Most people will be the victim of a terrible accident that will result in a dreadful injury. Whether it is a broken bone, huge cut or when you fall of your bike and get gravel stuck in your hand, most people will have to endure some sort of awful accident. I am lucky. I have already experienced this.
I was fighting against the infamous Costa Del Sol currents, famous for knocking over many a drunk man on a stag party, in an inflatable life raft (purchased from a local sea-side shop selling a variety of beach themed products). I noticed that I was drifting away from the coast line. And in the distance – some eye witnesses said I was at least 25 meters out – I could see my mother frantically waving. I knew something was big. A massive event was about to take place, and I needed to fight my way back to safety.
In haste, I adjusted my body in a manner that was too much for the novelty one-man raft and inevitably toppled out of the vessel and into the sea. As any experienced raftsman will say, the first instinct when you experience first hand “man overboard” is to chuck the oar and brace for impact with the ravaging sea. As the oar hit the water, it became wedged in the sand. My body followed, spearing my leg. A section of about a square inch on my leg was literally covered in blood.
The beach came to a standstill. There was silence. Everyone, even the local Spaniards, knew something bad had happened. One local shop keeper even said if I was in the water for even a minute longer, the blood would have attracted a bunch of Great White sharks and I would have definitely probably been eaten. I managed to drag myself, and the water filled liner, back to the beach, and claim the Calippo my mum had waiting for me.
Now, 10 years on, I still find it difficult to be near water and novelty boats, but mainly water. Every time I look at my knee, there is a tiny, faint indicator of the horrors that unfolded on that sunny afternoon in Spain.
Exaggerating Life Since Forever 