“The
oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear…and the oldest and strongest
kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” – H.P. Lovecraft
Our yearly summer vacation was nearly
at hand. A full week of surf, sun, and
sand at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
It’s an event that our family looks forward to every year. An opportunity for long, lazy days on the
beach and quiet evenings filled with fun and local food over the Fourth of July
week. No worries of work, school, or
schedules. Previous trips have resulted
in tropical storms and a magnificently brutal sunburn that wreaked havoc on said
relaxation plans. Not this year
though. This year will just be a complete
application of decompression and stress reduction. I earned it.
In addition to that stress relief, it
was also the time for me to ditch my pallid vampire complexion and actually fit
in with my family. They may spend all
summer perfecting their Caribbean-like features at the neighborhood pool, but
my office’s fluorescent lighting doesn’t do much to help transform my pasty-white
Nosferatu features into that healthy golden glow of summer skin.
Unfortunately though, I would not be
the only Great White hitting the Carolina beaches that week. Just prior to our departure, several of those
same Carolina beaches decided to reinvent themselves into a leading national news
headline…eight separate times. Really,
the timing was impeccable and more than a little unnerving.
Multiple shark attacks were reported in
the general vicinity of where we were going to vacation. Not just shark attacks, but horrific shark
attacks. Sharks in knee deep water
taking limbs, chunks, and everyone’s complacent sanity with them. You usually hear of one, maybe two, over the
course of a summer. But eight in two
weeks? Something was off-kilter. That natural balance within the confines of
Davey Jones’ locker had tragically gone askew.
Mama Nature was clearly incensed by something and was now raining down fear,
terror, and Sharknados on our
vacation plans.
“There’s
no such thing as a ‘shark attack’. We
live on the land. Sharks live in the
water. You get caught down there, you
trespassing. That’s they living
room. You know what a real shark attack
is? If you somewhere you supposed to be
and a shark shows up. Say you in the
crib taking a shower and feel a tap on your shoulder. ‘What up, playa? It’s shark attack, baby’.” – Comedian
Ian Edwards
As always, my own fears and paranoia wrestled
control and took charge of all of my faculties from there. All of those Jaws nightmares from my childhood that I had neatly tucked away in
the dark recesses of my dented melon had now suddenly swam back to the
surface. How could I protect my children
from something that I can’t even see or even know that’s there? Always the obvious epitome of rational
thought and level-headedness, I declared that our children would not go
swimming when we got there. There would
be no swimming, no boogie boards, no inflatables, no nothing. “I hope you enjoy a full week of sand castles,
kids!” I mean seriously, who doesn’t
like eight hours of paddleball and being buried in the sand every day?
Children always find ways of pushing
those limits though. Over time, and with
little reluctance, they eventually made it to the water. First, up to their shins…then to their
waists. Eventually, they found
themselves up to their mid-torsos busily, and thoughtlessly, enjoying the waves.
As for myself, I found myself on high
alert standing knee deep in the surf like David Hasselhoff’s stoic Mitch
Buchannon. Stone-faced and undeterred by
mere petty tourist distractions. There
was no time for relaxation and stress reduction on this vacation. I had to monitor the shark’s living room for impending
danger. When they were in the water, I
was in the water busily scanning the ocean for fins and fast-moving dark shapes. I scrutinized all playful shouts and screams
and checked all tides and sandbar depths.
And yes, I probably even fought some bad side-stories of beach crime as
well. Make no mistake about it…I was
doing The Baywatch.
The local television stations only
made it harder for me to shake off my inner Hasselhoff in the evenings. It just so happened to be Shark Week on the Animal Planet network
and the local news was busy feverishly covering and re-covering every attack in
painstaking detail. You couldn’t get
away from it. No matter where you were
or what channel you were on, someone was getting chased or bitten by a
shark.
Finally though, I reached that crescendo
of paranoia. One evening, the local news
reported that Portuguese man o’ war were now washing up on the beaches of North
Carolina and that some irresponsible alligator was spotted cruising the ocean
waves just north of our location. Mannies,
gators, and bull sharks? Oh my! The three horsemen of the vacation apocalypse! May as well change my name to “Pharaoh” before
they sprinkle a few more biblical plagues on me for the remainder of the week. I’m sure someone could muster a couple hundred-thousand
locusts up on short notice.
“Well, if we're looking for a shark, we're
not gonna find him on the land.” – Hooper (Jaws)
As the week progressed, however, and
without any more “shark-maims-tourist” episodes in the area, I found myself
starting to relax. Although I was still
full-time Hasselhoffing it as a daily routine on the beach, and although it may
have been tough to see on my anxiety-chiseled face, I had actually started
enjoying myself a little bit.
That was until the boy decided that he
wanted to try parasailing. Nothing says
relaxation quite like signing a Release of Liability waiver on behalf of my
adolescent son, cruising high above the shark’s living room a mile out from
shore, and then airmailing ourselves to the vicious predators below like cheap Chinese
take-out. Egg drop soup, order up!
From the air though, we saw nothing
but jellyfish. No mannies, no gators, no lurking dorsal fins, and no
locusts. Nothing but fair winds and
following seas…albeit from 200 feet in the air and attached to a speeding boat
by nothing other than a single strand of rope.
By all accounts from the local news reports though, parasailing
appeared to be the safest thing we did that week. Like
I said, relaxation and stress reduction.
Eventually, the week came to end and it
was time to head back to the real-life trepidations of work, new school year
preparations, and jam-packed schedules.
Thankfully, there were no shark sightings and we were returning with all
of our digits and appendages intact. Even
the quintessential Mitch Buchannon would sign off on that one as a successful Baywatch episode. Even better, I may even eventually have the feeling
in my neck tendons return at some point over time.
Plans are already in the works for
another Myrtle Beach vacation at those same Carolina beaches next year. Preparations have already begun to ensure
that complete application of decompression and stress reduction.
