“All the while, it trailed me, mouth open, lips quivering with an eerie, predatory intent.”

A flotilla of dead sea lions washing up on southern Californian beaches, from Ventura to the OC, made crazy by a toxic algae bloom before dying, is the back ground to a Ventura surfer’s harrowing account of being bitten on the ass and stalked by a “feral, demonic” sea lion.

Surfer RJ LaMendola, a photographer and fine art printer when he ain’t shredding, described his ordeal, ain’t no other way to describe it, as “the most harrowing and traumatic experience of my twenty years of surfing, an encounter that left me shaken to my core.”

It started as an ordinary session, just me and my board, about 150 yards from the shore, riding the waves in solitude. The ocean was calm, the rhythm of the swells familiar—until, out of nowhere, a sea lion erupted from the water, hurtling toward me at full speed. Its mouth gaped wide, teeth flashing, and its eyes locked onto me with an unsettling ferocity. My heart lurched as I instinctively yanked my board to the side, paddling frantically to evade it as it barreled forward, intent on crashing into me.

I barely dodged that first charge, my breath catching as I spun around, desperate to head for shore. But I had no idea where it had gone. The vastness of the ocean swallowed its presence, leaving me scanning the surface in growing unease. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a blur of motion—it was back, charging again, teeth bared like some deranged predator. This time, it slammed into my board with unbelievable force, diving beneath me in a swift, fluid arc that sent a shiver down my spine. I whipped around again, adrenaline surging, my mind racing as I realized this was no playful encounter. This was something else entirely—something wrong.

Panic set in as I paddled toward shore with everything I had, the beach still a distant speck on the horizon. My arms burned, my chest heaved, but the distance felt insurmountable. Then I saw it again—another furious charge, this time more enraged than before. Its movements were erratic, wild, almost unhinged. I turned my board to face it, hoping to shield myself, splashing water and shouting in a desperate bid to scare it off. But it didn’t flinch. It kept coming, unstoppable, its jaws snapping closer. At the last possible second, as its teeth loomed inches from my face, I swung my arm to fend it off—a clumsy attempt at a punch. It twisted its neck with eerie agility, dodging my strike, and then lunged. Its jaws clamped down hard on my left butt cheek, piercing through my 5/4mm wetsuit like it was nothing. The pain was sharp and immediate, but the terror was worse—it shook its head violently, tugging me off my board by my flesh, dragging me into the water.

I don’t know how to describe the fear that gripped me in that moment. So far from shore, so helpless, staring into the face of this creature that looked like nothing I’d ever seen—its expression was feral, almost demonic, devoid of the curiosity or playfulness I’d always associated with sea lions. With a surge of desperation, I wrenched myself free, clawing my way back onto my board. Blood seeped into my wetsuit as I dug my arms into the water, paddling harder than I ever had in my life. But it wasn’t over. The sea lion stalked me, swimming alongside, charging again and again—three, maybe four more times. Each time, I twisted my body, keeping the board between us, shielding my arms and face from its relentless jaws. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst, every stroke toward shore fueled by raw survival instinct. All the while, it trailed me, mouth open, lips quivering with an eerie, predatory intent, as if it wanted nothing more than to drag me under and finish me off. It didn’t stop until my feet finally scraped the sand.

I stumbled onto the beach, legs trembling, and turned back to see it still there—swimming back and forth along the shoreline, pacing like it was daring me to return. The sight was chilling, a haunting image burned into my mind. My wetsuit was shredded where it had bitten me, a jagged tear exposing the puncture wound in my buttock. Blood trickled down my leg, staining the sand, and the reality of what had just happened sank in. I didn’t hesitate—I drove straight to the ER, clutching the steering wheel with shaky hands, still reeling from the ordeal.

Later, I contacted the Channel Islands Marine Wildlife Institute to report what had happened, hoping for some explanation. What they told me was both sobering and alarming: they’re currently dealing with a wave of incidents across Santa Barbara and Ventura County involving sea lions and other marine animals affected by Domoic Acid Toxicosis. It’s a neurological condition caused by toxic algae blooms, and it’s driving these creatures into aggressive, uncharacteristic behavior. The sea lion that attacked me wasn’t just acting out—it was sick, its mind warped by this poison coursing through its system. Knowing that doesn’t erase the terror, but it adds a layer of sadness to the fear.

I’m lucky, all things considered. The bite was deep, the pain lingering, but it hit my buttock—not an artery, not my face, not something worse. Still, I can’t shake the memory of its quivering lips, the relentless pursuit, the feeling of being hunted in a place I’ve always loved. If you’re out there on the water, especially around Santa Barbara or Ventura, please be cautious. This isn’t normal sea lion behavior—it’s something darker, something dangerous. I’m grateful to be alive, up to tetenus, and back on solid ground, but I won’t be paddling out again anytime soon unfortunately.