‘That’s when I begin to scream’: Mick Fanning on punching a great white shark

I’m locked in on my take-off spot in the J-Bay lineup, scanning the horizon, biding my time. Assessing my position against the rippling lines of the oncoming set, I decide to move slightly further inside.

As I move, there’s a big splash behind me. Glancing over my left shoulder, I catch a glimpse of a huge dark shape in the water. A jolt of fear grips me. What the hell is that?

Instinct kicks in and I haul myself up on to my board to shield my body. There’s a violent lurch directly beneath me. Suddenly, I’m yanked off by a wild tug on my leg rope. I quickly scramble to get back on my board and that’s when I see it. The unmistakable fin of a shark.

There’s a split second of full-body panic. Then: THWACK! The shark’s tail whips out and wallops my left cheek. My head jerks back as a white flash of pain explodes in my skull. Then I’m being dragged down into the churning water, the force almost tearing my leg from its socket. Consumed with terror, I’m suddenly released and break through to the surface, gasping for breath. Has the shark got tangled in my leg rope and bitten through it?

Suddenly, the shark jackknifes around. It’s like a torpedo hurtling straight towards me. That’s when I begin to scream.

The shark crashes into me from the side and I blindly lash out with my fists, yelling, punching, kicking. It shrugs me off like a leaf. I fall backwards into the waves again and as my head surfaces, I see it swimming away from me towards the horizon.

Flailing in the water, head on a swivel, I swim away hard. I can see Jules about 25 metres away now.

Got to warn him. Now. “Shark! Shark! Go in! Go! GO!”

Jules keeps paddling towards me. “Go in!” I yell.

“There’s a bloody shark.” He keeps coming.

Just then, I imagine the shark circling back around. If it comes for me now, it’ll get me from behind. I’ve got no board, it’ll go at my legs first. There’s no way to defend myself. Fuck that.

There’s no way I’m going to let that happen. I stop swimming. Force myself to turn. Fists clenched, I tread water breathing hard, trying to get as high as I can, scouring the water for the shark’s return. The world goes mute and I’m so focused that I don’t notice the jetski until it’s right by my side.

“Mick! Mick! Get up here!”

I scramble up on to the sled it’s towing, looking around for Jules. “Jules? Where is he?”

“On the other jetski. He’s fine. You OK?”

Wait, am I OK? Hastily, I scan my limbs. Check my hands and fingers, feet and toes. I seem to be alright. I just need to stop hyperventilating.

“Yeah, I’m OK. But what the fuck?”

Seconds later, the jetski pulls up by the bigger boat. Jules is on board. His eyes are wild. “You right?” he stammers.

“Yeah, you? I was telling you to go in! You crazy bastard.”

He shrugs and then gripping each other by the shoulders, we both start laughing manically, shit-faced on adrenaline and pure relief. “That was so gnarly. So fucking gnarly.”

“Whoah! I can’t believe that actually happened.” And it’s like we’ve survived the biggest scare of all time. Like we’ve won a war, cheated death, escaped the jaws of a great white! Somehow, we’ve got away scot-free. There are high fives and backslaps. Hoots and howls. Everyone on the boat is talking a mile a minute, pumped up with a mix of exhilaration and hysteria.

“If you’re both OK, we’re going to get you in now,” says Peter Mel, the field commentator who’s been calling heats from the water.

“We can probably just surf in, yeah?”

Peter stares at me as if I’m insane, then he speaks to me with the sort of soft tone you’d use to address a small child.

“No, Mick, that was a big shark. We’re going to escort you in.”

Whatever. I turn to Jules. “I can’t believe you fucking swum towards me. You’re fucking crazy!”

“What was I gonna do? Watch my mate get eaten by a shark?”

On the shore, we’re bustled straight into a white Volkswagen van and continue our postmortem. When Jules hears that I punched the shark, he convulses in giggles. I laugh too, because it’s all so crazy. Jules still looks utterly wired, his pupils dilated like two black holes.

“Mate, that was wild!” he says shaking his head.

I start laughing again. It’s like my nervous system has got whiplash. Then the doors of the van open.

Standing outside are Jarrad and Fletch, plus my mates: Otto, Ace and a bunch of other touring surfers. I’m expecting more high fives and wild-eyed grins. Instead, they’re deathly quiet. They look shell-shocked and upset. In fact, most of them are in tears.

OK, maybe I’ve misread the situation here …

I’m engulfed in a tearful hug from Ace [Australian world tour surfer Adrian Buchan]. He’s more distraught than I am. Then Fletch embraces me [Rip Curl team manager Ryan Fletcher]. Then Jarrad [former tour surfer and Mick’s coach at the event]. Immediately, I start explaining what happened. How the shark grabbed my leg rope. Bit through it. How I landed a punch or two.

“Someone was looking after us,” I say.

Jules and I are led up to the commissioner’s office. Inside, they’re all completely rattled too. I get hugged by more people. I agree to an interview with Ronnie who is there in his role as an event commentator for the WSL broadcast. It hadn’t occurred to me yet that this whole thing has been beamed live all around the world. As Fletch suggests: it’s the easiest way to let everyone back home know I’m OK.

Before the interview I’m asked by the tour commissioner, Kieren Perrow, if I’d like to see the footage.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got to,” I tell him. “Cause I don’t think I’m processing this the same as everyone else.”

In Kieren’s office, a bunch of us gather around a big-screen TV. And then, I watch the replay.

There I am waiting for a wave, oblivious. Then the splash behind me, the shark’s fin, the flurry of whitewater as I try to scramble away. The next moment, a wave obscures the camera. For eight long seconds no one can see the frantic tussle that almost cost me my life. The camera even pans back as if wanting to protect the viewer from the worst-case scenario.

“We all thought you were gone,” Jarrad says. “The last thing we saw was you being knocked off your board, then that set rolled in. Next thing we saw was your board heading out to sea … ”

Watching the footage, what’s most terrifying is the size of the shark. It must’ve been at least three-and-a-half metres long, with the girth of a submarine. Suddenly, I don’t feel invincible any more. I just feel very, very lucky. A shark that big can do whatever the hell it wants.

“Oh fuck,” I stammer.

And suddenly it dawns on me that Mum was watching the final live back home.

“Can someone please call Mum? Let her know I’m OK.”

Then I realise the quickest way to let her know is to jump on the broadcast, which is still going. I do the interview with Ronnie. The adrenaline is starting to wear off now, the cold horror of what happened is kicking in. The conversation is a blur. I’m just about holding it together, wiping away the odd tear.

“The commissioner’s office has decided that there’ll be no final run today,” Ronnie says.

“Is that even a concern for you at this stage?”

“Mate, I’m happy to not ever compete again. I just want to let all my family and friends know that I’m OK. Right now, I’m just tripping out.”

The interview finishes, and as I walk off camera, standing there is Kelly Slater. He’s my arch rival, the man I’ve battled against so hard on so many occasions. He walks towards me and just embraces me in a giant hug.

I walk downstairs surrounded by security. Parko is standing at the bottom with Ace and Bec, his wife. Bec’s emotional – she knows how bad it could’ve been. She hugs me and my legs just buckle. That’s when it all sinks in and I’m overcome. I burst into tears as reality hits like a tsunami.

Ronnie notices me crumble. “Righto mate, we better get you out of here now.”