get to his side just as the paramedics are finished loading
him into the ambulance.
“Ma’am, please step back. We have to take him to the hospital.”
“I am coming with you.”
“Please, ma’am, we don’t have time.”
The ambulance driver turns to the man I’m speaking to and says, “Put her in.
She’s the woman from the picture.”
The medic looks me over from head to toe. Never has such an inappropriate look
been given at a worse time. I push the offending
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