The morning felt safe. Then the ocean spat something back. One moment it was just sky, sand, and gentle waves — the next, my dog locked in place, refusing to go forward. His whole body trembled. I followed his stare and saw it: long, twisted, wrong. The mouth, the teeth, the silent snarl. I took a step, then sto… Continues…
I still remember the sound of the waves, calm and steady, completely at odds with what lay in front of me. The body looked like it had been dragged from another world and dropped at my feet by accident. Long, serpentine, half-buried in wet sand, its slick skin caught the light in a way that made it seem like it might move again at any second. My dog’s soft whine behind me felt like a warning I shouldn’t ignore.
I didn’t dare get closer. Instead, I used my phone as a shield, zooming in, capturing details I wasn’t sure I wanted to see. Hours later, safe at home, I learned it was just a dead moray eel. But “just” didn’t fit. Knowing its name didn’t erase the chill. It was a quiet, unnerving reminder: beneath that flat blue surface, the world is still wild, and it can reach us whenever it wants.
