Enjoy Today’s Musing Your Way

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Note: I republished this short story on June 19, 2025, as a tribute to the 50th anniversary of the release of the movie Jaws to theaters. That movie, and this incident, forever changed my perception of the ocean.

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I was eleven years old when a shark attacked my best friend. His screams of agony still echo in my memories.

Jimmy was thirteen, two years my senior—bigger, stronger, and afraid of nothing. We had wrecked bicycles, wiped out on skateboards, fallen from trees, and hurt ourselves in just about every way imaginable. Yet I had never heard him scream like he did that day. All I need to do is close my eyes, and that sound fills my head even after all these years.

Worse, though, was the quiet that followed. Water lapped as the waves rolled my raft. Seagulls called in the air. The distant sound of people playing on the shore carried from so far away. I waited alone in that ocean for the predator’s return.

It was the summer of 1975. For boys growing up in Gastonia, a mill town in the central part of North Carolina, the ocean meant Myrtle Beach. Giant arcades filled with pinball machines, skee-ball, flashing lights, and loud music beckoned us inside to spend our change. A plethora of putt-putt courses with fire-breathing dragons and wicked obstacles challenged us. After sunset, the pavilion in the center of the strip came alive with amusement rides and throngs of teenagers.

And, of course, the wide, sandy beaches and endless ocean invited us to enjoy the surf.

One morning, tired of diving under the waves and swimming in the shallows, we wandered into one of the countless shops selling cheap t-shirts, trinkets, and other tacky treasures. After surveying our entertainment options, we pooled our money and bought an inflatable raft. It wasn’t the cool surfboard we’d seen in movies, but it was as close as we could get.

And yes, it was fun. Our first attempts to ride the waves ended poorly, flipping us over and dunking us underwater. When we finally mastered the basics, we tried more advanced, ridiculous, and dangerous stunts. Most ended badly, but we laughed ourselves silly.

At some point, we paddled beyond the whitecaps and floated in the swells farther from shore. We told jokes, made up stories, and mourned our ending summer. I was entering my last year of elementary school. He was starting junior high. It would be the first time we’d go to different schools.

Soon enough, our conversation turned to the movies we loved—The Godfather. The Sting. The Exorcist. Deliverance. And one of our favorites, Billy Jack. We had cheered Tom Laughlin’s karate moves from the balcony of the old Webb Theater.

But that summer, one movie had taken over our imaginations: Jaws. A man-eating shark hunted its human prey with blood, gore, and the coolest-ever theme song.

Those simple notes might be the most recognizable music from any movie. You heard it everywhere that year. You still hear it today. And we hummed it on the raft that fateful day, though I don’t remember which one of us started it.

Duunnn dunnn…

We paused for dramatic effect. Sprawled on the raft, we searched the water for creatures but found only shadows. We pointed anyway, pretending something lurked.

Duuuunnnn duun…

We laughed nervously, knowing it wasn’t real—but wondering, just the same—as the music picked up pace.

Duuunnnnnnnn dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun dun…

Then one of us would scream as if being bitten. We repeated that joke over and over, but it never failed to make us laugh. As soon as the giggles subsided, the music would start again.

That day, we were doing what boys do best—pretending to be brave while trying to scare the crap out of each other.

Absorbed in our fun, we hadn’t paid attention to how far we had drifted. As an adult, I recognize how dangerous the ocean currents can be, but the invincibility of youth blocked that from our minds.

While we weren’t afraid of Mother Nature, we both feared the wrath of our mothers if we got caught doing something we shouldn’t. We needed to get back to shore.

Jimmy, the stronger swimmer, dove into the ocean, grabbed the towrope, and pulled the raft toward land. I climbed on top, kicking and paddling. We were making good time and felt confident we wouldn’t get caught—so the games resumed. I hummed the first two notes.

Duunnn dunnn…

He turned his head, that fearless grin spread across his tanned face. His eyes twinkled in the sunlight. He would not scare that easily.

Duuuunnnn duun…

As I finished the second pair of notes, his eyes grew wide and lost their sparkle. His smile twisted into a grimace. He tilted his head back and—

Screamed. A blood-curdling, agonizing, terrified, pain-filled scream.

I wanted to believe we were still playing, but I knew that sound wasn’t a joke. Nothing about it carried any humor. It chilled me to the bone.

Jimmy let go of the towrope and flailed his hands against his chest. The water churned around him as he battled his attacker. The more he fought, the louder he yelled. “Get it off me! Get it off!”

In his pain and fear, he did the only thing he could—he tried to outswim it.

I don’t blame him. If our roles had been reversed—if I had been the one in the water—I would have done the same.

But in that moment, watching him swim away and leave me alone, horror filled my bones. The shark that caused him to howl like that was still out there.

I pulled my arms and legs onto the raft and floated, frantically scanning the dark water. I couldn’t see anything, but in the murkiness, I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t there either.

Ahead, my best friend was swimming frantically for shore. He was wounded and crying out, but he was fighting. And if he was fighting, so was I. I would not abandon him.

I stretched out on my belly on top of the raft and cautiously reached into the water. Nothing gnawed at me—a good sign. Digging deep, I stroked with my arms. Heart pounding, I lowered my feet and kicked, propelling my vessel forward.

The scene of little Alex Kintner on a raft in Jaws flashed through my mind. Seen from the shark’s perspective, the camera aimed up at flailing limbs. The shark closed in. Mayhem followed. Only a tattered raft remained in the bloody surf.

Panicked at the thought, I scanned the water again. Still nothing. Ahead, Jimmy had made it past the breaking waves and was swimming hard for shore. A crowd, hearing his screams, had gathered and urged him on.

We weren’t the only ones who’d seen the movie. Everyone on that beach probably had. Many had likely played the same games—but the fun had vanished.

Parents shrieked for their children. Swimmers stampeded toward land. Sunbathers sat up and scanned the horizon. Many pointed out toward the water. Toward me.

That could only mean one thing: a dorsal fin had broken the surface behind me.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t dare. I paddled harder. Kicked furiously. With every stroke, I braced for teeth to clamp down on a leg or arm, to rip flesh and crush bone.

Jimmy reached the shallows and stood on wobbly legs. Clutching his chest, he stumbled onto the beach, dropped to his knees, and collapsed. Adults rushed to help him. Some ran to a nearby hotel to call medics. Onlookers gathered, blocking my view.

At last, a wave surged beneath me, lifting the raft and driving me toward shore. When I felt sand beneath me, I stood—amazed to be alive—and sprinted toward the crowd.

Was he still alive? Was he bleeding out? Had a chunk of flesh been torn away? Were there gruesome teeth marks on his skin?

I shoved through the crowd. When I finally broke through, Jimmy lay on his back, staring at the blue sky. Tears streaked his face. Wet sand clung to his body. His chest heaved. His arms wrapped around his wounds.

I dropped to my knees beside him. I reached for his hands and gently pulled them back. As much as I didn’t want to see movie-style gore come to life, I had to know.

As sunlight hit his injuries, I gasped.

From his shoulder to his waist, from one side of his torso to the other, stretched the nastiest, ugliest, most gruesome jellyfish stings.

No gaping wounds. No torn flesh. No blood. But red, swollen welts striped across him in a vicious pattern.

The shark wasn’t real, but his pain was. The medic said they were some of the worst stings he’d ever seen. The jellyfish had wrapped itself around Jimmy, front and back.

For the rest of the trip, Jimmy had to apply ointment several times a day. It helped, but he still hurt. We played putt-putt, rode go-karts, and visited the pavilion to help him forget.

The one thing we didn’t do?

Go back into the ocean.

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To Jimmy

As I always tell you—my stories are 100% true, except for the parts I make up. Here, the story is more truth than fiction, at least as well as my memory of childhood holds up.

Jimmy was my best friend for many years, but we drifted apart as we entered adulthood. We moved to different cities and pursued separate lives.

I last saw him in our twenties. We were both in Gastonia for the holidays, visiting our parents. We stood in the old neighborhood and chatted for a long time before parting with a promise to get together again.

It never happened.

A few years ago, my sister and I were reminiscing about our youthful exploits—much to my mother’s horror—and Jimmy’s name kept coming up. I wondered what he was up to and did the modern thing—I Googled him.

To my shock, I discovered he had died of cancer in 2015 at the age of 53—just over 40 years after our encounter with a shark. Well, jellyfish.

In my mind, he will always be a teenager—a couple of years older than me—with that happy-go-lucky smile and those mischievous blue eyes. In his quintessential Eddie Haskell ways, he’d charm all the adults with his sirs and ma’ams while dreaming up our next misadventure. A touch of bad boy, but with a heart of gold.

I almost changed his name in this tale. Instead, I dedicate it to him.

Godspeed, Jimmy.

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Gratuitous Dog Picture: A Perturbed Hunter

His Royal Highness Little Prince Typhoon Phooey can become quite perturbed when I disturb his hunting sessions. Not sure what the prey was, but it was big and ferocious in his mind and that is all that matters.