I was once attacked by a fish.
Yes, you heard that correctly—a fish. I wish I could say I was swimming in the ocean when it happened, and that it was a great white shark. It came out from the deep blue and its blood-stained teeth grazed my rib cage. Nope. If that were the case, I’d be lifting up my shirt and showing fierce scars, just to show off. That was not what happened, so my shirt is going to stay on. Sorry? You’re welcome?
It was a fish, just a regular old fish, on a summer’s day at Camp Kwasind in Muskoka. The last time I checked, there were no sharks in Skeleton Lake. I should know—I worked there as a cabin leader. Young campers frequently asked, “Are there any sharks?”
“No, little Georgie, there are no sharks.”
It was my second year working there. I was much more experienced in the art of taking care of snotty-nosed pipsqueaks, but I was not prepared to deal with one camper, who I will call Georgie.
Georgie’s older brother was in my cabin the summer before, and he was in my cabin that specific week as well. Their parents decided they wanted to go on a lavish trip to Italy for the week, so they delivered both kids to camp. Georgie was technically a year too young, but David, the camp director, overlooked it. Georgie had never been away from home. He’d never even slept over at a friend’s house. Lucky me, right? Nope.
Georgie had his blankie; Georgie had his stuffed bear, Twiddles. He was ready for camp! He won’t get scared. No, sir. If he did get scared, his older brother was there! His older brother was indeed there, but he kept his distance from Georgie. I quickly learnt why.
Georgie was the most hyper, most distracted kid I had at camp. I’d tell him to go clean up his bunk before breakfast and he’d start, but two seconds later he’d be running laps around the outside of the cabin in nothing but his tighty-whities and one sock. The sock would be on his hand, not his foot. I’d ask him, tell him to stop and get back in, and he would. He would walk up the front porch and—oh, he’s gone again.
If that wasn’t enough, the poor kid had night terrors. He’d wake up in the middle of the night screaming for his mom and dad, and I’d go to comfort him. But wait, what’s this? I just put my hand in a puddle of urine. Great. You’d think I’d learn from the first time it happened, but every night, hand in a puddle of piss. It changed spot each night; it knew where I’d put my hand in caution of pee. The pee would learn.
I despised Georgie. And yet, I loved Georgie. He was probably the cutest kid I had at camp, despite being the most annoying, most exhausting, and most demanding kid in existence. He was a handful, but he missed his parents. Being away from home was new to him. Camp was a jarring experience. To make matters worse, his brother wanted nothing to do with him. I knew I had a role to fill, so I’d spend half of free time every day just with him, out on the lake.
On the first day of camp, I made a mistake. Georgie overheard the lifeguards talking about the boat sign-out board, and why there was a submarine on it.
He overheard that, “No, unfortunately the submarine cannot be signed out—it sank!”
In truth, it did not exist, yet when he asked if it really did sink, I said yes. I said yes! For the love of God, why did I say yes?
With a single kayak, his snorkel and goggles, he was determined to find it. Every day, for the entire hour and a half the camp slotted for free time, he would be out on the water systematically searching for the submarine. I felt obligated to help. I would join him, and some of the other staff went out of their way to sink a toy submarine, which he did eventually find.
Now, I was out on the water, searching for the submarine. I had my head submerged and out of nowhere swam this large Northern Pike. Out of the murky green deep, the fish swam straight for my head.
I cannot boast that I survived a shark attack. But can you say you were once headbutted by a fish? I think not.
