Shark Beach….

I’ve mentioned my crippling fear of sharks and how the Florida shark migration happens to coincide with our vacation, on the same beach we frequent, while helicopters circle and teenage lifeguards wish they had chosen any career but this one while they shake in their high chairs and snort zinc oxide.
 
I. Am. NOT. Afraid.
 
There’s really no reason for me to be scared. I have no interest/business going into the ocean so I feel totally comfortable watching surfers, metal detector guys and exotic birds parade around in front of my picnic blanket while I eat sandy granola bars and shout, “Crab!” but then when someone looks, they dart into their make-shift crab shacks and make me look like a liar.

Then yesterday when my kids and husband were playing in the waves and I pretended I had some important architectural detail to tend to on our sand castle, I noticed a family setting up camp next to our blanket/snack buffet.

The Dad next to me waved hello and we smiled as his wife placed their blanket.

He waved with his left arm because his right arm appeared to be missing.

I’m not saying it was a result of a shark attack. I’m not saying that but come on.

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