When Shrimp Attack
by C. Sanders
The primary diet of camarónes, or Pacific shrimp, off the coast of Mexico is algae and decomposing waste found throughout the ocean. Shrimp shuffle along catching what they can in their tiny shrimp mouths, happy as clams.
Well, that’s usually what happens.
As local legend tells it, one sun-drenched day nearly a decade ago a bold man named Gaston from Carmel, California ventured into the tepid waters off the coast of central Mexico. And it was on that day he learned that at least one shrimp didn’t want to be a bottom feeder any longer. That shrimp wanted blood.
Gentle peelers rolled in from outside and broke like fingers tickling the sandy shore.
Using nothing more than a child’s boogie board and his nautical skills to navigate the vast bay, Gaston held tight to the rails as he kicked and splashed his way out to sea. Further out his wife Sheila, a natural mermaid in the water, paddled calmly past the surfers and snorklers beyond the breaking waves. Every so often between strokes she glanced back to make sure her swimming buddy was pointed in the right direction.
Then, like a spike of electricity, it happened.
Something beneath the surface jabbed Gaston in his calf. He later explained it felt like a sharp bite, as if some leviathan rose from the deep and attacked. Fearful he was in over his head, he quickly turned the board shoreward and paddled like a motorboat to the sand. When describing the event back on the beach he commented that he thought he was out further than he actually was, but nonetheless glad to be on dry land, safe from the murky domain of the creature which was clearly out for blood.
From far beyond the white breakers we could see Sheila wave a couple times, turn and continue her swim. As I approached Gaston he was inspecting his leg, just below the knee. “You ok?,” I asked.
“It felt like something bit me. Are there biting fish out there?”
“Not that I know of,” I replied as I inspected the injury. Other than leg hair and a couple freckles, I could only see a tiny red dot about the size of the period at the end of this sentence.
“Is that it?” I asked.
“Yeah, it really stings,” he said as he massaged around the injury.
“It must have been a shrimp.”
“You think a shrimp bit you?” I asked, “Do they do that?”
He continued his inspection and rubbed it some more, then looked out to sea, across the foam and ripples, past the waders and surfers, to Sheila casually paddling across the bay, blissfully unaware of the danger below.
Gentle peelers rolled in from outside and broke like fingers tickling the sandy shore.
Using nothing more than a child’s boogie board and his nautical skills to navigate the vast bay, Gaston held tight to the rails as he kicked and splashed his way out to sea. Further out his wife Sheila, a natural mermaid in the water, paddled calmly past the surfers and snorklers beyond the breaking waves. Every so often between strokes she glanced back to make sure her swimming buddy was pointed in the right direction.
Then, like a spike of electricity, it happened.
Something beneath the surface jabbed Gaston in his calf. He later explained it felt like a sharp bite, as if some leviathan rose from the deep and attacked. Fearful he was in over his head, he quickly turned the board shoreward and paddled like a motorboat to the sand.
When describing the event back on the beach he commented that he thought he was out further than he actually was, but nonetheless glad to be on dry land, safe from the murky domain of the creature which was clearly out for blood.
From far beyond the white breakers we could see Sheila wave a couple times, turn and continue her swim. As I approached Gaston he was inspecting his leg, just below the knee. “You ok?,” I asked.
“It felt like something bit me. Are there biting fish out there?”
“Not that I know of,” I replied as I inspected the injury. Other than leg hair and a couple freckles, I could only see a tiny red dot about the size of the period at the end of this sentence.
“Is that it?” I asked.
“Yeah, it really stings,” he said as he massaged around the injury.
“It must have been a shrimp.”
“You think a shrimp bit you?” I asked, “Do they do that?”
He continued his inspection and rubbed it some more, then looked out to sea, across the foam and ripples, past the waders and surfers, to Sheila casually paddling across the bay, blissfully unaware of the danger below.
On a Mission to Warn Others
We were never able to confirm that shrimp actually attack people. When polling the locals, no one had heard of such a thing. In fact, our story became just another humorous anecdote about those green tourists and their silly antics.
But what if a shrimp did go rogue and bite Gaston? And what if it’s still out there ready to bite someone else? Gaston’s conscience wouldn’t allow that, so with my help, he and his grandson launched a grassroots public-awareness campaign to warn swimmers about the risk of unprovoked shrimp attacks.
We hope that our humble outreach will protect others from the horror Gaston experienced on that sunny day in Mexico.
