Kapolei was never pretty. Not really. It’s where you go when you’ve given up on Oahu fantasies and just want a place to sweat, sleep, and avoid eye contact with the neighbor who’s always shirtless and yelling at his dogs. I was renting a little box of a studio attached to some single woman’s house. That’s a whole different story involving bad wine, worse decisions, and one too many awkward “you still here?” mornings.
The place was ten miles from the office, and I was going through one of those bullshit “spiritual awakenings,” where you convince yourself you’re finding meaning in sunsets and turmeric tea instead of just avoiding the crushing silence of your own brain. I’d head west after work, past the tourist bubble, where real Hawaii starts to rot. That’s where the chronics live, the real-deal locals with neck tattoos, homemade weapons, and a sharp memory of every haole who ever said something stupid.
But that’s also where you’ll find something beautiful. A little bay tucked behind a power plant where they suck ocean water in to cool the generators and then spit it back out into the sea. That outflow creates a current—a strong one. It pulls in life like a magnet. Turtles, reef fish, dolphins, sometimes sharks. The water’s warm. Crystal clear. It’s paradise with an asterisk.
Most tourists don’t know it’s there. The ones who do show up on rented catamarans with buffet bellies and waterproof cameras. They get fifteen minutes, a few selfies, then go back to their resorts to lie about how “spiritual” the experience was.
Me? I’d bring two bottles of cheap red, my fins, and a folding chair. I’d swim till my legs burned, drink until my teeth were purple, and chase turtles like a drunk sea lion. That was my church.
One afternoon, I’m out there swimming, and I see them—a pod of wild dolphins, just off the horizon. Not SeaWorld dolphins. Real ones. Moving like ghosts, like they’re not even touching the water. I figured, hell, this might be my once in a lifetime moment. So I kicked. Hard.
Ten minutes later, I stop to catch my breath and realize the dolphins haven’t gotten any closer—but the shore sure as hell has gotten smaller. The people look like ants. The sun’s dropping. The water’s gotten darker, deeper, more serious. Still, I push on. That kind of dumb courage that makes men start wars and chase tail they can’t handle.
Then it happens.
This yellow rescue chopper comes in low—blades chopping the ocean into froth, spraying me like a cat that pissed on the couch. The thing hovers just above me, screaming loud enough to make my eardrums rattle.
Then the loudspeaker kicks in.
“GET OUT OF THE WATER. SHARK. SHARK. GET OUT OF THE WATER.”
And that was it. The helicopter dipped its nose and fucked off into the sunset like a guy who just remembered he left the stove on. No final words. No plan. Just a loud-ass exit and the echo of “shark” hanging in the air like a punchline to a sick joke. My only defense at that point was the warm trickle of fear leaking out of me—silent, invisible, useless. No coordinates. No backup. Just me, open ocean, and whatever finned bastard was circling beneath the surface.So there I was. Half a mile out in open water, bobbing like bait. No backup. No slow-motion lifeguards sprinting Baywatch-style to rescue my dumb haole ass. Just me, my oversized dive fins, and the paralyzing knowledge that something big, gray, and hungry might be eyeing me like a drive-thru combo meal.
I started kicking like an Olympic gold medalist with a death wish. Legs locked, core clenched, adrenaline lighting every nerve ending on fire. Every few seconds, something bumped my fin—maybe it was a current, maybe a fish, maybe Jaws himself. Didn’t matter. I screamed into the water and kicked harder like hell had opened behind me.
I was hyperventilating, heart smashing my ribs like it wanted out, lungs ready to throw in the towel. I couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. The beach was getting closer, but the closer I got, the more my body whispered, “Hey idiot, we’re done here.” I felt the shock settle in. That terrifying weightlessness when your body taps out but you’re too stupid to die with dignity. I even turned my neck to the side like I was serving it up—go ahead, take a bite, let’s get this over with.
That’s when I noticed I wasn’t floating the way I used to. I had to fight just to keep my head above water. No grace, no rhythm. Just primal panic and a silent prayer to whatever bastard god handles ocean idiots.
Then—snap—I woke the hell up. One last push. I powered through the final stretch, caught a wave like it owed me money, and belly-flopped onto the shore like a beached seal that had just escaped a Darwin Award. Sand in my mouth, salt in my eyes, heart in my throat. My legs were wet noodles. My chest felt like it had been drop-kicked by fate.
I lay there gasping, soaked in shame and ocean piss. A crowd had gathered, naturally—because if you’re going to almost die stupid, at least provide some entertainment. They didn’t say a word. Just stared at me like I was the dumbest haole ever to escape evolution’s filter. Honestly, they probably were rooting for the shark.
No blood. No teeth marks. Just a shredded ego, a crippling fear of the sea, and—if I’m being honest—a strong suspicion that I may have shit myself a little.
Moral of the story? If you’re gonna be dumb, you better be tough. And I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer—but I’m still in the drawer, baby. Still cutting. A little bent, a little rusted around the edge, but I’ve carved my name into more than most.
And now? I can’t even float in deep water without the panic setting in. Chest tight, breath shallow, like some invisible hand is pressing down on me, whispering, “Remember?” My brain never forgot what my body begged it to bury. That moment when the ocean showed me just how small and stupid I really was.
So yeah, that was my brush with a shark—or maybe just my own fear—born out of some feel-good fantasy of swimming with dolphins like I was starring in a goddamn Disney movie. I forgot the ocean doesn’t care about your dreams. It doesn’t give a shit about your intentions. You’re meat. That’s the deal.
And let me tell you something else: I’ve done a mountain of dumb shit in my life, and if you’re lucky enough to survive it, you damn well better have the spine to laugh about it later. Because if you can’t find the comedy in your own near-demise, you’re just wasting your misery.
Some days you chase dolphins and find yourself outmatched by the ocean.
Some days you sip warm wine next to sunbathing turtles.
And some days—if you’re lucky—you crawl out of the surf coughing, half-dead, looking like a drowned rat with a pulse and a story to tell.
But every one of those days ends the same:
If you’re gonna be dumb, you better be tough.
