The attack

Written for a short story competition (1000 words) which was based on a picture of sharks near some surfers.

When I’m out there, in the distance, there’s always that lingering feeling of being under threat. Being on edge, eyes darting left and right. Ready for the next attack. I mean, I guess I’m used to it by now. I'm used to the fear. A big part of me feels sad about that, thinking about how I got this way, but on the other hand, I feel strong for being able to still do what I love. But life’s a journey right? We learn from things and we move on.

This journey started 8 years ago. I started surfing when I was 10 years old. I loved it from the second I got on that board, even before that I was obsessed. Photos around my room, watching it on TV. At the start, I wasn’t very good of course, but the feeling of the cold water soothed me. And it still does. Every time I hit that warm sand and feel it sink beneath my feet, I know I am really at home. The fresh, crisp air rushes to my lungs and creates a stillness in me. My smooth board lies beneath me, takes the weight of me and the moment I see the perfect wave, endorphins rush through my body and this intense feeling of joy pumps through my veins.

That was, until the attack happened 6 years ago. I never saw any sharks through the many years I was surfing, I knew it may have been a possibility and was always cautious but I never worried about it. It would never happen to me, I thought.

It was a warm evening. I chose to have a change of scenery, which I did a lot and decided to go to a different beach. There were other surfers out there when I got there. I ran down the beach on the hot, grainy sand, my hair being blown by the wind like a kite held by a child. I stopped to connect the leg strap on my board. I looked up and noticed the waves lapping against the shoreline, the sand was marked with the countless array of footprints. I looked up to the violet sky, inhaled slowly and ran into the waves, unaware of the danger that was looming.

I was out there for about half an hour, listening to the constant chatter of the other surfers between waves, until I felt a bump on the bottom of my board. I violently turn my head and look around, scanning the ripples of the water. And then in a millisecond, a shark explodes out of the wave in front of me, tearing into my arm. But I don’t scream. I don’t yell. I don’t say or do anything. I helplessly look at the other surfers. They all turn around and look at me, smile and go back to their chatter. What? How can they not see what’s happening? I need help! Help me! Get me away from this thing!  I scream inside my head. The shark punctures my skin, blood starts gushing out into the water. I think this is it. This is the last finale minutes of my life. And then I blacked out.

I awake to the sound of the waves and force my eyes open. The first thing I noticed is the injuries I’ve sustained. I have a gaping laceration on my arm and a puncture wound still profusely bleeding. I’m lying on the shoreline. I’m in a state of shock. I abruptly stand up but my vision goes black but adrenaline is kicking in and my eyes suddenly recover. I somehow drag myself to my house which is a 5 minute walk. I do a quick patch up job to the laceration and puncture wound before my mother rushes into my room.

“What is going on Mia?” She asks in a concerned matter.

“Nothing, I’m okay. I just went for a swim. It was really nice. I’m tired though.” I lie, straight to her face.

She grunts. “Okay well I’ll see you in the morning then. Get some rest.”

I looked down at my wounds, they were still bleeding. I didn’t want to tell anyone. I’m scared they would make me stop surfing. I was just so terrified.

This happened 6 years ago. I actually had to get my lower arm amputated from not getting treatment straight away. I stopped surfing and swimming for a long time but I couldn’t leave my passion behind. I loved it too much, but I could only swim in pools as I was too scared and you know, half my arm was gone.

Since the attack, I developed severe depression, anxiety and PTSD.  Only my mum and close family know what happened. I don’t talk about it. And I don’t think I ever will.

Now, this story is nowhere near done. But I actually left out some crucial information at the start that significantly changes this story in ways you can’t imagine. I don’t actually surf. I participate in horse riding. And I didn’t get attacked by a shark. I got raped by an evil man. You see, these are all just metaphors. The beach is my paddock. The surfboard is my horse. And combined, I am at complete and utter peace in nature with horses. What happened to me is never going to leave me. It’s like I’ve lost a part of me, I’ve lost time and I’ll never get it back. But my love for what I do, my love for horses, will never leave. He will not take that away from me. He has taken away so much already. I can’t go in public without thinking everyone will hurt me. I am restricted in what I can do, but the most important thing is, I can now swim in the ocean, even with all my problems. I am now able to enjoy what I used to again. I am healing.