My Worst Nightmare

Intro.

Hi there!

Another week that I’m proud to be sharing a new chapter with you. I will say, it feels great to be making some more noticeable progress on the book right now, especially when I consider how long I’ve been slowly chipping away at things.

What you’ve read so far and what you will read today are chapters that I have written over the past 18 months so it’s been interesting to take a step back in time like this. A reflection of a reflection if you will.

What you haven’t seen are the new chapters that I’ve been writing as I’ve put a bit of structure around my weeks with the hopes of getting most of this done over the next 6 months. The new stuff I’ve been writing has been a lot of fun but this chapter you’re about to read is maybe my favourite in terms of the how the emotions and almost existential view of the attack are portrayed.

This is something that comes with over a decade of thinking about, and reliving the attack which might sound like it was an emotionally challenging process but it’s exercises like this that I believe have given me a healthy relationship with my trauma.

To me, this is a strong reinforcement of why I’ve taken so long to write this book. I think if I’d rushed it, the clarity in what I want represented from my experience may not be as impactful. The scary thing about writing a book is the knowledge that the words will live on forever (hopefully) in libraries and book stores all across the world. We’ve got a long time before we get to that point so let’s just take it one chapter at a time.

Chapter 3 is all about the moment of impact. The single point in time where everything in my life changed forever. It’s a short chapter but one that holds a lot of weight in setting up the rest of the book.

I hope you enjoy, and as always, if you have any feedback, leave a comment below.

Part I, Chapter 3 – The Attack

Driving home from work, I reflect on the “Shit day…”. My mindset continues to drift between feeling guilty for not doing enough to prevent the break-in and finding forgiveness in the understanding that the universe’s plans are unpredictable. The cycle of thoughts and the fluctuation of emotions are tough to overcome, which is why the decision to go for a surf that afternoon makes perfect sense to me. 

I need to step outside my mind, and surfing has a meditative quality that helps with this. By the time I arrive at Bombo Beach, the afternoon light is just beginning to hit golden hour. This period is well known to surfers, when the sun begins to set and the wind gradually eases, creating what is referred to as the LAGO (Late Afternoon Glass Off). These conditions are ideal for surfers, as there are fewer ripples on the wave face, allowing your surfboard to glide through the water with minimal resistance. While most non-surfers may have concerns about being in the ocean at this time of day, for many of us, it’s our only chance to do what we love. 

Although autumn has officially begun, the afternoon feels summer-like, with the sun’s warmth and the inviting water temperature. The swells haven't yet begun their seasonal march from the south, so I’m greeted by a 2-3ft north-easterly wind swell that Bombo Beach seems to embrace, drawing locals and tourists to its shores throughout the warmer months. 

What’s different about this afternoon is that the school holidays have finished, and instead of the beach being packed with swimmers, there’s an absent quality to the scene. A dozen surfers are right up in the northern corner, and a handful of people are strolling along the shore. The headlining figure is the lone, abandoned lifeguard stand ready to be lashed by the winter wind and sand. It’s not a scene the tourism board would brag about, but this is my favourite time of year. 

I choose to find some space for myself a few hundred metres south of the group surfing in the corner. I know I need some time to think about and process the day. It’s a task that’s much easier done when you don’t have to chat with everyone about the micro improvements that the latest set of fins or other equipment may or may not make to their surfing.

Of my requests to find a friend to surf with, I haven’t heard back from Nick, but Joel says he’ll make his way down to catch a few waves. It’s no surprise that Joel doesn’t beat me to the beach, despite the 45-minute head start. He’s known for not showing up on time, always claiming he got caught up doing the washing. I guess today’s no different, so I make my way out to the lineup alone, hoping Joel will eventually catch up with me. 

I catch several waves before I notice Joel has arrived. Surprisingly, this is a pretty good effort from him, considering I had my doubts he would show up at all. Accompanying him on the beach is his partner, Agie, who, on this rare occasion, has decided to come along to make the most of the last few rays of sunlight for the day. 

Joel and I get a chance to share some surprisingly fun waves as the afternoon draws to a close. We take turns as our isolated bank produces the occasional peeling left-hander, offering workable sections that, on any ordinary day, would be ideal training conditions for me. However, since this session wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, I make use of the lulls between sets to chat with Joel about the day I’d had. Joel wasn’t going to fix any of the issues at the shop; he can’t go back in time to help Dyl chase off the perpetrators, but he can sit there and listen. I’d spent so much time in my own head replaying the day on the drive home that it feels refreshing and comforting to express these feelings to someone else. 

Therein lies the beauty of surfing as a way of coping. At times, the relentless waves, the battering, and the ocean's punishment can make you feel small and insignificant. It can be overwhelmingly challenging, but sometimes the ocean yields, offering a brief moment of glory and a connection to nature. Sometimes that comes in the form of a magnificent wave, while other times it offers no waves, providing a moment to chat or reflect. 

Mostly, I take these moments to chat with Joel, but when he catches his waves and I’m left sitting out there alone, I have a chance to reflect.

I begin to feel a little better about the day that’s been. The waves have washed away my doubts and negativity that began with that phone call at 2:30am. The afternoon is stretching longer, the air is growing cooler and heavier. As Joel catches a wave down the beach, I notice that Agie is now sitting in the shadows of the dunes with a towel wrapped around her to capture those last few rays of sunlight. The sun is starting to disappear behind the Hutchinson Street Hill, the beach is becoming more deserted, and the constant sound of commuter cars racing down the highway along the coast reminds me that I might not be the only one who’s had a rough day at work today. 

I remind myself that despite how bad the day has been, at least I’ve been able to come to this incredible place and spend time with a friend doing something we love. It’s been a “Shit day…”, but I’ve managed to turn it around.

In a day full of ups and downs, I had no idea at that moment that there was still more of this story to unfold. Just as swiftly as the universe gives you these moments of clarity, it can take them away. The only trouble with that is you never know what these moments will look or feel like. 

In my case, that moment felt like a 230kg Bull Shark smashing into me from my right side with absolutely no warning, while I sat defenceless on my surfboard. The impact could only be described as what I imagine it feels like to take a blindside hit in football, except the bloke hitting you is at least twice the size of any player in the league. 

I find myself flying through the air as a result of this hit, and by the time I land in the water, I’m completely stunned. In a situation like that, there’s only a very short list of things you might expect to face. But before I even have a nanosecond to process what’s happened, I look down and see the worst item on that short list: a shark that has just taken a huge bite into my leg. 

Straight away, I can feel the world I’m living in peel away from any sort of recognisable reality, as if this experience is one that should only be observed from afar and never experienced in first person. An overwhelming sense of enormity engulfs this moment that I cannot avoid, as time seems to stall completely. The next five seconds stretch closer to five minutes, while the pure terror that’s ringing through my body leaves me frozen, watching the shark’s teeth sink deeper into my flesh.

Although I’m unmoved in time and space, my brain feels like it’s working overtime trying to make sense of what’s unfolding right in front of me. Amid the chaos, three distinct things leave an indelible mark on this encounter. 

The first is the feel of the shark’s skin: rough and firm in a way I can only describe as a sanding block. This description far oversimplifies the millions of years of evolution involved in designing something that can manoeuvre so rapidly through water. My initial instinct to push the shark away inadvertently leads my hand to its head. There’s a hesitation that accompanies the sensation of touching shark skin, an experience unlike any other. You cannot fear a sanding block, but there seems to be a consistent flipping of magnetic poles associated with shark skin that tempts you to reach out and touch it, all while being aware of the strength and force of the creature behind it, which inevitably repels you.

The second noticeable feature of this moment is the sheer lack of sound that is perceived despite the obvious splashing of water, the screams for help, and the constant highway traffic. Each of those commuters has no idea that while they’re staring at the bitumen feeding beneath their cars, someone only 100 metres away is fighting for their life. It’s a devastating metaphor that highlights each individual’s insignificance on this planet. While the music can be turned off and one person is experiencing complete silence, the rest of the world continues dancing as if those screams and splashes for survival never happened. 

Finally, there’s the visual element of what is being taken in during the moment. There are plenty of terrifying things about a shark, but I reckon their eyes are what should be the scariest part, even more so than their teeth. There’s definitely a stereotype that contributes to the fear you feel when you’re face to face with a shark and get a chance to look them right in the eye. They’re often depicted in many cultural settings as mindless killers with no conscience, and you can sense this when you notice the endless black that characterises their eyes. The eyes show no feelings, and no emotions, creating a deeply primitive and instinctive response that stems from the fear we already have of these creatures. 

For me, this image oddly makes the situation feel slightly more human, though not in a way that offers comfort. These eyes belong to a creature you cannot reason with or argue with, and you cannot tell it to stop. There’s a certain hopelessness that overwhelms you when you reach that moment of realisation, as a surfer and, more broadly, as a human, when your deepest fears unfold before you. You feel powerless in the grip of this animal, and because of that, it feels like you’re trapped in a nightmare from which you can’t wake, on a ride you cannot disembark, and at a fork in the road where you have no choice about which way to turn.