The way back

Pleasure Point. — PHOTO BY CHRIS KEET/SURF HAPPENS

How one surfer got pulled from the water

By W. H. Hinkley

SANTA CRUZ, Calif. (Jul 10, 2003) — Jimmy St. Croix can still feel the teeth that stole his leg.

Sitting on his bed next to his girlfriend Tammy, he speaks of what happened with little emotion. “Like a truck hitting you, only faster,” he says.

The shark that attacked St. Croix almost two years ago was a 13-foot Great White, big enough to have split him in half with one bite. Luckily for him, after getting a taste of St. Croix’s left leg and surfboard, the shark darted off, no longer interested.

“It’s hard to explain the feeling of it,” he says, rubbing what remains of his leg. “For most of it, I was in a daze. I can’t tell you much about it. But I do remember that sudden pain in my leg. It was a sharp, cold pain — like electricity.”

The attack happened at Santa Cruz’s famed Pleasure Point, where multimillion-dollar homes have been popping up like mushrooms in recent years. One of St. Croix’s buddies, Hal Wilson, was there with him. He’s the one who saved St. Croix’s life.

“He was bleeding pretty bad,” Wilson says, beer in hand. “I pulled him out and tied my rash guard around his leg. But there was so much blood. I didn’t know how much he’d lost.”

St. Croix can remember a few moments from the ambulance ride, and he swears he heard the surgeons talking while he was under.

Every ride lasted forever. And he was pulling off some pretty sick stuff. It can be tense at places like Pleasure Point and Steamer’s, but no one messed with him. They just watched.

— Hal Wilson, on fellow surfer and friend Jimmy St. Croix

“One of them said: ‘Very clean bite. Must have happened very quickly,’” he says, his hand stroking Tammy’s hair. He shakes his head, then: “Now that I think about it, I’m not sure what the surgeon said makes me feel any better about what happened.”

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The last two years have been tough for St. Croix, now 25. His father got him a job working for an insurance company. At work, he sits behind a desk, mostly on the phone. The job isn’t bad. Except for all the sitting.

“It’s so far from what I was doing two years ago,” he says. “I never would have pictured myself behind a desk. Two years ago, I was surfing at least twice a day. I wasn’t a big fan of sitting, as you can imagine.”

Like a lot of young men and women in Santa Cruz, St. Croix’s dream was to be a pro surfer, a dream that almost came true. The months leading up to the attack, he was surfing “lights out,” he says. Wilson, who’s sitting on a beanbag chair, nods vigorously.

“Every ride lasted forever,” Wilson says. “And he was pulling off some pretty sick stuff. It can be tense at places like Pleasure Point and Steamer’s, but no one messed with him. They just watched.” Wilson laughs, then: “I often caught myself watching instead of surfing.”

About a month before the attack, someone from the boardwear company Rip Curl talked about being interested in signing St. Croix. He was “stoked.”

“I was, like, are you serious?” he says, smiling for the first time. The subject itself seems to melt the past away. “I couldn’t believe it. All the hard work was gonna pay off.”

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The next morning, St. Croix gets up early and puts on his prosthetic leg with little trouble. It’s a foam-covered prosthesis, with an aluminum pylon in the center and a soft socket that reaches to about mid-thigh. He then calls in sick to work. In about an hour, he’ll head to Steamer’s Lane to watch some of his buddies surf.

St. Croix goes to the corner of his bedroom and picks up his surfboard, the one he was on during the attack. He examines the board as though seeing it for the first time, running a finger along where the shark left its accidental calling card. He lets out a deep breath, then: “I don’t hate sharks. I think they’re neat animals.”

The ride to Steamer’s Lane is quiet. The sun, mostly orange with a splash of yellow, is half above the horizon. The air has started to warm some. As usual for this time of year, the weather should be perfect today: no clouds — just a pale blue sky and a blanket of sunshine.

When he arrives, St. Croix is greeted by a group of friends. They take turns hugging him, then lead him to a spot on the beach where they’ve got breakfast. St. Croix sits to the side and takes off his prosthesis. Everyone pretends not to notice.

St. Croix’s buddy Hal Wilson is out on the water, as is Greg Lucas, a surfer from northern California who’s made a living in colder waters as far north as Alaska. He’s also surfed big waves in Oregon and Washington State. The waves this morning are a little over head-high and breaking far off shore.

St. Croix studies Lucas intensely, nodding when he sees something he finds impressive. After Lucas pulls a few fancy tricks, St. Croix says: “I can do that.” He then looks at what’s left of his leg. His face darkens. For a moment, it seemed as though he’d forgotten.

When Wilson and Lucas start for shore, St. Croix puts his prosthesis back on and heads down to meet them. When the three come together, Lucas says something and offers his hand to St. Croix, who eagerly shakes it.

Heading towards the beach, St. Croix starts lagging behind.

▪ ▪ ▪

That night, St. Croix and Wilson are watching old videos. Some are of famous surfers. One sequence consists of jaw-dropping aerial maneuvers. The two are transfixed. “That’s just sick,” Wilson says. St. Croix nods vaguely, his mouth slightly open. Tammy’s half-asleep against his chest.

They watch videos well past midnight. Not for a moment do they lose interest.

Later, Wilson comes back from the kitchen with two beers and, instead of returning to his seat across the living room, sits down next to St. Croix. He hands St. Croix a beer, his eyes on the TV.

“Imagine being able to do that for a living,” St. Croix says after a few minutes. It’s as if the thought of being a pro surfer were new to him.

“You know there’s a guy in northern California who surfs with one leg,” Wilson says without looking at his friend. St. Croix gives him a blank look. Wilson looks at St. Croix, then: “Seriously.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

St. Croix considers this for a moment. He seems unsure of what his friend has told him. “Well, is he any good?”

“Greg saw him surf about a month ago in Oregon. He said he’s just as good as before he lost the leg.”

“How long did it take him to get back?”

“I don’t know. Not long. He practices a ton, though.”

About an hour later, Wilson says goodbye and quietly goes through the front door, trying not to wake Tammy.

A few moments later Tammy wakes, kisses St. Croix and heads off to bed. But St. Croix’s eyes are too glued to the TV for him to notice.