Chapter 14
Iput this one on my list because it seemed poetic.
A Jellyfish swarm: soft, lovely, and probably fatal.
A death that sounded delicate. Nature has always had this way of seducing you into forgetting it can kill.
It shows you a pink sky and makes you forget about lightning.
It brushes your ankles with warm tidewater and doesn’t mention the sharks.
It fills a bay with drifting, glass-bodied creatures so translucent they look like spirits—and then reminds you their sting can stop your heart.
I found an article about them in one of those clickbait posts. “Thirteen Things That Can Kill You at the Beach (and You’d Never Expect #Five).”
Number five was sea nettles. Commonly found in the Chesapeake Bay. There could be thousands of them, sometimes more. All floating silently like a collective ghost. It sounded more than perfect.
I’d called the marine center under the guise of a documentary project. Told them I was filming a short piece on climate change and species migration. They confirmed that the jellyfish bloom had started early this year, making it prime conditions for my next attempt.
“Bring a drone,” the guy said. I nodded into the phone.
“Sure. I’ll bring a drone.” What I didn’t say was that I’d also be in the water.
It took me two days to plan the shot. I scouted the bay.
I picked the angle. I rented a kayak I wouldn’t use.
I charted tide patterns, sun angles, and wind speeds.
I needed it all to line up: the time of day, the reflection on the water, and the swell of the current.
This wasn’t something I could do twice. If I lived, I’d only have one chance to get this footage.
And if I died? Well. Then it really needed to be beautiful.
I got there at 6:17 a.m. No one was around. All I could hear was the sound of water lapping gently against the dock. I could see the slow glide of something translucent just beneath the surface. I watched it. It pulsed like it was its own heartbeat. Like it was breathing, and maybe it was.
I stripped off the sweatshirt I’d worn in case someone saw me walking in, revealing the GoPro already strapped tight to my chest. I wore a bathing suit and nothing else. No wet suit. No shoes. No gloves. I wanted skin to jellyfish contact, and I wanted the sting to be immediate.
The sun crested the edge of the water like it was daring me to enter.
So I stepped in. The temperature shocked me at first. Not just that it was so fucking cold—but it also felt so alive.
Almost too alive. It was brisk and biting in a way that woke up every nerve ending in my body that I thought I’d dulled over the last five months.
And then I felt them. They were slippery and silken. Wrapping and unwrapping like living ribbons.
The thing about jellyfish is, they don’t hunt you.
They don’t chase or bite. They just are.
And if you float too close to them or they float too close to you, the result is a mistake you will pay for.
They don’t even know they’re hurting you.
Their sting is automatic, like a defense system wired into their flesh.
It’s not done with malice. It’s a pain they don’t even mean to cause. I found that to be fascinating.
The first sting got me behind my knee. I flinched. The second wrapped my forearm. The third hit the back of my neck like a kiss.
My breathing sped up, but I stayed in place, arms drifting, body treading lightly. The camera on my chest recorded everything—the shimmer of light through their bells, the eerie elegance of them curling through the water like dancers in a slow-motion film.
I counted fifteen around me. Then twenty. Then I stopped counting. My skin burned. Not like a fire. More like an itch buried under the skin, getting more frantic as time went on.
The stings built, layered on top of each other. Some sharp. Some lingering. My body trembled from the growing discomfort, but I didn’t get out. I wasn’t bleeding. I wasn’t seizing. I wasn’t drowning. So, it wasn’t done.
The beauty of it somehow became the worst part. The way they lit up under the sun. The way they glided past me, brushing against my ribs and wrists like they were trying to offer me comfort. The water around me rippled with light, and for a second, it looked like heaven, even as I burned.
After six minutes, I started to feel dizzy.
Not enough to black out. Just enough to know it was working.
The dizziness crept in like a fog—soft, cloying, almost gentle, until I began to feel disoriented.
I tilted my head and blinked, and for a second, I couldn’t tell which direction the dock was in.
My chest started to tighten, not from panic exactly, but from the slow realization that this may be it.
But then my body took over. It jerked me away from the jellyfish, and swam me over to the dock, somehow knowing where to go.
My movements felt graceful but in reality, they were probably awkward and clumsy.
I pulled myself up and collapsed on the wood, coughing up bay water, my throat raw and my legs blotchy with welts.
My whole body buzzed like it was short-circuiting.
But I was still alive. Again. I was too disoriented to lament it.
I showered at a nearby state campground under freezing metal taps that stung every place I’d been touched.
I hadn’t brought any cream or vinegar or other forms of medical care.
I just scrubbed my skin until I felt a semblance of being human again and then limped back to my rental car, wet hair clinging to my forehead.
By the time I got to the hotel, the itching was unbearable. I took a Benadryl and collapsed on the bed with my laptop open next to me. I didn’t even bother rewatching the footage. I already knew it would look… magical.
Which had kind of been my goal this time around. I’d wanted to give my viewers a glimpse of something subtly dangerous but also gorgeously delicate at the same time.
I sent Carter the files with one sentence:
“Chesapeake Bay. Stung by jellyfish.”
Ten minutes later, a text buzzed on my phone:
CARTER
Bro. U walked into a jellyfish BLOOM??
CARTER
I am crying. Who needs therapy when you can just French kiss nature’s ghosts? I’ll get this edited asap. Also, sidebar you ever watch Friends? Cause I feel like you’re Ross but like if Ross did really stupid things and had no one to pee on him.
I blinked at my screen. Was he high? He made it sound like I was just doing normal, everyday things. Like this was some weird and wild version of being alive.
I’d never seen Friends. I’d missed that whole cultural wave because I was too busy trying to survive, and now I felt like I was too old to catch up.
But Carter had this thing where he brought up random shows or references to pop culture, and I usually just rolled with it, pretending I had made time to enjoy things while I was living out my trauma.
This time, though, I pulled up Netflix and searched for Friends.
I turned on season one and let the theme song play.
It was catchy; I found myself tapping along to the beat, which was embarrassing if you wanted to pretend you didn’t give a fuck.
But maybe if I watched enough episodes tonight, I’d forget that my body still itched like a thousand bees had loved me a little too much.
The discomfort was a constant reminder that I had failed at my one goal yet again.
Later, after finishing half a season of the show, I checked the comments under my latest video.
“Bro’s fearless.”
“Dude’s hot and dead inside. That’s exactly my type.”
“Imagine being this sexy and this insane.”
“I’m obsessed.”
“Can we get a full-face reveal?”
“He should collab with Mr. Beast.”
“What’s this guy’s deal? Does he want to die or is this, like, performance art?”
I stared at that last one for a while. Performance art.
Maybe it was. A performance of pain. A choreography of almosts.
A series of rehearsals for an ending I still hadn’t figured out how to write.
I couldn’t shake it. Was that what this had become?
An endless dress rehearsal for an exit I couldn’t quite commit to?
That didn’t make me fearless, and I wasn’t trying to make a point.
But I most certainly wasn’t trying to make art either.
At least it hadn’t started out that way.
I opened a new document on my laptop. “Dear Internet,” I typed. “Thank you for noticing. It only took seven near-death experiences for you to wonder if I might not be okay.” I didn’t save it. Just closed the document on my laptop and let the Friends’ theme song play again.