Strange, sometimes, where and how old memories resurface. For me it
was in a seafood restaurant where the Lindsleys ate out this past
Tuesday night during our beach vacation. You know how in seafood
restaurants at the beach they hang all kinds of "beachy" stuff on the
walls to create that atmosphere - shells, stuffed marine life,
fishnets? As I was munching on some shrimp, I looked up to see a huge
shark jaw, teeth and all, hanging on the wall. And as I sat there with
the family I had, as happens from time to time, memories of something
that happened to me many years ago.
I kid you not: I, Steve Lindsley, was bitten by a shark. And here's the skinny.
Summer
1980; I was heading into the 6th grade. Every summer my family packed
the car and headed south on I-95 to Daytona Beach for two weeks
(someone on my mom's side of the family had a house in Holly Hill, just
outside Daytona). On the morning of said incident the family
discussed: should we take in the beach in the morning and then Cape
Canaveral in the afternoon, or CC in the morning followed by an
afternoon beach excursion? Everyone voted for the latter - except me.
So I guess you could say what happened was partially my fault.
We
arrived at the beach and, as was our habit, my brother and I jumped out
of the car, grabbed our floats and headed for the waves. I had just
ridden a wave in, hopped off to turn back out when........I felt
something on my foot. I froze. And I don't know if it was my
subconscious immediately going into defense mode, but the first thing
that came to my mind, oddly enough, was, "It's your Dad. That's right,
it's your Dad. He's snuck out in the water without you noticing, swam
up underneath you and grabbed your foot with his hand as a joke. He'll
pop up any second now.......any second......just wait, he's
coming......." And about then is when I looked up the shore to see my
Dad sitting in his beach chair reading his book.
It
was at this point that I went into full panic mode. Running past my
brother I headed to the shore yelling, "Shark! Shark!" He quickly
came in with me. As the water got more shallow I began looking down to
see what my foot looked like. It hadn't really hurt until I saw it -
or perhaps more appropriately, what was left of it. The top layer of
skin and muscle had been opened like a suitcase to reveal bone, tendons
and tissue. That's when I remember it first hurting.
By
this time Dad realized something was wrong and ran to meet me at the
shore (Mom, as fate would have it, had taken off on a beach walk and
wouldn't join us until later). I remember him taking me by the hand
and running with me to the lifeguard chair. As we got closer, the
lifeguard got off the chair and grabbed his first aid kit. He told me
to lie down on the sand, which I did, and began tending to me. Two
images come strongly to mind here: first, a crowd of folks immediately
gathered around me, all crooning their heads to gaze in on the
"victim." The second thing I remember was when the lifeguard poured a
bucket of fresh water on my foot to wash out the sand. That, as you
can probably imagine, did not feel so good.
For some
reason I did not get an ambulance trip to the hospital - instead we all
piled back in the Green Volvo station wagon and headed for the
hospital. My brother sat in the front passenger seat and I laid across
the back with my head in my Mom's lap, foot raised to ward off the
throbbing that was increasing with each passing minute. I remember
crying, "I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die!" and my mother trying to
console me until she finally yelled out, "NO! No, Steve, you are not
going to die! You are going to grow up, you're going to get married
and you're going to have kids!" To which I responded, "Yeah, but I'm
not gonna take them to the beach!" - demonstrating that the Lindsley
humor still prevails even in times of turmoil and bodily injury.
The
rest of the day was pretty much a blur - I remember bits and pieces:
meeting with doctors and nurses, being the "celebrity shark bit victim"
in the hospital. I remember lying on an uncomfortable table for the
longest time with Mom on one side and Dad on the other (not sure where
brother had gone), looking dead ahead at the inside of my foot. By
this time I was on all kinds of pain meds, so I didn't feel anything
really - just very surreal to be looking at the mangled thing in front
and realize it was attached to me.
The time
eventually came for the surgery. I was wheeled into the operating room
and immediately met by strangers with half their faces covered in
masks. You can understand how this would be more than slightly
unnerving for an 11-year old. A familiar voice informed me that he was
my surgeon and would be fixing my foot up; nothing to worry about.
Then he said he wanted to strike a deal with me - that he'd tell me
when I was given the gas to put me to sleep, and if I could count from
one to ten he'd personally give me $10,000. When he said go I remember
going "12345678910, I did it!" But later I found out (and had witness
verify) that I barely got to "2." Oh well.
Anyone who
has been put to sleep for surgery knows that coming out of it is a very
discombobulating sensation. First thoughts of consciousness were a
wall in front of me and a clock. Eventually someone wheeled me to a
room where the family were waiting. My mind was still in a fog, but I
remember hearing that the surgery had gone well and that "I did great"
- which is kind of funny, if you think about it, since I didn't really
do anything except lay there unconscious. I also remember at one point
my mom asking me if I needed anything, anything at all; and somehow in my state I remembered that it was Tuesday night, and it was almost 9:00, and that Charlie's Angels always
came on at 9pm on Tuesday nights. I never got to watch this show
growing up, though I always wanted to (and honestly, what 11-year old
boy wouldn't want to watch Farrah Fawcett-Majors, Jaclyn Smith and Kate
Jackson in prime time??) So I went for all the marbles and told Mom
and Dad what I really wanted to do was watch Charlie's Angels. They
frantically searched for the TV remote! The show came on and I was
elated - but much to my dismay, I fell asleep before the opening
credits completed. A wasted opportunity that I will never fully
forgive myself for.
I spent three days and nights in
the hospital and was finally released to go home - well, home to our
Daytona Beach place. We were supposed to head back to North Carolina
that week, but the surgeon wanted us to stay longer for follow-up.
Each day was a routine of getting carried from the bedroom to the
living room couch and watching TV, then back to bed at night. I
remember getting mounds of mail every day from well-wishers back home,
and that I read them and re-read them. At my last visit with the
surgeon I was kind of down - what kid wouldn't be when informed that
you were starting the new school year with crutches and a special
slipper on your shark-bitten foot? The doc picked up on my despondent
state and told me he didn't know why, but he just had a feeling that in
no time I'd be running in races and track meets with no problems
whatsoever. Seeing as how I ran some 10Ks with Dad the following year
as well as running track in middle and high school, I guess the guy
knew what he was talking about.
They say that the
shark was probably a sand shark, approximately 4-5 feet in length.
These sharks naturally swim along the bottom of the ocean floor, which
would explain why I didn't see it. They also don't like human flesh,
which I am told is the reason that I still have a foot today. More
than likely I frightened it (imagine the irony!) and it bit me in
defense, got grossed out over human flesh and swam away. And that was
it. To help remember this little encounter I sport a large scar that
reaches from one end of the top of my right foot to the other -
reminding me of the two torn tendons and 32 stitches they had to put on
both the inside and outside. I also have a story to tell, and have
told many times (my apologies, by the way, to those of you who may have
heard it before). The one thing I don't have are many people who can
truly relate. The shark bite fraternity, as you might imagine, has a
fairly small membership. Perhaps I'll see if there's a Facebook group
or something.
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