The day I could have died
By JESMA MAGILL

This stingray is less threatening than the one I encountered. I bought it at Smashed Pipi Gallery in Mangawhai.
For me, summer usually offers the promise of sun-filled days interspersed with frequent swims in sparkling blue waters on gorgeous beaches along New Zealand’s east coast but one summer holiday in my old hometown of Napier didn’t quite go according to plan. In fact, my first swim at Westshore Beach that Christmas Eve was a disaster.
The long-dreamt of sparkling blue waters weren’t there for a start – that day the sea was murky and grey. But I’m often told life isn’t perfect and that high expectations encourage disappointment, so I threw myself into the sea, and pretended it was blue and sparkling. I frolicked in the waves with my niece and sister until they tired and retreated to the beach, leaving me to finish my aquatic antics.

Unfortunately something else was wallowing in the murky shallows of Westshore Beach that day – the conditions were just perfect for certain creatures of the sea to also indulge in some summer relaxation. I was lying in about half a metre of water and was just about ready to exit the waves when I paused for a few seconds. My hands came to rest on something that certainly wasn’t the sandy seabed.

This “something” spanned wider than my body. It was slimy and very fishy. It felt like a large flounder but I knew it wasn’t. Having grown up at Westshore Beach my feet frequently came into contact with those spritely creatures, and at the moment of contact with a human, the flounder would dart away.

No, whatever I was on wasn’t going anywhere but I knew its continued inert state wasn’t something I could rely on. My only option was to scarper out of the water as quickly as possible. The poor creature must have been as shocked as I was and whether as an act of aggression, self defence or simply as a result of turning in the water, the tail of a stingray – yes, it was a stingray – sliced through the top of my foot as we parted company.

Then the fun began. I tried to stand but the pain was excruciating and for the next fifteen minutes it felt like an electric current was pulsating around my body. However, every cloud has a silver lining and two young male lifeguards were on hand to carry me up the beach. With my arms draped around their broad and bare shoulders, I experienced a heady combination of piscine-induced shock mingled with their coconut-scented sunscreen. I swooned even more. They then handed me over to my family (that was a shame), and advised getting to A&E quick smart.


Oh, that the water was this clear at Westshore Beach.
I was taken to my father’s house, where I changed into something more suitable than my swimwear and in my delirious state wondered whether the doctors would be as good-looking as the lifeguards. We arrived at A&E and settled in for an anticipated lengthy wait.

But my support crew – large, loud and unruly – made such a racket we were ushered through to medical assistance pretty quickly. The doctor confirmed I was in shock because I was talking gibberish, to which my sister replied that was nothing new. This confused the doctor but he gave me a cocktail of drugs anyway.

It’s often said summer is the season for cocktails and I was having a high time as medical staff saw to my needs. After a further half hour of extremely loud and incomprehensible babblings from myself, I was despatched onto the street with six stitches in my foot covered by a fat bandage, my boisterous family in tow and advice that antibiotics weren’t necessary.

My brush with the stingray was particularly bad timing. It was Christmas Eve, there was cooking to be done, the last few presents to buy, the house needed cleaning, and all I could do was issue orders in the hope others would do it all for me.

Understandably, sympathy from the family soon wore off, as did the numbing effects of the drugs, and I was forced to hobble around the place in an attempt to be effective.

The “no antibiotics” advice was incorrect and came back to bite me. The wound quickly became infected and my foot blew up like a balloon. To top it off we’d arranged to spend Christmas in the bush – two hours from civilisation, doctors and pharmacies.

Luckily there was a nurse in the family who suggested the only thing for it was for me to pickle myself in alcohol. I started with the trifle, which was particularly wicked that year, and the next few days were a merciful blur.

When we arrived back in town the first stop was the doctor’s office where I received another cocktail of drugs. Gradually my foot lost its grotesque appearance but my long-dreamt of summer holiday was pretty much shot. Being able to order siblings around with a valid excuse eased the pain a little but I couldn’t swim for weeks; alcohol consumption was curtailed; and I became as fat as a house because all I could do was lie on the couch and eat. My husband thought he’d have to remove a wall of the house when it was time to leave but luckily I managed to squeeze through the ranch-slider.

Joking aside, my skirmish took place the summer prior to Steve Irwin’s death as the result of a stingray encounter and when news of that tragedy filtered through I nearly went into shock again. It made me realise how close to disaster I’d come. Over time my scars have healed and the scar on my foot has all but disappeared. This is a shame, though, because retelling my sorry tale has lost some of its impact without visual proof of damage. I’m thinking I might get it tattooed back on.