The Inevitable

Nonfiction by Oliver Cassidy



Every summer, someone is fatally attacked by a shark. Right this moment, right this instant, someone has plans to be at the beach in June, July or August. Another someone who doesn’t have plans to be at the beach will be when the time comes.

Right this moment, existing as he has for ten years, looking for food, a shark we’ll call Henry is cruising. Somewhere else, who knows where, someone is going about her day. Far away from the ocean. Far away from Henry. Maybe 10,000 miles away, maybe 50. Maybe she’s the someone who plans to be at the beach this summer. Maybe she’s the other someone. Maybe she’s reading. Maybe she’s at work or driving or sleeping. When the time comes, she won’t be 10,000 miles away from Henry, or 50. She’ll be a mile from Henry. Then half a mile. Then 300 yards. Then 100 feet. Then 15 inches. Then the inevitable will happen, because remember: every summer, someone is fatally attacked by a shark.

As she, the someone, currently goes about her day, safe and sound and oblivious, Henry’s crescent-shaped tail sweeps back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The shark seems to be grinning.