As I scan the shore for the next medusa to impale on my stick, I hear a voice behind me.

"Don't do that."

It's a gorgeous morning at my favorite beach. No wind at all, not even a breeze. As I initially approached at the beach, the water was a continuous, still stretch of velvety turquoise blue, smooth as a fresh bedsheet. I could see straight down through the water to the sand bottom and the small, dark brown rocks dotting the sea floor.

In the 20 years I've been coming to this beach, I can't remember the water ever looking so crystal clear and calm. I can't wait to get in.

I grab my snorkeling mask and trot through the burning-hot sand to the edge of the water.

From a distance, they had looked like rocks. Now I see what they really are: perfectly round, red-brown medusas floating lazily on the surface of the water, the color of bloody stools marring the endless stretch of blue.

First my eye spotted one. Then, just a meter or two away, another. And another. And another.

They are everywhere.

Fucking disgusting.

Whenever I see these things I'm freaked out and repulsed and won't get near the water. I'd driven an hour in record heat; now I'm reconciling myself with the possibility of spending the whole day sitting in the hot sand.

Frustration wells up in my gut.

I put away my snorkeling mask and look for a sturdy stick. If I'm not able to swim all day, I'll spend some time extracting medusas from the water. A stupid and futile exercise, I know. But somehow, the idea of making the medusas pay for my disappointment makes me feel better.

I spot a big medusa rolling helplessly on the shoreline. Its sand-coated tentacles look like filthy, matted hair. It actually resembles a severed human head. I spear it with the stick right through the middle and, both hands gripping the stick, lift it into the air. The damned thing is heavy, like a gelatinous bowling ball. Careful not to drop it, I run away from the shore to a rock formation and dump it into a crevice where no one will step on it.

Maybe the gulls will feed on it.

With a feeling of accomplishment, I go back to the shoreline to hunt for more.

"Don't do that."

I turn around to see a stern-faced man in a Speedo.

"They don't sting," he says.

"They don't?"

"No. These ones don't sting. Just the small ones, and there are hardly any of them today."

It doesn't even cross my mind that he will try to prove that to me, but that's exactly what he does. He walks to the shore, grabs one out of the water with his bare hands, and holds it in the air to show me.

"Oh my God!" I exclaim like a Valley Girl.

He returns the medusa to the water.

"Where is the one you caught?" he asks.

Guiltily, I lead him to the rocks. "But I doubt it's alive anymore."

He bends over the crevice where I left the medusa, picks it up in his bare hands and carries it to the sea, releasing it. Big air bubbles stream out of the puncture wound I inflicted in its center. Unlike the other medusas resting with their brown umbrellas evenly balanced on the water, my victim lists back and forth, lopsided and gurgling.

It didn't do anything to me, and I killed it. I am a convicted medusa-murderer.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know," I offer. "I thought they all sting."

The man just looks at me, unsmiling. He is not going to forgive me.

That's all right. But I want to say one more thing.

"Thank you for letting me know. I really appreciate it."

He nods curtly and walks away.

Now I look at the sea a whole new way. These floating cow patties decorating the sheet of blue are not the enemy. They look almost inviting.

I put on my snorkel and slip under the water.

---------------------

There is a brilliant world underneath.

Schools of fish of all shapes and sizes dart past me, unbothered by my presence.

Rocks and shells glimmer up at me, reflecting the sun. It's like someone has suddenly turned on the lights in an endless marine nightclub and I can see all the flamboyant characters in detail.

And, of course, I see the medusas. But, whereas before I could only see the very top of them and thought they literally looked like cow shit, I can now see every part of them.

Their beauty and complexity. Their functionality. They don't just float passively on the surface; they can swim! I watch them slowly and gracefully propel themselves through the water, like little round ballet dancers.

As they swim I can see there are actually three parts to them. Their top "umbrella" part. Underneath that, gill-like structures, whirring. And finally their tentacles, which were invisible from above. They dangle in short filaments of brilliant cobalt blue - my favorite color! - orange and white.

For a moment I am tempted to touch one like the man did. Don't be an idiot, I think, and keep a respectful distance.

Do they come after me, attack me? No. And I don't attack them. I have no desire to hurt them.

I am awed by them.

Swimming underwater, I remember the medusa I killed.

I think:

What makes me better, more deserving of life, than any of these other living creatures??

How much we hurt others, out of fear and ignorance!

How much we miss out on life simply because we're afraid.

How many experiences we will never have because of our false beliefs.

How much we never learn because we think we already know.

How tragic that we so often view beauty as ugliness, our vision distorted by fear and ignorance.

Fear and ignornace.

Fear and ignorance...

A tinge sadness runs through the excitement and wonder of discovery, like the sting of a medusa.

--------------------

I swim to the shore. I see a blond woman in a bikini - I will later find out that she's from Poland - scooping up a medusa with a child's toy net.

"You don't have to do that," I say confidently. "They don't sting."

"Like hell they don't," she replies. "One of these fuckers stung my husband yesterday."

My shiny new reality dissolves as quickly as beads of seawater in the sun.

"Really? Are you sure it was one of these ones? Because I just talked with a guy who said they don't sting. He even picked two of them up with his bare hands. I saw!"

"Well, he's a local," she quips, and we both laugh. Nothing is making sense now. I'm thinking: Did I just swim through a minefield of medusas? Was that man messing with me? But... he held them in his hands; I saw!

I go back to my towel and read. A few minutes later, I look up and see the Polish woman, her husband and their two children splashing around in the water, laughing. They're not going to let a bunch of medusas ruin their day at the beach.

I stay until nightfall. I swim many times, coexisting with the medusas. Nobody gets hurt.

I looked for that stern Speedo-ed man but he's nowhere to be found. I wanted to thank him for all the things I've seen, learned and enjoyed in the water today. With one 30-second conversation, 20 years of aversion and hatred were replaced curiosity, admiration, and gratitude.

I also think he indirectly had an impact on the Polish woman's family's day at the beach. If he and I hadn't had our converation about the medusas - and if she hadn't met me, unafraid of the medusas, swimming amongst them - she and her family might not have entered the water today. One moment she was fishing them out as her family sat on the beach, dejected; the next, they were all frolicking in the sea.

Who was right in the end, the Polish woman or the Medusa man? Did it matter? What was certain was that I showed her an alternative to fear. And I was only able to show her an alternative to fear because a very serious man had chanced to intervene in my pathetic, small-minded war against the medusas.

And the day was much better for all of us. And the medusas, too.

Header photo by Pawel Kalisinski