Sandy Beach

Sandy Beach was my home away from home during the summer of 1979. I wasn’t too sure if that was its real name. But it was sandy and it was a beach and I guess if you tilted your head to one side and closed your left eye and then squished your nose and closed your right eye, then maybe it looked like Olivia Newton-John singing about a boy. Either way, Sandy Beach was a hidden haven north of one of the most infamous beaches off the coast of New South Wales. Couldn’t tell you exactly where now, though.

On one summers’ day that I will never forget, even when this disease withers my brain and my body away to nothing but a shadow of what I once was, I went to Sandy Beach alone. My heart was pumping so loud in my ears, racing so furiously in my chest as the sun beat down on me that I almost felt too hot, too sick to continue what I had started.

You see, Jonno and Bender (so nicknamed because his father often joked that all he was good for was bending bananas), were both grounded following a ploy gone wrong. I hadn’t been present for it. It was something to do with lighting fireworks on fire, or setting something else on fire, I think. So, left alone and having been greatly outdone by my two best mates, I clearly needed to up my game. My father had unfortunately just warned me against doing something the day before, which had unwittingly given me the perfect solution to my problem.

There I stood on Sandy Beach, a surfboard tucked under one arm, staring out at the waves. I watched them go, advancing and retreating rhythmically. There was a lump in my throat and I breathed through my mouth as if that might help it dissipate. Instead, I just tasted the salt in the air. The wind rattled my shaken nerves and played with my hair as if coaxing me away from the water.

I’d done the first half of the plan by this point. I’d gotten away with the board. I’d told him that Bender was ungrounded after his parents had received his report card in the mail. Only two Ds and he was off the hook! Even my parents couldn’t believe it. Then, I snuck the board away, careful not to make a sound as I scraped it from its holding place. I walked all the way down to the beach by myself. My feet, having been melted by the hot bitumen, were now scratched raw by the grainy sand beneath me.

I swallowed. Now, I just had to do the second part of my plan.

I swung forward and tramped down the sand to the water. But I stopped at the edge, just the tips of my toes halfway in as I recalled my dad’s words. He’d been talking to Mick at the time. Mick had just told him about a big shark they had spotted off the coast whilst fishing.

“... ‘bout six foot long,” Mick had said, holding his arms out as far as they would go. “Got a good look at ‘im, too. Looked over the side of the boat, mate, and there ‘e was. ‘E must’ve been in some wars. Old mate had scars all over ‘im.”

Dad had whistled and cried out a word that Mum would have hit his arm for and that, for the same reasons, I probably cannot write here. Then he had turned to me. “Don’t you go down there by yourself anymore, mate.”

I’m sure looking back on that day now that remembering my father telling me not to go down there had just spurred me on. I dove into the water and climbed upon the surfing board to begin paddling out into the open sea. As usual, as the water lapped at me, welcoming me in, I felt a calm wash over me and any anxiety melted away.

Mick was likely joking with us, playing us for fools. I had never seen a shark on this beach, and as far as I could see there was no fin. Instead, friendly waves of ocean greeted me as I broke through them to reach the swell. I got there quicker than expected and set to work tackling the waves.

I was no expert and the sea, although friendly, was not one to obey anyone else’s whimsy. I struggled to remain on my feet, wobbling this way and that. I tired quickly, feeling the pull of gravity more and more as I continued. My arms felt heavy, my legs strange from trying to keep me upright on a surface that was always moving.

Then, without a lick of warning, I felt myself topple forward off the surfboard. I was overtired by now and I had overbalanced myself, tipping forward instead of levelling my hips and grounding myself in place. I broke the water with my arms, thankfully, and plunged under. My strap trailed above me and I felt it shake as the board moved above my head, forcing its way back to the surface.

That’s when I saw him. Old mate. The shark, just as Mick had said.

The shark was covered in scars as if bits had been taken out of him. I was close enough to see the shape and the angles of them, and lying in bed that night I would come to the conclusion that he had been attacked by another shark at some point. His grey body was almost hidden by the strange colours of the water and the sunlight glancing through the surface above us.

To me, it was as if time stood still. Or, more precisely, it was as if time slowed right down so that I could see everything in that one moment, burned into my brain for the rest of my life. Like I said, this moment is the one that I will hold onto until my dying day.

I stared down the big, scarred shark, one of the most dangerous creatures on the planet. It loomed over me like a spectre, spelling to me what death could be. Soon, the beast hung above me, the way a good dancer does when they jump into the air. It paused to show me just how small I am.

I froze. Half in awe, half in horror and fear. I felt my mouth drop open and the water poured in. I saw, without seeing, the bubbles rise in front of my eyes. I felt its power in the water around me, commanding the ocean. I shrank away, feeling the pain of my chest overwhelm me.

I don’t know whether he saw me.

I don’t know whether I scared him more than he scared me.

I don’t know whether he knew what had happened; that I’d fallen from somewhere above him.

But sharks don’t swim backwards and the next thing I know is that he put on a spurt of speed and dashed off. My strap got momentarily caught on a fin, maybe, and I felt a tug on my ankle. I was pulled about a metre along behind him before he wriggled free and he was off. I couldn’t say I saw much of him go. The shadows of the water shrouded him in camouflage within seconds.

I don’t know why he didn’t decide to make a proper meal out of me that day. After having seen Jaws my idea of sharks was severely warped, I suppose. Later, I would find out about how they’re not so bad and all of that nonsense.

Let me tell you one thing, though: I never went down to Sandy Beach alone again.