Pelican Attacked by Shark

The sunrise bled across the Gulf, painting the shallow waters in hues of liquid gold and rose. Old Salty, a seasoned brown pelican with a wing span like a small glider, hung in the air, his keen eyes scanning the shimmering surface below. He’d seen a good many sunrises, a good many fish. His pouch, usually slack, a wrinkled satchel beneath his long, sturdy beak, was ready for business.

A shimmer, a flicker – a school of silversides, a nervous, darting silver cloud just beneath the surface. Perfect. Old Salty tucked his wings, a feathered arrow, and plunged. The splash was a familiar symphony, a brief explosion of water, and then he was submerged, beak agape, scooping up a mouthful of breakfast.

But as he resurfaced, a new, colder current snaked around him. A shadow, not of his own making, bloomed beneath him. Before he could even fully clear the water, before the delicious squirm of small fish had registered, a force of nature erupted.

It wasn’t the gentle tug of the tide, or the playful current. It was a searing, crushing vice that clamped down on his left leg. The ancient, reptilian eyes of a bull shark, flat and black, were inches from his own.

Panic, primal and absolute, seized Old Salty. He shrieked – a raw, guttural cry utterly unsuited to a bird. His wings, designed for the air, thrashed wildly, sending spray high into the morning light. The water churned crimson as the shark, a torpedo of muscle and teeth, twisted, attempting to pull him under, to sever him from the air and make him truly its own.

Old Salty fought with a ferocity born of pure, desperate will. His long, strong beak, usually a fishing tool, became a weapon. He jabbed and stabbed at the shark’s head, aiming for the eyes, the gills, anything that might loosen that terrible grip. He beat his powerful wings against the water, not flying, but creating a furious, frothing maelstrom around them, hoping to disorient his attacker. He could feel the sandpaper skin of the shark against his belly, the pressure on his leg becoming unbearable, a bone-deep agony.

The world was a blur of teeth, blood, and the relentless pull of the ocean’s dark heart. He was losing, he knew it. The shark was too powerful, too perfectly designed for this environment. He was an aerial hunter, clumsy and vulnerable in this sudden, terrible deep.

Then, for a split second, the shark shifted its grip, perhaps seeking a better angle for a kill-bite. It was all Old Salty needed. With a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, he arched his back, pushing off the shark’s side with his good leg, and beat his wings with every ounce of remaining strength.

He burst free, leaving a trail of blood and shattered feathers in the water. He didn’t soar majestically; he clawed his way into the air, struggling, lopsided, his left leg dangling, mangled and useless. The shark, a dark, churning shape, circled below for a moment, then seemed to accept its loss, disappearing into the depths.

Old Salty flew, instinct overriding the searing pain. He flew until the shore was a solid, comforting line beneath him, until the memory of the flat, black eyes began to recede, replaced by the rhythmic beat of his wounded heart. He landed clumsily on a secluded rock outcropping, collapsing in a heap, his breathing ragged.

The dawn was still beautiful, but its golden light now seemed stark, illuminating a world suddenly harsher, more dangerous. Old Salty looked at his leg, a mangled ruin. He would never plunge into the water the same way again. He might never fish effectively again.

But he was alive. A survivor. And as the sun climbed higher, warming his bloodied feathers, Old Salty knew that the ocean, his generous provider, had also shown him its true, terrifying face. And he, a simple pelican, had stared into that abyss and found, within himself, the will to fly away.