We couldn't have been more than a few feet under water. The seabed was fifty feet below us. Visibility was maybe twenty feet in any direction. We never saw a warning shadow. One second, Sean and I were the only ones around. The next, we could see the barracuda clear as day, on level with us, sideways to us, at least five feet long. He opened his mouth and started lining up on me.
I developed a sudden desire to tuck my hands under the opposite armpits. I folded into a seated position and began flippering backwards. Sean retreated as well. The barracuda stayed where he was until he faded into the distance.
This was no comfort. All it meant was we couldn't see him anymore. Without question, he could still sense us.
Yes, I had a dive knife in a sheath strapped to my leg, but drawing the blade would have been fatally stupid. Barracuda are attracted by sparkly things. Flashing a knife edge would have been like ringing a dinner bell. This meat eater was nearly as long as I was tall, and his mouth looked to be wide enough to take my arm from fingertips to elbow. Barracuda don't hunt humans, though. They're scavengers. They like to follow big animals, wait for them to bite something, then catch the falling scraps. Still, with that many teeth involved, you don't want to be there on the day a barracuda miscalculates.
Sean and I surfaced long enough to confirm which way shore was. It seemed endlessly far in the distance. We submerged and began swimming with nervous determination towards the beach.
Several minutes into the sprint, my right flipper felt loose. The strap was gradually working its way free. I reached down to tighten it, but couldn't lay my hand on it. I turned to look. Less than two feet behind my flippers was the barracuda.
I don't think there's a name for the maneuver I next executed, but it brought me again into a seated position doing my best to kick myself away from that crazy thing.
What was he on about???
I started taking inventory of my gear, using my hands to feel where I couldn't see. Egad! My car keys! I had attached them to a lanyard so they wouldn't get lost, then had tucked that into one of the pockets on my buoyancy vest. The pocket had opened at some stage during the dive. My car keys were in open water, dangling at the end of a short cord, sparkling in the sunlight. I grabbed the keys and frantically stuffed them back into the pocket.
Fish don't make facial expressions, but it almost seemed the barracuda was disappointed. He slowed his pace and lagged behind as I continued to retreat. He turned away before fading into the fog.
Sean resumed swimming normally. I did not. I swam the final hundred yards facing backwards. I didn't stop swimming until I landed on sand in about three feet of water. After a brief struggle with the surf, Sean and I were on dry beach.
We rinsed under a public shower, stowed our equipment in my car, put on land shoes and walked to a nearby restaurant for breakfast. I sat where I could stare at the sea. Under those waves, in the urgency of that moment, I had been too busy to freak out. As we waited for our meals to arrive, I was no longer too busy. What-If scenarios arose in my mind.
The lanyard which had held my keys was made of tough material. Barracuda teeth are needles meant for grabbing. His teeth would not have cut the lanyard. How long had that crazy thing been following me, becoming ever more hungry as he stared at the sparkly thing dangling inches below my throat? How much longer would he have hesitated before eventually deciding to risk it? To dare rush in, grab the sparkly thing, and try to rush away?
Had the barracuda done that, he and I would have been tied to one another by the uncut lanyard. One instant of clarity later, he would have flailed in a teeth-going-everywhere sort of way. Yeeeeeeeesh.
When I could think calmly again, I began to debrief myself. Any crisis you survive is a crisis you can learn from, provided you're brutally honest with yourself.
Was the barracuda at fault? Of course not. He was a fish with a brain the size of a peanut. He was no more capable of deciding to be evil than a wind-up toy. He was a force of nature.
So did that mean I was at fault? Yes. You betcha, yes. I was at fault for nearly getting myself ripped wide open.
How dare I blame myself? I would have been the victim. So what? I was the only one who had brought a frontal lobe to that encounter. Well, that's not entirely true. Sean had brought his mammalian brain as well, but he hadn't drawn the barracuda's attention. Only I had.
I had invited the attack. It was my fault for inviting the attack. It was my fault for not noticing (until nearly too late) that I was inviting an attack.
So how was this in any way different from all those times many years ago when I had been the target of bullies at school? In no way at all. Well, leaving aside the sea water. And the number of teeth. And yes, my schoolyard bullies did have human brains (albeit largely unused). Still, in every way which is important, the barracuda targeting me was no different from a human bully targeting me.
In both cases, it takes two to tango. If a victim doesn't present himself to be bullied, there's nothing for a bully to do.
Recently, I found an amazing statement on the StopBullying.gov website. Most of their advice is helpful, with one glaring exception: the U.S. Department of Health & Human Services encourages us grownups to "Assure the child that bullying is not their fault." Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. And while we're on that subject, wrong. Horribly, damagingly wrong.
Fault is a wonderful thing to be at.
I rejoice at discovering that I'm at fault. Why?
Because if a crisis were not even the slightest bit my fault, then I would be powerless to prevent it happening to me again.
Happily, that's almost never the case. I know from my own past, and I'll bet the same holds true in your past, that every bullying event was no more than half the bully's fault. Yes, the bullies were at fault for taking advantage of our vulnerability, but why did we let ourselves get into vulnerable situations to begin with? We either didn't notice, or we noticed but stayed there anyway. That's what's our fault. Once we recognize the faults which we commit, we acquire the power to make changes which will avoid inviting a future attack.
That doesn't mean I should give up scuba diving in the ocean. It means that I should make sure I'm not wearing "bite me" signs. Every time I've gone diving since that intense day, I first take a careful inventory of myself. During the dive, while I'm busy having a good time, I repeat the self-check. I'm also scanning the fog in every direction, watching for things I don't want to see. When barracuda-shaped things appear in the distance, I change course. Been there, done that, don't want to do that again.
I'm not just watching for things which might provoke barracuda. I'm also watching for fishing line which might get tangled in my equipment, or for anything else which might abruptly become dangerous.
The trick to surviving bullies (or bad luck) (or big teeth) is to think ahead. Daydreaming actually can be worthwhile if you use it to run What-If scenarios before crises arise. Think about how you appear in the eyes of a bully (or a barracuda). It's not just visual annoyances, either: you can attract bullies with typed words, spoken words, sounds and smells.
You have an outside which is distinct from your inside. If you're not constantly aware of, and in control of, the signals your outside is sending, who knows what you are unintentionally inviting?
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