As I sit on an island soaking up 4th of July rays, I think of the quintessential summer holiday weekend movie: Jaws.
And I get fucking pissed.
Thanks to Steven Spielberg, I’ve been afraid to go into the water—even Lake Michigan—for nigh on 35 years. The image of that drunk broad holding onto the buoy as she gets munched on is forever imprinted in my landlubber brain. I don’t fancy becoming Bruce’s next amuse bouche.
To paraphrase Brody, I’m gonna need a bigger fist. Because as I learned from The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook, punching a shark in the eye or gill is the best way to go. Or I could just not go into the water…