Ocean Resort Virginia Beach
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The sun was low in the sky when Jack and I made it back to town. The beach was crowded, so we took off our boots in front of a restaurant that had “Happy Hour” written all over its sign out front: it was packed with locals drinking cheap beer outside on picnic tables.
The sand was packed hard like concrete; the waves were crashing up onto the beach and then rolling back into the ocean, sending ripples out in all directions.
As we sat on an empty table waiting for some food to come, I could see people down the boardwalk walking by, but most of them went around us as if they didn’t want to look too closely at the two boys from Ohio.
We’d both been in the water for almost six hours, so we couldn’t really talk about anything but our experience—I mean, the way the shark attacked and tried to rip my arm right off! And how it swam straight for me while I was in the shallows, and then how I ran into the waves—and now I think that’s what saved my life.
At least that’s what Jack said—that it got distracted when I came running out of the surf. That’s why he told me not to run or try to get away because it would chase me and probably kill me—he said it knew exactly where I was. But how can that be? How does it know where you are when it doesn’t even have eyes?
And don’t shark only attack in the open water? Why did this one follow me right here, to shore, right to the edge of the surf? Did that mean something?
Jack was still trying to figure it out too. He wasn’t saying much about his own experience, but he’d just kept looking around for any signs of the shark when I started talking. We hadn’t seen another soul since we left the ship, though I noticed Jack’s hands shaking slightly as he ate his burger.
After finishing up his meal, he asked me if I wanted to go back in for a swim, maybe try to find that spot again…
But I wasn’t ready to do that yet. Not without more time—it was dark now, and the moonlight wasn’t enough to help me. Besides, I still felt kind of shaky, like there might be other sharks watching from below as I swam around in the water.
So we went back to the room. I took a hot shower, then laid in bed with the covers pulled tight over my head—and stayed awake for hours after that, unable to sleep. I heard the sounds of traffic outside our window all night long and wondered if that meant more people who could see things. Or maybe it was just more trucks coming and going from the shipyard. Maybe I imagined every sound.
I finally got up when it was almost morning. There was no point sleeping anymore, especially if I had to wake up early to catch the boat out to Ocean City again. So I made myself breakfast in the tiny kitchenette—a bagel and a banana, with a glass of milk. I watched TV for a little while before heading back to bed.
When my alarm went off I turned it off and slept until ten o’clock, and then got up and got ready to go. It seemed like such a waste, but what else was I supposed to do? I figured maybe once I actually boarded the boat I’d feel better.
When we arrived at the pier at 10:45 A.M., the first thing I saw was a bunch of police cars and a Coast Guard van parked on the sidewalk beside the dock, blocking us from getting any closer. Then the officer guarding the entrance to the harbor waved me over—so I followed him into the office building and up a flight of stairs.
I could tell right away that something serious must have happened. There were dozens of police officers milling around in the lobby—some standing around staring at their cell phones and others sitting at desks talking quietly with each other—but none of them spoke to me as I passed.
They all looked upset and tired, but there were a few men and women who seemed very angry—like they were trying to control their emotions, but they were failing miserably. One woman even walked over and slapped another man across the face! I stopped and stood next to a wall to watch—wondering what had gone wrong.
Then a tall, skinny man dressed in black walked right past me and went inside the elevator. He stepped on, then turned and glanced at me for a second—almost as if he recognized me, but not really. His expression changed quickly when the doors closed again, and then he pressed a button for the fourth floor.
That’s when I realized that all these people were waiting for this one man—the man who had been hit with the lady’s palm. As soon as he reached his destination, someone ran out of the elevator and into the hallway, yelling for someone to stop the damn thing—to keep it from closing before they all got out.
A minute later the elevator started to move again. This time the guy in black jumped in, along with two police officers. But instead of riding it down to the third floor, which would be where the man was going, they both stepped out on the fourth.
“What happened?” I asked one of the officers standing nearby, wondering if he could tell me anything.
But he just shook his head, “No idea,” he said. “We can’t talk to you.” And then he walked into the building.
The door slammed shut behind him and locked, so I couldn’t follow him. All I knew was that they were following a suspect who had just been arrested. I didn’t know what that meant, but I figured it must have to do with whatever went on at night at the shipyard.
I went downstairs and waited in front of the main office. A few minutes later the police officers who rode upstairs with the suspect came walking out of the building, followed by two young guys in suits. The officers told everyone who was still waiting that they had detained the suspect in question—and that everything was under control.
Then one of the cops said to the group, “Okay. Everybody gets your asses moving!” and started barking orders to move the barricades out of the way so we could pass through.
They didn’t let any of us wait for more details—they just wanted to clear out as many people as possible before noon. I wasn’t sure what to make of it all, but it was clear that some kind of major event was happening, and they wanted it to stay secret—at least for now.
So I left the pier and got on my bike, riding towards town. When I arrived in Ocean City, I decided to ride along the boardwalk. It was still pretty early—around 11:15 A.M.—so there weren’t too many people out yet. And the weather was nice—a little chilly but nice enough for a short run.
That’s when I heard it—the ocean. Just a couple blocks away from the end of the boardwalk sat a small, open-air park, filled with benches and trees, and grass. I stopped my bike and looked towards the water. The waves were crashing against the rocks and spraying foam all over the place.
A flock of seagulls glided across the sky above me, calling loudly to each other as they flew. I thought about how beautiful nature could be—how amazing it is for something so large to just crash against a rock and spray all of this foam everywhere! It reminded me of a time years ago—when I was much younger, and I would go to my grandmother’s house for weekends every year during summer vacation.
We’d eat breakfast together most days (she was an amazing cook), then she would drive me to the beach for the day. My favorite part of those weekends would always be when we would pull up to the sand and I could see all the surfers out there.
There were always dozens of them—surfing like crazy, jumping off the board, and swimming to shore—and all I could think was how awesome it looked from up close.
And now, here I was, looking at the same thing from a distance—except now I was able to hear the sound of the water hitting the rocks too. So I hopped off my bike and started running along the sand, letting the wind blow through my hair as I watched the waves crash against the rocks.
I took a deep breath. Then another one. Then another one. And I felt like I was starting to relax—for the first time since arriving in town.
Just then, my phone vibrated in my pocket—but I ignored it because I didn’t want to look like an idiot talking on it while sitting on a bench by myself. A few minutes later though, the call came back. And I had no choice but to answer it.
“Hey, it’s me,” my dad said into the phone. He sounded really happy; maybe even more so than usual. “Listen…I’ve been thinking about things lately, and…”
His voice trailed off, and for a second he didn’t say anything else. But then he continued, sounding a little more serious now, “I’m gonna take you to the hospital today, after work. You’ll need to stay there for a week or so.”
“A week? For what?” I asked, confused. “Is it something I did?”
My dad chuckled. “No, not this time,” he said. “It’s nothing you’ve done wrong—this is just something they do to patients sometimes.”
After we hung up, I went back to the bike and rode to a nearby gas station to buy some snacks. Then, once I finished eating lunch, I made my way back to the dock where my boat was docked. I pulled the boat onto the shoreline and grabbed my backpack—just in case.
Then, grabbing my phone and keys, I hopped down off the boat and ran towards town—back towards the hospital. I needed to tell my dad that I couldn’t come home right away, and I also wanted to ask him a bunch of questions too. Like: Why was I going to the hospital?
Where was I staying in town? What should I wear, if there was anyone coming to visit me? And what were all of these pills that I had to take every morning?
At last, I arrived at the hospital’s main entrance. A security guard greeted me at the door—he seemed nice enough—and told me where I could check-in. I walked inside and signed in with a woman wearing a nurse’s uniform, who then gave me directions to my room.
After that, I made my way down the hallway toward my assigned room. As I was walking, I noticed a lot of people standing outside their doors, talking together, smiling, and laughing. I wondered what they were doing since they all appeared to be having so much fun.
As I turned a corner, I realized that the doors all opened to a waiting room that looked like any other waiting room you’d see anywhere else—except it wasn’t quite the same. It felt a little different—not quite right. It had a kind of strange smell too—like a combination of medicine and food. It smelled so good, actually. Kind of like cookies baking in the oven—but not nearly as sweet.
I looked around, trying to figure out what was making me feel this way—wondering why I felt like this place was “off”—before it dawned on me. The whole room was decorated with a bunch of bright, colorful paintings—and all of them had a very familiar pattern.
They were all pictures of fish—with scales and fins and everything! And I knew exactly what it meant: These must be the art supplies that I used to use before my accident.
I took a closer look at one of the paintings—trying to decide which one it was—and then suddenly something caught my eye. I noticed a piece of paper attached to the wall next to the painting—a note that someone had written out and left for me so that I would know how to sign my name correctly when I drew something.
But then, just like that, I saw a man standing in front of me, holding up another note—a new note—that was addressed to the doctor.
The man held the note up for all of us to see. Then, he turned and whispered something to his friend. But what he said made me feel uncomfortable. It made me wonder what he was saying behind my back—what he thought of me, what he was planning to do next, and most important of all: Was it true? Was what he was whispering really what I’d said?
I was so nervous about reading this note—so concerned that it might be true. After all, the way this guy had acted, it made sense that he was going to make a big deal out of whatever I said. And if he was going to talk badly about me, maybe it wouldn’t matter what I said—it would always sound like I was lying anyway.
Maybe that’s why no one believed me, after all. Because I was lying about my name being Sam—because I’d lied about how much I liked drawing. So even though he said that I told him my real name was Sam, it probably wasn’t true at all. Right?
The man read the note, then handed it to the doctor. He stared at it for a moment, before looking up and staring directly into my eyes, with a look of disgust on his face. The doctor looked confused.
At first, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—but then, as he looked back at the note in his hand, I understood exactly why everyone here was making such a big deal out of what I wrote—why they were acting so differently than I expected them to act.
Because I hadn’t been honest with him. I didn’t write my name properly. I didn’t draw anything on the paper. I didn’t say anything at all. And because I hadn’t been honest, the doctor had assumed that I’d lied—that I was hiding something from him. And now he wanted to know why so that he could figure out whether or not it was true.
“I’m sorry,” I stuttered, looking down at the floor, “but you’ve got the wrong person.”
“What?” the man shouted, glaring at me—looking like I had done something terrible by not telling him what he wanted to know. “Are you serious? Are you serious?! This is your note!”
I was starting to get scared—scared that maybe the doctor did know what I was trying to hide—scared that this man wouldn’t let me leave unless I told him what he wanted to hear. But the more afraid I became, the harder it was to find my voice again—so instead of answering, I just shook my head.
After a few moments of silence, the man grabbed me by my shirt, forcing me to look him straight in the eyes.
“Do you want me to show you just how seriously I take this?!”
He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled it towards him so that we were face-to-face—so that I had no choice but to see the truth about myself, as clearly as he saw it. He leaned in closer and closer—almost nose to nose—then whispered something that sent shivers running through my body.
“You are not Sam,” he said in a low, threatening voice as if he was speaking right into my ear. “Your name is Jonah—”
Suddenly, his lips moved, and I realized that he was speaking out loud—speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Jonah,” he continued, “you are NOT Sam—your name is Jonah.”
His words rang through the room—everyone stopped working to listen to what he was saying—and suddenly I remembered what the man had said to me earlier before this happened.
I remembered his exact words: “Don’t lie to me, Jonah. Don’t pretend to be anyone other than who you truly are!”
The man was right!
I was Jonah—not Sam—just like he said I was!
And I knew it was true, deep down inside, in that special place that no one else can ever see. I didn’t have to pretend to be anything else—didn’t have to hide who I really was anymore, because I knew that I was Jonah.
At that moment, everything changed. My whole life had become clear to me in an instant—I finally understood why things were the way they had been—why they never felt right, no matter how hard I tried. No matter how many times I drew or sang or played the piano, it never felt like enough; I still felt like I was pretending, just like everyone kept telling me that I was.
But now—now I could see clearly, just like my mother taught me to do. Now I knew that I was Jonah—a boy with a gift; someone with great potential, just like my father always said I was. Someone important—like him.
I looked up at the man and smiled.
“Oh, I am definitely not Sam,” I said with a grin—then turned around and began walking towards the door, as quickly as I could go without falling over.
I wasn’t sure where I would go next—or what I would do—but whatever it was, I knew it had to be better than living in the dark any longer.
The End