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One morning while waiting for rounds to begin, a psychiatrist asked me to share with him and the convening physicians, nurses, and social workers, a story from my time in Dominica. A thousand images flashed through the Rolodex of my memories from that lush isle:

•  a cow bursting through the bush right in front of me at 5:30AM while I made my daily walk to the gym … followed by a man wielding a machete who chased it down the unlit gravel path
•  coming out of class one afternoon to see a fine layer of molten ash resting atop everything in sight; the residual effect of being on an island directly downwind of a recently erupted volcano
• watching a not-so-bright medical student dip his leg in “Boiling Lake”, which was literally boiling… and then watch him try to make the 3-hour hike back to our caravan

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https://youtube.com/watch?v=mEAyvWphhaA

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But my mind stopped swirling when I reached one that made me feel as uncomfortable as I’ve ever been in my entire life. The time I felt like a bear in the ocean.

Not like a polar bear in the Arctic Ocean. Like a Kodiak in the Sargasso Sea. Completely out-of-place. No natural surroundings. Only an impending sense of doom.

I found few things more relaxing in medical school than snorkeling in the Caribbean Sea. Part of that had to do with the realization that I was, in fact, in the Caribbean Sea, which is relaxing to just think about.

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But the other part was the incredible wildlife that was likely to be seen on any given trip into the clear waters. With my yellow bag that carried my fins, mask, and snorkel, as well as a water proof bag for my inhaler and phone, I strolled out of my apartment early one Sunday morning, planning to join my friend Tara on an adventure full of sea creature wildlife watching.

I hadn’t bothered to call Tara as I was leaving or while on the mile walk to the beach. We had agreed on 8AM and she was usually true to her word. And if she didn’t show up or was late, we were good enough friends that it wasn’t going to bother me. Being a medical student, even in the Caribbean, required me to shed many of previous foibles about people being on time, or even present.

When I arrived at the beach, Tara was nowhere to be seen. Actually, no one was anywhere to be seen. Despite the bright sun, lack of rain, and calm waters [the Triple Crown of Dominica weather], no one else was visible on the beach as far as my eyes could see.

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Everyone else was either nestled in bed, already pouring over copious amounts of material to study, or suffering from mid-semester beach fatigue.

Despite knowing how unsafe it is to venture out into open water alone, I decided the elements were too pristine not to wade into the welcoming waters without Tara. On a handful of occasions, I had ventured out to the beach with friends only to find that despite the clear skies, the ocean was churning and making visibility next to nil. We would turn right back around and begin a day filled with studying pathology and microbiology.

This day was perfect.

The water was calm and provided terrific visibility to the ocean floor. I waded out into the ocean, slipped on my fins, and surveyed the beach as far as the eye could see in either direction. Still no Tara.

I decided she must have been up late memorizing some inane biochem pathway or force-feeding her brain histiological slides. She would have to hear all about this day from me later, rather than witness its grandeur in person.

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The dock at PBH was a reliable marker for the distance traveled away from the beach. It was about 50 yards long and, when fully intact, would provide an excellent place for sunbathers to stretch out or rambunctious stressed-out daredevils to do back flips into the ocean. But depending on whether or not a storm had come ashore recently, some of the dock would have been violently ripped away, only leaving the concrete stanchions as a marker.

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On this day, the entire furthest half was missing. From the safety of the dock, you could also peer down into the ocean, where it was not uncommon to see sting rays with a 10 foot wingspan floating beneath you. Or bizarre looking eels wriggling along the ocean floor.

Being in the ocean, feeling the water against your skin, the mask pressed against your face, and gliding through the water with the aid of fins, provided a completely different perspective than the one provided by peering into the depths from the safety of the dock. I compare it to standing outside a gigantic aquarium and observing the marvel of the world behind the glass… and actually being inside it.

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Feeling everything that those outside can only see.

I had been snorkeling along the coast of Dominica enough times at this point that I wasn’t seeing anything new on this morning. And with calm waters tempting me, I decided to move even further away from land. The closest concrete stanchion was at least 10 yards away by the time I stopped kicking my fins and decided to float and observe my surroundings.

After only a few moments of deliberately surveying the scene beneath the water’s surface,  a fish zoomed right by me. I immediately recognized it as a tuna, which can easily be the size of a full-grown man. This one was definitely as big as me.

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I had never seen one in the ocean, only on the chopping blocks of the fish market in Portsmouth. But it’s identity was unmistakable. It had come close enough that if I had outstretched my hand, I certainly would have touched it. Yet, it all happened so fast that I was pleased enough to have simply seen one up close and in person.

As I rotated my head from right to left and watched it rush off into the distance, I thought to myself, “Wow! Tara is going to be so jealous!” I smiled to myself.

Then, in algorithmic fashion, the likelihood of me seeing a lone tuna this “close” to the beach began flooding my mind.

Tuna swim in schools.

That tuna was by itself.

Either it got incredibly lost.

Or it was being chased.

By something bigger than it.

Something bigger than me.

Dear god.

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Time to get the *$%^& outta here.

I felt like a Kodiak bear that had been captured, tranquilized, and awoken while being dropped from a helicopter just in time to splash into the Atlantic Ocean and fight for its life against a blood-thirsty Great White Shark.

Or two.

Or three.

Or… oh shit.

The Kodiak would summon all of its might and then quickly recognize that the advantages it had in its natural habitat of size, razor-sharp claws, and blood curdling roar would be trumped in this new environment by its predator’s agility, even larger size, rows of teeth and inability to care about a muffled roar.

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A wave of fear rushed over me.

I was not meant to be here. In this place. Where I was exposed at all angles. Where my fists could perhaps land a blow before they were gruesomely chomped off into sprouting fountains. And then I was eviscerated by teeth resembling the ones I had bought from a gift shop I visited in San Diego as a kid.

I guess that would be one hell of a way to go. Except no one would ever know because the shark would just keeping chomping away at my crackling bones as it continued its pursuit of that marvelous tuna.

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I spun 180 degrees, located the nearest portion of beach and rhythmically kicked my fins as I kept my eyes directly on that spot. I swam like I’ve never swum before. I channeled my inner tuna and hoped to mimic its survival instincts by out-racing whatever it was running from.

As my fins gyrated in the water, I repeated in my head, “I Need A Hero”, the theme from Short Circuit 2. In the back of my mind, the same fear I had experienced as a young boy during early morning swim lessons was percolating.

The darkness of the early morning made the deep end of the pool seem black and endless. My cinematic experience of watching Jaws at 3AM on cable television made the black and endless deep end of the pool seem to be a likely place for my life to end to occur.

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So on those mornings, I didn’t dare look down. Only stared at the ceramic tile along the opposite wall that I had decided would be my safety point.

I would have rather not seen those heartless eyes before I was torn to shreds. Hopefully it would be quick.

Maybe it would chomp my head off so I wouldn’t even know the pain of being bitten in half.

On this morning, I promised to never return to this god-forsaken beach ever again. I swam until I literally couldn’t swim anymore, my chest colliding with the brown sand on the beach, my legs beating against the ocean floor, and my head fully above water.

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With fins still attached to my feet, I sprung from the ocean. Only then did I turn around, half-expecting to see Jaws himself come flying out of the ocean at me, just as he had flung himself onto the boat in the film.

I ran to where my belongings were hanging from a white post of the fence separating the beach from the small beach houses of PBH. I tore the fins from my feet and stuffed them into my bag while simultaneously pulling the water-proof bag from therein.

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I took a couple of quick puffs from my inhaler, for no necessary reason, and powered “on” my cheap phone.

My heart was still beating a mile a minute as I walked from the beach out onto Ross Blvd. I dialed Tara’s number. She answered, apologizing for not being there. “What did I miss today?” I replied, “You won’t believe the Tuna I saw!”

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