"Jaws in the Shallows":
I woke up that Sunday morning in Lake County, Florida, feeling the itch to fish. Lake Monroe was my spot, a place where I’d spent countless weekends chasing bass, losing myself in the quiet of the water and the thrill of a tug on my line. The sun was already climbing, promising a warm day, and I couldn’t wait to get out there.
Before I left, I grabbed my phone and called my buddy Mike. “Hey, man, I’m heading to Lake Monroe to fish. You coming or what?”
Mike groaned through the line. “Ugh, I’d kill to go, but I’m stuck mowing the lawn and fixing the fence. Wife’s orders. You gonna hook a big one?”
“Biggest bass you’ve ever seen,” I said, grinning. “I’ll send you a pic to make you jealous.”
He laughed. “You better. Don’t get eaten by an alligator out there.”
“Ha, yeah, right,” I said, brushing it off. “Catch you later.” I hung up, grabbed my gear, and started packing the truck. My fishing rod was an old favorite, scratched but reliable, paired with a reel I’d tuned just right. I tossed in my tackle box, stuffed with lures, hooks, and worms, and a small cooler with two cans of soda, a turkey sandwich, and a bag of chips. The drive was short, maybe 20 minutes, and I cranked up some old country tunes, singing off-key with the windows down, the warm air whipping through the cab.
When I pulled up to Lake Monroe, I parked near the shore and took a second to breathe it in. The lake was gorgeous that day, its surface smooth as glass, reflecting the blue sky and a few puffy clouds. Ducks paddled lazily near the reeds, and dragonflies zipped over the water. Tall cypress trees lined the edges, their gnarled roots dipping into the shallows, creating perfect hiding spots for fish. The air smelled like mud and wet leaves, with a hint of something sweet, maybe wildflowers. It was the kind of place that made you forget the world for a while.
I hauled my gear to a shallow spot I liked, where the water was clear enough to see minnows darting. I unfolded my beat-up camping chair, its canvas frayed from years of use, and set it on the soft ground. After baiting my hook with a wriggling worm, I cast my line out, the bobber landing with a satisfying plop. I cracked open a soda, the hiss loud in the quiet, and settled in to wait.
The first hour was slow. I reeled in a couple of sunfish, their bright scales catching the light, but they were too small to keep. I let them go, watching them wiggle back into the depths. The sun climbed higher, warming my face, and I started to sweat. I figured I’d try a new spot, closer to a patch of lily pads about 30 yards away. Bass love those pads, hiding in the shade to ambush prey.
As I packed up to move, I noticed a weathered sign stapled to a cypress tree: “Caution: Alligators Present. Do Not Feed or Approach.” The letters were faded, and I’d seen it a dozen times before. Alligators were just part of Florida life—lurking in canals, ponds, even golf courses. I’d spotted them in the lake before, usually just a pair of eyes in the distance, and they always swam off. I wasn’t worried.
At the new spot, I set up again, this time standing to get a better cast. The lily pads floated in clusters, their green discs bobbing gently. I tied on a shiny lure, hoping to tempt a big bass, and sent it sailing into a gap between the pads. The water rippled, and I felt a spark of excitement. This was gonna be the spot.
I got a bite pretty quick—a solid tug that made my rod bend. “Here we go,” I muttered, reeling in a two-pound bass, its sides flashing silver-green. I held it up, admiring the fight in it, then worked the hook out and let it splash back into the lake. “Swim free, buddy.”
But then I heard something—a rustle in the bushes behind me, like something heavy moving through the grass. I spun around, scanning the trees and underbrush. Nothing. Just the wind, maybe, or a raccoon. My pulse ticked up, but I shook it off and turned back to my line.
A loud splash broke the quiet. I jerked my head toward the sound, and my stomach dropped. About 20 feet out, just beyond the lily pads, two eyes and a snout poked above the water. An alligator. It was big, its head wide and dark, the rest of its body hidden beneath the surface. Those eyes were locked on me, unblinking, like black marbles.
I froze, my rod still in my hands. I’d seen alligators before, but this one wasn’t acting right. It didn’t dive or swim away. Instead, it started gliding toward me, slow and steady, cutting through the water like a torpedo. Ripples fanned out, and I saw more of it now—maybe eight or nine feet long, its scaly back glistening.
“Okay, time to go,” I said under my breath, my voice shaky. I reeled in my line fast, the bobber bouncing across the water. I grabbed my chair, folded it clumsily, and slung my tackle box over my shoulder. The cooler could wait. I started walking back to my truck, sticking to the gravel path that wound along the shore. Every few steps, I glanced at the water. The alligator was still there, keeping pace with me, its head barely above the surface, tail swishing side to side.
My heart was hammering now. The truck was maybe 50 yards away, but it felt like miles. I picked up my pace, my boots crunching louder, the tackle box banging against my hip. The alligator sped up too, closing the gap. It was maybe 10 feet from the shore now, and I could hear the water sloshing around it.
I tried to stay calm. “Don’t run,” I told myself. “Don’t turn your back.” But panic was creeping in, making my legs feel wobbly. I looked back again, and that’s when it happened. The alligator surged out of the water, its body exploding onto the bank with a speed I didn’t think possible. Its jaws snapped, teeth flashing, missing my leg by inches. I stumbled back, my chair slipping from my grip, and the tackle box fell, spilling lures and hooks into the dirt.
It slid back into the water but didn’t leave. It hovered there, eyes fixed on me, like it was waiting for me to make another mistake. My chest heaved, sweat stinging my eyes. I backed away slowly, hands out, like I could ward it off. The path was narrow here, lined with roots and rocks, and I was terrified of tripping.
Then I did. My heel caught on a cypress root, and I went down hard, landing on my back. The air rushed out of me, and before I could scramble up, the alligator lunged again. This time, its jaws clamped onto my right leg, just below the knee. Pain seared through me, white-hot, like my leg was caught in a vice. I screamed, a raw, desperate sound, and kicked with my other leg, but it was like kicking a wall.
It started dragging me toward the water, its strength unreal. The ground scraped my back, and I clawed at the dirt, trying to grab anything—roots, rocks, anything to hold on. “Help! Somebody, please!” I shouted, but the lake was deserted. No boats, no other fishermen, just me and this thing trying to drown me.
My hands found a stick, thick and jagged, maybe two feet long. I swung it at the alligator’s head, but its hide was like armor. The stick cracked, and it didn’t even flinch. The water was closer now, lapping at my boots. I was hyperventilating, my vision blurring, but something clicked in my brain. I’d read somewhere that alligators hate getting hit in the eyes. It was my only shot.
With every ounce of strength I had left, I gripped the stick and stabbed it into the alligator’s left eye, driving it deep. It let out a hissing roar, a sound that chilled my blood, and its jaws loosened. I yanked my leg free, the pain so bad I nearly blacked out. I crawled backward, dragging myself through the mud, expecting it to come after me again. But it thrashed in the water, shaking its head, then sank below the surface.
I didn’t wait to see if it was gone. I staggered to my feet, my right leg barely working, blood pouring down my shin. My jeans were shredded, and I could see torn skin and muscle. I limped to my truck, every step agony, glancing back every second. The alligator was still there, a dark shape under the water, watching.
I fumbled with my keys, my hands slick with sweat and blood. When I finally got the door open, I threw myself inside and slammed it shut, locking it. My whole body was shaking, and I could barely think. I grabbed my phone and dialed 911, my fingers slipping on the screen.
“911, what’s your emergency?” a woman’s voice said, calm and steady.
“I got attacked by an alligator!” I gasped, my voice breaking. “Lake Monroe, by the shore. It bit my leg, and I’m bleeding bad. I’m in my truck.”
“Alright, sir, stay where you are. Paramedics are on the way. Can you put pressure on the wound?”
“I—I think so,” I said. I ripped off my flannel shirt, wincing as I moved, and wrapped it around my leg. The fabric soaked through fast, but I tied it as tight as I could, gritting my teeth against the pain. “Hurry, please. It’s still out there.”
“Help’s coming, just stay calm and keep pressure on it,” she said. “You’re doing great.”
I leaned back, trying to breathe, my eyes glued to the water. The alligator hadn’t moved, its eyes just above the surface, like it was daring me to come back. Every ripple made my heart jump.
It felt like forever, but probably only 10 minutes passed before I heard sirens. An ambulance and a sheriff’s truck pulled up, lights flashing. A paramedic, a stocky guy with a buzz cut, banged on my window. “Sir, it’s the paramedics! Open the door!”
I unlocked it, and he helped me out, easing me onto a stretcher. “Holy hell, you’re lucky,” he said, cutting away what was left of my jeans. “That thing did a number on you.” His partner, a woman with quick hands, wrapped my leg in clean bandages, the pressure making me hiss.
They loaded me into the ambulance, and the sheriff stayed behind to check the area. As we drove away, I caught one last glimpse of the lake, the water still and peaceful again, like nothing had happened.
At the hospital, the ER was a blur of white coats and beeping machines. A doctor, an older guy with gray hair, examined my leg. “You’re fortunate,” he said, his voice calm. “The bite missed your major arteries. We’ll need to clean it, stitch it, and you’ll need antibiotics to prevent infection. Surgery’s likely, and you’ll have scarring, maybe some mobility issues for a while. But you’ll walk again.”
I nodded, still dazed. “It just… came out of nowhere.”
“They do that sometimes,” he said. “Alligators are unpredictable, especially if they feel threatened or hungry.”
Recovery was slow. I spent a week in the hospital, then months of physical therapy to get my leg working right. The scars are ugly, jagged lines crisscrossing my shin, and I limp when I’m tired. I found out later that alligator attacks aren’t uncommon in Florida—hundreds happen over the years, some fatal. That one was probably defending its territory or mistook me for prey.
I still fish, but not at Lake Monroe. I stick to smaller lakes, ones with clear signs of no alligators. I’m hypervigilant now, jumping at every splash, every shadow in the water. Sometimes, at night, I dream of those eyes, staring at me from the dark, and I wake up gasping, my leg throbbing like it’s still in those jaws. That day taught me how fast nature can turn on you, how one wrong step can bring you face-to-face with something that doesn’t care if you live or die.
"Teeth in the Deep":
I stood on Aldinga Beach, the morning of December 8, 1963, my bare feet sinking into the warm sand. The sun was high, glinting off the waves, and the salty air stung my nose. I was Rodney Fox, 23, gearing up for the South Australian Spearfishing Championship. My wetsuit clung to my skin, and my spear gun felt heavy in my hands. I’d won this competition last year, and I wasn’t about to let the trophy slip away. But my stomach twisted, not just from the pressure to win. Kay, my wife of four months, had been quiet all morning, her worry hanging between us like a fog.
At breakfast, she’d pushed her toast around her plate, her brown eyes fixed on me. “Rodney, please be careful out there,” she said, her voice soft but tight. “The ocean’s so big, and… things happen.”
I reached across the table, squeezing her hand. “I’ll be fine, love. I know these waters. Gotta bring home that trophy, right?”
She didn’t smile, just held my hand tighter. “I don’t care about the trophy. Just come home.”
Her words stuck with me as I checked my gear on the beach. The other divers were milling around, laughing, adjusting masks, and bragging about their plans. There were maybe 50 of us, all chasing the biggest fish to score points. I nodded at a few familiar faces, but my mind was already out there, in the deep water. To win, I needed something special—a dusky morwong, big and heavy, the kind that lurked farther out where the ocean turned dark and cold. Most divers stayed closer to shore, but I’d always gone deeper. That’s what made me champion.
I waded into the surf, the water cool against my legs. My fins slapped the surface as I swam out, past the buoys, past the other divers bobbing like corks. The ocean was clear, sunlight slicing through to the sandy bottom. I could see schools of fish darting below, their scales flashing. About 800 yards from shore, I spotted a rocky outcrop—a perfect hiding spot for morwong. My heart pounded, not just from the swim but from the thrill. This was it.
I took a deep breath, filling my lungs, and dove. The world went silent, just the muffled thump of my pulse in my ears. The water pressed against me, cold and heavy. At 30 feet down, the rocks loomed, crusted with seaweed and small crabs. I glided closer, my spear gun steady. Then I saw it—a dusky morwong, fat and slow, its fins twitching as it hovered near a crevice. My finger tightened on the trigger, my breath burning in my chest.
WHAM! Something slammed into me, a tremendous force that knocked the air from my lungs. My mask ripped off, my spear gun tore from my hands, and I was spinning, tumbling through the water. Pain exploded in my chest, sharp and searing. I couldn’t see, couldn’t think. My mouth filled with salt water, bitter and choking. My arms flailed, reaching for something, anything, but there was only pain and darkness.
Then I felt it—rough, like sandpaper, grinding against my skin. Teeth. Huge, jagged teeth clamped around my chest, crushing me. My mind screamed one word: Shark! A great white, it had to be. I’d seen them before, cruising the deep waters, but never like this. This was a monster, maybe 12 or 14 feet, its jaws locked on me like a vice. I could feel its power, the raw strength as it shook me, my ribs cracking under the pressure. Blood clouded the water, warm and sticky, swirling around us. My blood.
Panic clawed at me. I was going to die. The shark’s black eyes stared, cold and empty, like nothing human. My lungs burned, my vision spotting. I thrashed, kicking with my fins, but it was like fighting a wall. My hands scrabbled over its head, feeling the slick, leathery skin. Then I remembered something—a story from an old diver about shark attacks. Go for the eyes. It was my only chance.
I wrapped my arms around its massive head, pulling myself close in a desperate bear hug. My fingers clawed at its face, sliding over slime until I found an eye, soft and yielding. I dug in, hard, my nails sinking into the flesh. The shark jerked, its jaws loosening for a split second. I kicked with all I had, my fin smacking its snout. The teeth scraped free, tearing my wetsuit and skin, but I was loose.
I shot toward the surface, my chest screaming for air. I broke through, gasping, coughing up water. “Help!” I croaked, my voice weak. Blood poured from my chest, staining the waves red. I looked down and saw it—the shark, circling below, a dark shadow in the crimson water. My float line, tied to my belt, was caught in its teeth, the buoy bouncing on the surface. I fumbled for my knife, hands shaking, but before I could cut the line, the shark dove.
The line snapped tight, yanking me under. I screamed, bubbles exploding from my mouth. The shark towed me, fast and deep, the pressure crushing my ears. My chest felt like it was caving in, my broken ribs grinding. I pulled against the line, but it was useless. The ocean blurred, my vision fading. I thought of Kay, her face, her voice saying, Just come home. I couldn’t let her down.
With a sharp twang, the line broke. The sudden release sent me rocketing upward. I hit the surface, choking, my arms flailing. “Help! Shark!” I shouted, but my voice was barely a rasp. Blood streamed from my wounds, and I could feel my strength slipping away. My legs were heavy, my head spinning. I was going to pass out, sink, and that shark was still down there.
Then I heard it—a low hum, getting louder. A boat. I turned, squinting through the salt in my eyes, and saw it—a small rescue boat from the competition, speeding toward me. Two men were aboard, their faces pale as they leaned over the side.
“Rodney! Hold on, mate!” one shouted. I recognized him—Tom, a diver I’d shared a beer with last year. His mate, Jim, was at the wheel, his knuckles white.
They reached me, strong hands grabbing my arms. “Got you!” Tom grunted, hauling me over the side. I collapsed on the deck, shivering, pain stabbing with every breath. My wetsuit was in tatters, blood pooling beneath me. I could feel my ribs, jagged and wrong, and something warm leaking inside my chest–
“Bloody hell, Rodney, what happened?” Jim asked, his eyes wide as he glanced at my wounds.
“Shark,” I gasped, clutching my chest. “Great white… bit me.”
Tom pressed a cloth to my chest, his hands shaking. “Stay with us, mate. You’re losing too much blood.”
Jim gunned the engine, the boat lurching toward shore. “Hang on, Rodney. Hospital’s not far.”
I lay there, staring at the sky, the sun too bright. Pain rolled through me, hot and relentless. I could still feel the shark’s teeth, the crush of its jaws. My heart pounded, loud in my ears, like it was trying to escape. “Tell Kay…” I whispered, my voice fading. “Tell her I love her.”
“You’ll tell her yourself,” Tom snapped, his voice sharp but scared. “Don’t you bloody give up, Rodney.”
The boat slammed into the beach, and medics were waiting, their voices a blur. “Male, 23, shark attack, severe chest trauma!” someone shouted. They lifted me onto a stretcher, my body screaming with every jolt. I saw faces—divers, spectators, all staring, their mouths open. Then the ambulance doors closed, and I blacked out.
I woke in the hospital, machines beeping, my body wrapped in bandages so tight I could barely move. My chest felt like it was on fire, every breath a knife. Kay was there, sitting by my bed, her face pale, her eyes red from crying. She grabbed my hand, her fingers warm against my cold skin.
“Rodney,” she whispered, tears spilling over. “You’re alive.”
“Barely,” I croaked, my throat raw. I tried to smile, but it hurt. “Told you I’d come home.”
She laughed, a shaky sound, and leaned her forehead against mine. “You idiot. Don’t ever do that again.”
The doctors came later, their faces grim. They said I was lucky—lucky the shark’s teeth missed my heart by inches, lucky it didn’t bite again. It had broken four ribs, punctured my lung, and torn my abdomen wide open. They’d spent hours stitching me back together, 462 stitches in all. My wetsuit had saved me, they said, holding my insides in until they could operate. I’d need months to recover, maybe longer.
Lying in that hospital bed, I kept seeing those black eyes, feeling the shark’s rough skin under my hands. It was creepy, how something so alive could feel so dead inside. The ocean had always been my home, my playground, but now it felt like a stranger. Wild, unpredictable, full of teeth. I was scared to go back, but deep down, I knew I would. Not to hunt, not to prove anything, but to understand. That shark didn’t hate me—it just saw me as food. Maybe I could learn its world, see it differently.
Years later, I’d build a life around sharks, studying them, showing others their power and beauty. But that day at Aldinga Beach, as I fought those jaws, all I knew was terror. The ocean had shown me its dark side, and I could still taste the blood in the water, feel the weight of death brushing past me. I’d survived, but I’d never be the same.
"The Eel's Wrath":
The sun was barely up, casting a soft pink glow across the Caribbean sky. I stood on a weathered wooden dock on a tiny island, the kind where the air smells like salt and seaweed. The water lapped against the pilings, and our dive boat bobbed gently, loaded with tanks, fins, and spearguns. My friends Jake and Sarah were already aboard, laughing about something dumb. Jake, with his scruffy beard and sun-faded cap, was bragging about the grouper he’d speared last trip. Sarah, her short hair tucked under a bandana, was checking her underwater camera, muttering about light settings. I’d been diving for years, but today, a weird tightness gripped my chest. I chalked it up to too much coffee.
“You gonna stand there all day or get on the boat?” Jake called, tossing me a water bottle. He had this way of acting like he owned the ocean, always cool, always in charge.
“Chill, I’m coming,” I said, catching the bottle. Sarah glanced up, smirking. “Don’t let him boss you around. It’s a dive, not a race.”
I forced a laugh and climbed aboard, my flip-flops slapping the deck. The boat smelled like diesel and sunscreen. Our dive instructor, Marco, was at the helm, a lean guy with skin like leather from years in the sun. His blond hair was tied back, and he was sorting ropes with quick, practiced hands. He gave us the safety rundown, same as always. “Stick together, check your gear, watch the currents. And don’t mess with the wildlife—especially moray eels. They’re not out to get you, but they’ve got teeth like razors if you piss ‘em off.”
“Got it,” I said, nodding, but my mind was already drifting to the reef we’d dive. I pictured the coral towers, the schools of fish darting like confetti. The boat’s engine roared, and we cut through the glassy water toward the dive site, a spot Marco called “The Garden” for its bright corals and deep drop-offs. The sea was so clear I could see the ocean floor thirty feet down—patches of white sand, dark rocks, and bursts of color from sponges and anemones. It was like staring into another world.
We suited up, the wetsuit clinging to my skin, heavy with the weight of the tank. Jake checked my regulator, giving me a thumbs-up. “Don’t do anything stupid down there,” he said, half-joking.
“Me? Never,” I shot back, adjusting my mask. Sarah was already at the edge, camera strapped to her chest. “Let’s make this quick before Jake starts measuring fish with his ego,” she said, and we all laughed. One by one, we rolled backward into the water.
The ocean swallowed me, cold at first, then perfect. Sound faded to the steady hiss of my breathing and the faint bubble of my regulator. The reef stretched below, a maze of coral heads and swaying sea fans. Parrotfish nibbled at algae, their colors popping in the sunlight filtering through the water. Jake swam ahead, pointing out a barracuda hovering in the distance, its silver body sleek and menacing. Sarah’s camera flashed as she snapped shots of a turtle gliding by. I gripped my speargun, scanning for something worth catching—maybe a snapper for dinner. Everything felt right, like we were part of the reef’s rhythm.
Then I saw it. Tucked into a crevice of coral, a dark shape moved. A moray eel, its body thick and greenish-brown, coiled like a spring. Its head poked out, mouth opening and closing, showing a jagged line of teeth. It was huge, maybe five or six feet long, with eyes like black marbles that seemed to stare right through me. My pulse quickened. I’d seen eels before, but this one felt different, like it was daring me to come closer.
“Hey, check this out,” I said through the comms, my voice muffled but clear.
Jake’s voice crackled back. “Don’t get too close, man. Those things don’t mess around.”
“I’m just looking,” I said, but I was already drifting toward it, speargun loose in my hands. The eel didn’t flinch, just kept those eyes on me. I don’t know what got into me—maybe it was Jake’s confidence rubbing off, or maybe I wanted to prove I wasn’t scared. I raised the speargun, not planning to kill it, just to nudge it, see if it’d move. It was a dumb move, the kind you regret the second you act.
“Don’t!” Sarah’s voice cut in, sharp. But it was too late. I pulled the trigger.
The spear shot forward, fast and silent, grazing the eel’s tail and pinning it to the coral. The eel went berserk, its body thrashing, twisting like a whip. Blood clouded the water, a dark red haze that stung my eyes. I froze, my breath loud and ragged, gripping the speargun like it could save me. The eel’s mouth snapped wildly, teeth glinting. Then it did something I’ll never unsee.
It turned on itself, jaws clamping down on its own tail where the spear had hit. With one vicious bite, it tore through its flesh, severing the pinned section. The tail, maybe a foot long, floated free, wriggling like it was still alive. Blood poured out, swirling in the current, and the eel—now shorter, wilder—shot out of the crevice, its body whipping through the water. Those black eyes locked on me for a split second, and I swear I felt pure rage.
I screamed into my regulator, a muffled yell that echoed in my skull. I kicked backward, flailing, my fins hitting coral. “Get back!” Jake shouted, his hand grabbing my arm, yanking me toward him. Sarah was yelling too, her voice high and panicked. “What the hell did you do?!”
“I didn’t know!” I gasped, my heart slamming against my ribs. The eel didn’t chase us, thank God. It darted into another crevice, disappearing into the shadows, leaving a trail of blood behind. The severed tail sank slowly, spinning in the current like a gruesome toy. My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat.
“We’re going up. Now,” Jake said, his voice tight. We kicked for the surface, too fast, risking the bends but too freaked to care. The water felt heavier, like it was pressing me down. When we broke the surface, I ripped off my mask, gulping air, the sun blinding after the dim reef. The boat was a hundred yards off, and we swam hard, not talking, just breathing.
On deck, I collapsed, my gear clattering. Jake peeled off his tank, his face pale, eyes wide. “I’ve been diving ten years,” he said, voice low. “I’ve never seen an eel do that. Bite its own damn tail off? That’s… that’s not right.”
Sarah sat cross-legged, hugging her camera like it was a lifeline. Her hands shook as she spoke. “I read about this once, in a bio class. Some animals can drop parts of themselves to escape—autotomy, it’s called. Lizards do it with their tails. But an eel? That’s insane. It must’ve been desperate.”
Marco had watched us scramble aboard, his usual easy grin gone. He listened as we spilled the story, tripping over each other’s words. “You’re lucky it didn’t come for you,” he said, crossing his arms. “Morays are tough, but they don’t do that unless they’re cornered. You shot it, pinned it—what’d you expect? Never mess with an eel again, you understand?”
“I won’t,” I said, my voice barely there. Shame burned in my chest. I’d hurt a creature for no reason, just to see what it’d do. I felt small, stupid, like a kid who’d broken something precious.
We didn’t dive again that day. Back at the hotel, the three of us sat on the patio, beers sweating in the heat. The sunset was gorgeous, all purples and golds, but I couldn’t enjoy it. My mind kept replaying the eel’s jaws, the crunch I imagined, the blood clouding the water. Jake tried to lighten things up, cracking jokes about “psycho eels,” but his laugh was hollow.
“You diving tomorrow?” he asked, peeling the label off his bottle.
I stared at the table, the wood grain blurring. “I don’t know. I… I might sit it out.”
Sarah reached over, squeezing my hand. “No one’s gonna judge you. That was heavy. The ocean’s not going anywhere.”
I nodded, but I felt exposed, like the eel had seen something in me I didn’t want to face. That night, I lay awake in my room, the ceiling fan clicking. When I closed my eyes, I saw those black eyes, unblinking, accusing. I got up, grabbed my phone, and started scrolling diving forums, desperate for answers. A few posts mentioned eels acting crazy under stress—one diver said he’d seen an eel bite a spear in half—but nothing matched what I’d seen. One comment stuck with me: “The ocean doesn’t care about you. Respect it, or it’ll chew you up.”
The rest of the trip, I stayed on land, walking the beach, watching waves crash. Jake and Sarah dove again, came back with stories of lionfish and a friendly octopus, but I could tell they were still rattled. They didn’t push me to join them, and I was grateful.
Back home, weeks later, I still can’t shake it. I dream about the eel, its body twisting, its teeth flashing. Sometimes I’m the one pinned, trapped in the coral, and it’s coming for me. My speargun’s still in the garage, untouched. I don’t know if I’ll dive again. The ocean’s beautiful, a world of color and life, but it’s raw, unforgiving. I learned that the hard way, and I’ll never forget the day I saw a creature so desperate to live it tore itself apart to get free.
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