Growing up in Southern California you would have thought I was born with a surfboard under my arm. I always idolized the beach and surf life, however for various reasons it wasn’t meant to be at that time. Strangely enough, it wasn’t until I moved to South Africa in my 20s that I actually got on a board for the first time. Perhaps “on” is a bit of an oversell, being in the water with a board attached to me is likely a more accurate description.
When I first moved to Cape Town I wanted to embrace as much of the experience as I could, as one does when integrating themselves into a new place for the first time. I went to a local football game at the famous World Cup stadium, hiked around Table Mountain, and explored the local food and music scene. And soon enough the opportunity to try surfing presented itself.
While there are several amazing beaches easily reachable right in the city, the best beginner’s waves are about an hour away at Muizenberg Beach. Muizenberg is famous for a shoreline dotted with colourful bathhouses and beautiful turquoise water. And a generous spattering of shark sightings. Most beaches in the country use a flag system to designate what the shark risk is for the day. This is based more so on visibility and whether a shark could be sighted should there be one. The flags start with a green one (conveniently with a shark insignia on it) meaning “spotting options are good”, from there we have “spotting conditions poor” which is indicated by a black flag adorned with a shark, then “high shark alert” in red, and finally a white flag which indicates shark sighted. For the final option, it is widely known that an alarm will sound once the shark is sighted within the area to alert swimmers to leave the water immediately. On this particular day, the flag was a very reassuring black colour, a preverbal shrug if you will.
With a mix of excitement and apprehension, we made our way, boards in hand and ill-fitting rental wetsuits donned, to the water. The waves here were something I hadn’t seen at that point in my travels. They broke four or five waves at a time and stretched a dozen or so meters from the sand and back. This meant that if you got knocked off your board good luck getting up again before getting smacked with a wave breaking on you, usually right in your face. This also meant the visibility looking away from the shore was very limited as it was constantly being blocked by new wave breaks.
Now is probably a good time to mention that part of the reason I had never experimented with surfing growing up was partially due to a completely irrational fear of sharks. Not sure whether it was due to seeing Jaws at a pivotal point in my childhood, the popularity of Shark Week on the Discovery Channel at the time, or what, but I was one of those kids that had a concern of sharks in swimming pools. I knew they weren’t there, but who could truly trust a large body of water to be completely safe? While I was able to power through that fear, the ocean is terrifying and no one will be able to convince me otherwise. Even a bit of kelp around my ankle while wading in the shallow end of the sea was enough to make me nope my way out of there quickly. Needless to say, this ridiculous fear of sharks paired with a location that is known for regular shark attacks, or at the very least too many sightings for my taste, was a possible recipe for disaster.
This first venture into surfing was also without a lesson. I can’t remember why, but as a young student it was probably due to the simple fact that funds were limited and I was determined to “figure it out”. So, here I am strapped to a giant foam board, in an ocean where sharks frequent, no lessons or instructions, just flailing around. Off to a good start, don’t you agree?
After padding out a bit – or what I imagine looked more like the desperate movements of a drowning mammal – I get past a few breaks and wait on the board for the opportunity to try my hand at hanging ten. As I’m laying on the board I see the distinctive arch of what I am sure is a fin in the distance, past the final break. It’s far enough away to not be concerned so I keep a careful eye on it as I bob about. It’s probably driftwood I tell myself, determined to enjoy my first time on the waves.
By “careful eye” I mean I am completely focused on it and refuse to take my eyes off of it. I watch as it continues to stay just past the final break, however with so many simultaneous breaks I periodically lost sight of it. With each moment it escapes my view I feel the instant surge of adrenaline, the distinctive butterflies in the stomach and tingling through my extremities, igniting my fight or flight response. However, once it returned to my eye line the feeling dissipated and it was business as usual….until it wasn’t.
I looked away for a second to watch my friends in the water with me attempt to catch a wave. After a quick wipeout, I returned my gaze to the fin. Only this time it was gone. I quickly sat up, scanning the calm of the water after the breaks for it again. Maybe it went below the surface for a minute, I thought as I tried to reassure myself. I watched and waited for it to reappear. It never did. And as the fear began to rise within me, the lifeguard started to blow their whistle. Repeated, firm blows. The universal signal that something was wrong.
Between childhood swim team tryouts and my reluctance to leave any pool I had the opportunity to visit (sharks or not I loved myself a pool), I considered myself a fairly strong swimmer. But in this moment I would have given Michael Phelps a run for the gold. As the piercing blast of a whistle hung overhead I channelled Kelly Slater and made a run for the beach at breakneck speed. I knew I had been right. It wasn’t driftwood or my mind playing tricks on me, my gut told me what that distinctive brown and silver-toned triangle was and now it was time to get the hell out of the water.
I emerged on the shore panting and dishevelled, dragging the board behind me. I’m almost certain there were some small children swimming the shallowest part of the water, whom I most likely side-swiped with the board as it bobbed about in the waves, far away from my grasp. Now was not the time for niceties, danger was present.
Panting as I reached the lifeguard I managed to squeak out “You saw it too?!”, between gasps for air. I think there may have also been some arm flailing and dramatic gesturing to the water as well. Confused as to why I was so upset, the lifeguard looked at me bewildered. I asked again: “It was a shark, wasn’t it?! That’s why you blew the whistle, right?” More confused looks were exchanged. After a few brief moments of mutual blank stares and a clear look of panic in my eyes, the lifeguard calmly responded. “I blew the whistle because you had drifted into the swimming section and I needed you to move back to the surfing section.”
My near-death experience was no more than a strong current and a misunderstanding. While this awkward exchange was taking place my friends had arrived on shore as well, boards confidently under their arms. Unaware of what had just transpired they asked if I wanted to go back in again. I politely declined and decided to sit this one out.
Safe on shore and bum firmly planted in the sand I reflected on my plans for the coming weeks. I may have been free of an impending attack this time, but my desire for adrenaline and excitement would soon be fed again as I had planned to go cage diving with sharks in the coming weeks. Not sure why I was determined to put myself in harm’s way as many times as possible before my time in South Africa was finished, but that’s where all the good stories come from, right?
