Shark In The Water

I dreamed Sunday night that I was in the sea. Waist deep in a murky, putrid even, salty brew with Casey. Someone else was there too, but I couldn't see who. Maybe Casey twice.

There was a purpose for us to be there but I don't remember what it was, maybe I never knew. Suddenly, we realized that we couldn't be there, shouldn't be there. There were sharks we suddenly knew, and as though we had summoned them, they seemed to arrive. Most shark attacks occur in three feet of water, I thought.

I knew, in the dream, that the moment they were in my head, they were in the water, as though the harder I focused on them, the more I panicked about their existence, the quicker they arrived, the closer they came, all the greater in number.

And that's when I felt it, near me, against my leg. I struggled as quickly as I could towards shore and all the while I knew that since it had already found me. With just a nudge, I wasn't going to make it. It had been the side of its head, but it had found me. The first one, that is. And then it had me, my leg, in its mouth. It didn't bite down, just held me there, but I could feel its teeth around my shin and calf. I visualized the blood that would flow, the bone crushing, the torn flesh, the pain. I imagined my leg, gone, and wondered how I would make it ashore with only one leg. I didn't see the others, the people or the sharks, the water was too clouded. Maybe they were already on the beach.

All this time passed: I thought, and I noticed all these things, and still the shark didn't take my leg. If I've had all this time, I thought frantically, it could be that I have another moment more. I felt like I was moving in slow motion, decision-making at an underwater rate. I am held powerless and vulnerable, at the indiscriminate and non existent mercy of this beast. But suddenly everything becomes clear and I realize I have arms. I can use my arms!

The shark is huge, hulking, but still it does not bite so I make a fist and hit at its face. Still it does not take my leg, though it does not release me either. I feel along its massive head for its eyes. And I find one, on the side of its rubbery face and I press it. Barely a touch, but the shark releases my right leg and swims off. The moment it lets go, I can't see it anymore. In seemingly the same moment, still stunned at being freed, another shark grabs the same leg though I know it is a different shark.

I know now exactly what to do: I find its round, fishy eye. Small– I think briefly– for such a large beast. This time I push harder, digging my right index finger into its exposed orifice. This second shark releases me and disappears into the soupy sea.

I struggle to the beach and collapse. The sand I notice is coarse, pebbled. I am incredulous at my own survival. It seemingly took an eternity, but I made a bid for survival, and I had warded off impending doom. Not once, but twice. I had the distinct feeling that I had known how to do it all along, this survival strategy in a shark attack. Most shocking of all, I thought, panting, slumped on the beach, was the fact that I had acted.