When we were kids, my aunty used to take my sister and I camping to Seal Rocks with her at the beginning of the year. For the most part we stayed on unpowered sites in two tents but as the years progressed upgraded to a caravan set up, with a fridge, sink and cupboards. Without fail, every year at some point the beach across the road would wash up terrifying seaweed and an abundance of blue bottles so we’d venture over to the next beach where the waters were clear, the sand was littered with boats and across the road shops had small tables with seashells for sale.
I always like this beach, Boat Beach, the most because (despite only one occurrence) I associated it with adrenaline and scary experiences. Once while my sister, Kristy, Bronwyn (who we share mutual relatives with but I don’t know if we’re related) and I were out swimming in the ocean when we were urgently called to get out by our aunt. We scuttled like crabs back onto the shore and were told there was a shark further down the beach that was swimming toward where we had been. Because we were such stellar beach-goers, the three of us ran down the beach screaming “SHARK!!!111~~~~~”. Once everyone had returned to the shore (except this one boy who was out really far on a surfboard or something and we all…well, I thought he was going to die but he didn’t because he managed to catch a wave in at an exceptional speed) we walked back to where our aunt was and saw the brown Hammerhead shark swim by who was no further than 2 meters from the shoreline (idk how it could swim so shallow) and it was all very exciting.
Afterwards, back at the campsite the three of us kids sat around and pretended to interview each other about the alleged shark attack and made up commercials for toothpaste for the ad breaks.
This is a true story that happened to me.