Leanne Phillips

I was 15 years old when Steven Spielberg’s Jaws hit movie theaters in the summer of 1975. As far as I am concerned, it has not been safe to go back in the water since.

Jaws apparently touched a nerve with a whole lot of people, but for a 15-year old girl who had lived by the beach her entire life and spent lots of time splashing around in the ocean, it really hit home. Actually, I’m not sure whether it was the movie that ruined me so much as it was the fact that my 12-year old brother Keith was fascinated by it. From that day forward, he couldn’t get his hands on enough books and information about sharks and, specifically, shark attacks. He was more than happy to share everything he learned with the rest of us. We all became privy to little-known facts about shark attacks, including the fact that most shark attacks occur in water less than three feet deep. So much for wading.

My brother also regaled us with stories of notable shark attacks, such as the haunting story of 12-year old Lester Stilwell. In 1916, Lester Stilwell was attacked and killed by a Great White Shark while swimming with friends in a local, New Jersey swimming hole. The shark killed two men just off the Jersey shore during the first week of July, 1916, then apparently became disoriented and traveled from the sea, up a creek, and into the swimming hole.

On July 12th, the shark was spotted in the creek, then entered the swimming hole and killed 12-year old Lester and Stanley Fisher, a man who tried to recover Lester’s body. Two boys were still swimming downstream, unaware of the danger. Someone in the group ran downstream and shouted at the two boys to get out of the water. As the boys attempted to climb out of the creek, the shark grabbled the leg of one of the boys, 14-year old Joseph Dunn. Joseph survived, but was seriously injured. So much for swimming holes.

Jaws was a fictionalized and dramatized account of a shark on a mission. Intellectually, I know that. But, it opened up a new world to me, a world I’d just as soon I’d never known existed. I love the beach. The few times I’ve lived any distance from the ocean, I’ve felt a sort of claustrophobia that is eased immediately when I’m in sight of the sea again. I love beachcombing and gazing out at the water, walking out onto the pier, sunbathing, gathering sea shells. But as far as seeing the ocean as a place to splash, swim, surf, scuba dive. . . those things have pretty much been ruined for me.

Three summers ago, a neighbor and surfing enthusiast offered to teach my 19-year old daughter Melissa to surf at Avila Beach, a quiet spot just a couple of miles north of our home. I cautioned Melissa about sharks, and she laughed at me, her mom, being overly-protective as usual. That’s the thing about shark attacks. They are rare enough to have taken on a mythical, fantastical Hollywood movie quality.

A couple of weeks later, on August 19, 2003, a woman was attacked and killed by a great white shark at Avila Beach. It was the first fatal shark attack on California’s Central Coast in about 10 years. Realistically, I know it may be another 10 years or even more before another fatal attack occurs. Intellectually, I know my chances of being killed by a shark are much less than my chances of being killed in an auto accident, or by lightning, or even by a bee. But I’m a product of the Jaws generation, and I’m just not taking any chances.

To hear the Beach Boys tell it, every California girl is blonde, tan and can ride the waves on the most bombin’ day with the best of them. As a woman who has lived in California all of my life, I’m here to burst your bubble.

Unfortunately, we California girls are not all Bay Watch babes ready to dive into the surf with boogie board in hand. In fact, if you’re counting on me to paddle out on my board and rescue you from a rip tide, you’ve got a serious problem. First off, I don’t even have a surfboard. Second, even if I did, I’d probably make a unique table or wall hanging out of it.

I tried surfing once, when I was a teenager. I lived in Coronado at the time, an isthmus at the southernmost tip of California. With the San Diego Bay on one side of me and the Pacific Ocean on the other, I spent a lot of time at the beach. It was only natural that I at least give surfing a try.

I consider myself fairly adventurous. I often watched the boys out there riding the waves and longed to join them. (FYI, all California boys are blonde, tan, hot and excellent surfers–that part of the myth is true.) The experienced surfers made it look so fun, so wild, so carefree. One hot summer day, I decided to go for it.

Here’s the thing about surfing: It’s not as easy as it looks. On my first attempt, I managed to maneuver the board into the water and paddle out past the breakers. I even managed to turn the board around, start paddling for shore and stand up on the board. From there, however, it went downhill very quickly.

Without so much as a warning, the Pacific Ocean picked the board up, with me on it, and hurled us both forward. I flew off the board and ended up face down on the ocean floor with a mouth full of sand and a nose full of sea water. Needless to say, I didn’t like it one bit.

It’s not that I couldn’t have mastered surfing had I given it the effort. But at that moment, I realized that, before I could be out there riding the waves with grace and dignity, I would first have to taste a lot more mouthfuls of sand. I would have to invest valuable time that could be better spent lying on the beach and reading. And after all, someone has to watch the hot surfer boys. Otherwise, who would they show off for?