Soul Surfer: A True Story of Faith, Family, and Fighting to Get Back on the Board

by Bethany Hamilton

  I homeschool. It makes it easier to be a career surfer and to travel. My mom is my teacher and I get a lot of my assignments online. Typically my workload is just like that of a public high school student with the exception that I can do it on my hours. A lot of my friends are homeschooled as well (such as Alana), so we end up having the same schedule of surfing, traveling, and then homework.

  If I were in a regular school I bet my favorite subject would be art (after P.E. of course). I really like to create things. I like to make crafts and use my shells in the design. I’ve made some cool switch-plate covers out of shells, paint, and other natural material. I really enjoy doing this kind of thing but my surfing and schoolwork have kept me so busy that I have had little time to pursue this hobby.

  Sometimes people ask me about boys. Boys are fine, but to be honest, I am so busy right now that I don’t have any time to think about them.

  Music is something that I enjoy a lot too. I have stacks of CDs that I get from my brothers. I really like Switchfoot. Those guys are surfers, Christians, and play the kind of songs that I like, songs that are fun, fast, and kind of punk-sounding, but with lyrics that bring God into the picture. There are a lot of bands from Kauai that are good too. Chandelle and Pennylane are two that I really like. I like modern praise and worship music too. Some people think that music in a church is just dull, organ-led hymns. Forget it! Sure, all the songs are about how great God is and praise him. But the music in our church is real modern: electric guitars, drums, and bass. Most of the songs have a great beat that makes you want to clap and stomp your feet.

  Sometimes I feel I have so much going on in one day, I don’t know how I pack it all in. I guess it’s kind of like what a teenage actor must feel like: you have to get up and go to work, yet still make time to be a kid. When I’m not surfing, I’m training. And when I’m not training, I’m doing homework. Whatever time I have left over (and it’s not a lot!), I spend it with friends and family.

  People don’t often get the whole homeschooling thing. “Bethany,” they say, “that’s a little weird, isn’t it? I mean, don’t you miss campus life?” Well, most of my friends are homeschooled; the people I hang with are either surf buddies or kids from my church. So no, it feels totally normal to me. But that doesn’t mean that as I get older—I’m starting high school this year—I might miss the opportunities to go to the prom or homecoming or stuff like that. But seriously, there is no way I could go to a regular school and participate in professional surfing. There’s only so much of me to go around and only 24 hours in a day! And let me tell you, homeschooling is no way easier than your traditional classroom. I have tests, and a mom who’s pretty tough when it comes to making sure I hit those books and pull straight A’s.

  I never had a lot of free time because of my surfing, and now, after the accident, my schedule is ten times as nuts. For example, this week I flew to California to receive an award, then I headed off to Portugal to be in a Volvo ad.

  Fortunately there are waves in both places.

  Which now brings us to stuff I don’t like. I hate spiders and snakes. We don’t have any snakes in Hawaii but whenever I go to the mainland and stay in someplace that has lots of those creepy things, I get so freaked out about them that I can hardly sleep at night! We have humongous centipedes in Hawaii that slither around like snakes and can give you a nasty bite, but just thinking of a real snake makes me shudder. Funny, huh? I guess everyone has something that freaks them out.

  I hate school lunches . . . yuck! Obviously now that I am homeschooled I don’t have to eat them anymore, but for many years I had to choke down burnt chicken sticks, supersugary canned fruit, and potatoes that tasted like plastic. Just the thought of them . . . well, it’s worse than snakes!

  This all probably sounds pretty ordinary. Most everybody has things they like or dislike, most everybody has a bunch of friends that they hang out with and favorite foods, music, and movies.

  And in most ways I am just your typical teenage girl. And in some ways, because of my accident, I’m not. For example, I can’t put on certain clothes without getting some help with buttoning. Tying shoes is tough with one hand. Peeling an orange without holding it between my feet is next to impossible.

  I don’t think much about it or worry about how I look with one arm. People around here know me and don’t think much about it either—which saves me having to explain. I could try to hide the fact by wearing my prosthetic arm, but then I would have to wear more clothes because you have to strap it on. Besides, it just kind of hangs there doing nothing, so I don’t have much use for it. Maybe I look a little different without it, but that’s okay. I’m cool being me.

  5

  attack

  I didn’t even scream.

  People say to me, “Weren’t you terrified?” “Didn’t you think you would be eaten alive?” I guess that would be the normal reaction, but it wasn’t mine. Maybe I was in shock or denial; maybe I was on autopilot. I’m not really sure, but when I look back on it now, I’m glad of one thing: I’m glad I never saw the shark closing in on me. I’m glad I never had more than a split second to wrap my brain around the fact that I was being attacked. If I had, I’m not sure I would have been so calm. I’m not sure I’d be able to live with the nightmares or ever go back in the water again . . .

  We had only been surfing a half hour and the waves were nothing spectacular. We were waiting for the next decent one to roll in, and Alana was floating no more than fifteen feet from me; her brother, Byron, and dad, Holt, not much farther away. I was bringing up the rear, and all of us were looking out to sea.

  I had a shiny, light blue Rip Curl watch on my left hand that I was dangling in the water. I sometimes wonder if the reflection of that watch in the clear water is what attracted the shark. That’s when I was suddenly aware of a large gray object closing in on my left side. He was slow and silent; he really crept up on me. If I had had my head turned I would have seen everything: the rolled-back eyes, the triangle-shaped teeth, the sandpaper-like skin, the pointy snout, the pulled-back gums. Luckily, all I saw was a blur.

  It’s funny—you would think having your arm bitten off would really hurt. But there was no pain at the time. I felt pressure and kind of a jiggle-jiggle tug, which I know now was the teeth. They have serrated edges like a steak knife and they sawed through the board and my bones as if they were tissue paper.

  It was over in a few seconds. I remember seeing the water around me turn bright red with my blood. Then I saw that my arm had been bitten off almost to the shoulder. There was just a three-or four-inch stub where my limb had once been.

  My reaction, Alana has told me, was amazingly matter-of-fact and in control. I just said in a kind of loud yet not panicked voice, “I just got attacked by a shark,” and started to paddle away with one arm. I knew the shore was a very long quarter of a mile, but one thought kept repeating over and over in my head: “Get to the beach. Get to the beach.”

  I also wasn’t thinking that the shark was going to come back and attack me again. I wasn’t trying to swim away from it, and I don’t even know if it was still circling the area at the time. Now I realize I could have easily been bitten again and again. Once a shark gets a taste of you, it’s been known to come back for more. But this didn’t occur to me. “Beach,” my mind screamed while my voice was silent. “Get to the beach . . .”

  Byron and Holt got to me in a flash. I said out loud, to no one in particular, “I can’t believe that this happened.” Holt’s face was white and his eyes were wide. “Oh, my God!” he said, but he didn’t freak out. Instead, he took control of the situation: He pushed me by the tail of my board, and I caught a small wave that washed me over the reef as I lay on my board. It’s a small miracle that it was high tide. If it had been low tide, we would have had to go all the way around the reef to get to shore—a trip of a quarter of a mile that usually takes ten minutes to paddle over reef that’s twenty to thirty feet in depth. Byron rode the same wave as I did, lying o
n his belly, pointing straight in to the beach. Whatever emotions Holt, Byron, and Alana were feeling they kept inside; nobody panicked or lost their head.

  My arm was bleeding badly, but not spewing blood like it should with a major artery open. I know now that wounds like mine often cause the arteries to roll back, tighten. I wasn’t freaking out, but I was praying like crazy, “Please, God, help me. God, let me get to the beach,” over and over again. I was afraid, but not of anything specific. Just kind of a general “I’ve been hurt bad and I don’t know what’s going to happen to me” kind of fear. Holt took off his gray long sleeve rash guard. The reef was shallow at that point, only a couple of feet deep, so he stood up and tied the rash guard around the stub of my arm really tight to act as a tourniquet.

  “Hold on to my shorts and I’ll paddle you in,” he instructed me. So I grabbed on to the bottom of his swim trunks and held on tight as he paddled both of us toward shore. Byron was already ahead of us, stroking like crazy to the beach to call 911. Holt told me to keep talking to him. He kept having me answer questions like “Bethany, are you still with me? How ya doing?” I think he wanted to make sure that I didn’t pass out in the middle of the ocean. So I was talking, although I don’t know about what. I think I was just answering his questions and praying out loud and watching that shoreline get closer and closer.

  It was during this, the longest part of getting to the beach—those fifteen minutes or so—that the fear began to wash over me. A thought flashed into my mind: “You could die.” But I pushed any negative vibes away quickly with a prayer. “I’m in God’s hands,” I remember thinking, and I forced myself back into the here and now and concentrated on holding on.

  I remember seeing Alana. She was paddling next to me like always, looking mostly at the shore but sometimes glancing over to check me out. There was fear in her eyes, but she tried to hide it. As we got closer to the beach, I heard someone say, “Quick! Go get the lifeguard.” I knew that it was too early for them to be on duty, so I called out a couple of times, “They aren’t on duty!” But I don’t know if anybody was listening to me.

  land at last

  As we got close, Holt got off his board and pushed me the last few feet to the beach. People were gathering all around me, and Holt lifted me off the surfboard and laid me on the sand. At that point, everything went black, and I’m not sure how long I was out of it. I kept coming in and out of consciousness, struggling to make heads or tails of what was going on.

  Holt got a leash from Jeff Waba, another surfer who was surfing farther out at Tunnels and had come racing in when he heard what had happened to me. They removed the rash guard and tied the surf leash—which is a lot like surgical tubing—like a tourniquet.

  What happened after that is confusing, and it all tends to run together, a mix of sights, sounds, and feelings. Kind of like trying to remember a dream you had: while you’re dreaming, it all makes sense. But when you try to recall it, all you get are bits and pieces that don’t quite add up.

  I remember being cold. I heard this happens when you lose lots of blood. People brought beach towels and wrapped me up in them. Everyone was concerned but they all seemed to be assuring me in some way and trying to help me remain calm and comfortable.

  I remember starting to feel pain in my stump and thinking, “This hurts a lot.” And I know I said, “I want my mom!” a few times. Funny how when you’re scared, no matter how grown up you think you are, you do want your mommy to comfort you.

  I remember being very thirsty and asking Alana for water. So she ran up to a visitor, Fred Murray, who was jogging along the beach while the rest of his group, here on Kauai for a family reunion, relaxed at a beachfront rental home. “Come with me!” he yelled, and they both raced back to get one of his family members, a man named Paul Wheeler, who was the captain and a paramedic at a Haywood, California, fire station. “It’s my friend, she needs water,” said Alana. She explained, as best she could because she was so in shock, what had happened.

  Paul didn’t hesitate. He bolted out the door to be by my side. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I can help. I’m a paramedic. Everyone please stand back . . .” I remember his face and the compassion in his voice. I think everyone was relieved that there was a professional on the scene; I know it comforted me to know it. Paul examined the wound and pulled on the tourniquet. At that point, Alana came with water, but Paul advised against it. “I know you’re thirsty,” he told me, “But you’re going to need surgery, and you want an empty stomach.”

  A neighbor brought a small first-aid kid in a Tupperware container, and Paul slipped on gloves so he could wrap my wound in gauze and feel around some more. I remember wincing as he poked around, but I knew he had to do it. Paul felt my pulse. He shook his head. “She’s lost a lot of blood,” he said quietly.

  I remember a dog getting through the crowd and trying to lick me: he must have been worried about me too.

  I remember thinking, “Why is the ambulance taking so long to get here? Please, please hurry!” Byron had broken into the back of his dad’s pickup to fish out his cell phone and given all the info to the emergency operator, but no one had arrived yet on the scene. It felt like an eternity, and I could see Byron pacing.

  Holt decided we couldn’t wait any longer. He and some other surfers lifted me onto Holt’s board and carried me to the parking lot, where they put me in the back of his truck. Again, I kept passing out, only catching glimpses of what was going on and bits of frantic conversation.

  I remember the sirens of the emergency vehicles, high-pitched and shrill. I remember being stuck with needles and being slid on a stretcher into the back of the ambulance.

  I remember most clearly what the Kauai paramedic said to me: He spoke softly and held my hand as we were pulling out of the Tunnels parking lot. He whispered in my ear, “God will never leave you or forsake you.”

  He was right.

  6

  dark hours

  I’m always so anxious to arrive at a surf site that the road to get there—all the tiny bridges and the neck-whipping curves carved along the cliff face—drives me crazy. I wish my mom could go faster, and I often egg her on to speed it up, but I know it’s a tough road to navigate, and I have to be patient.

  Still, when you’re lying in the back of that ambulance, and the driver is carefully taking each corner and bump at a snail’s pace, it’s impossible to be patient. I knew the trip would take forty-five minutes but it felt like an eternity. It would be a while before we reached the bluffs of Princeville and the road straightened out enough for the driver to step hard on the gas pedal.

  I can only imagine what my mom was going through at home at that very moment. Jeff Waba at Tunnels made the call: “Mrs. Hamilton, there’s been an accident . . .” He tried to speak calmly and clearly. “You need to go to the hospital. Your daughter has been attacked by a shark.” My mom thought that Jeff and I were playing with her head—another one of my practical jokes—and that he would put me on the phone so I could ask for a ride home. “Come on, what’s really going on?” she said, skeptically.

  Jeff didn’t know how to respond: “No, really, she’s been attacked by a shark!” he said.

  This time my mom knew he wasn’t joking—she could hear the tension in his voice. She hung up the phone and broke down in tears.

  I knew she’d be imagining the worst—that I was dying or in horrible pain—but I also knew she’d be trying to keep her head. She had to. She had to be strong for her family, strong for me. Noah told me she was almost in a trance: she knew what she had to do, namely get to the hospital to be with me, and the only way to do it was to block out all the fear and grief. “I was numb when they told me,” she would later confess. “It was like I went into autopilot.”

  She broke the news to my brother Noah, who was still sleeping downstairs. “Noah, we’ve got to go to the hospital. Bethany’s been attacked by a shark.” He asked for details but my mom didn’t have any to give. “I’m going to the hospita
l!” Noah said bolting out of bed. He somehow managed to pull on a T-shirt and pants and at the same time call a family friend, youth counselor Sarah Hill.

  Sarah was just pulling into the parking lot at Hanalei Elementary School, where she worked, when her phone rang: “Sarah, Bethany’s been attacked by a shark!” Noah sounded breathless and terrified; Sarah tried to remain calm for him, but she couldn’t believe her ears. She and I had often surfed together and even though we are years apart, we are really good friends.

  For the sake of convenience, they agreed to meet at the nearby Hanalei police station and travel together to the hospital. Noah needed her.

  Jumping into the car with Sarah, Noah then dialed Mike Dennis, a friend who lived near Tunnels, hoping he could fill in the blanks: What condition was I in? Had he seen the ambulance? Mike had heard the sirens but didn’t know what had happened. He promised to try to find out and then call back.

  Sarah and Noah raced toward the hospital with my mom following close behind in the Beater. I know Noah was a wreck but trying very hard not to let his nerves get to him. Sarah was there for him to lean on. She told him that she had prayed for God to give her a message for our family, and a small verse from the Old Testament zipped into her mind:

  “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

  —JEREMIAH 29:11

  “You’ve gotta tell my mom that verse!” Noah said over and over. Maybe God did have something bigger planned for me. What we all needed to do was trust . . . and believe.