It’s just the two of you paddling a sharky lineup, and your friend disappears. What then? Photo: Matt Paul Catalano//Unsplash
On a normal day we’d call it recreation, but this particular day, it was survival.
Bob and I pulled into the dirt lot at Año Nuevo and gazed down at the white-headed combers rolling through the lineup. One by one, they marched into the beach, thrusting upwards with the fair offshore winds. These were ideal conditions. We waxed up the boards, threw on wetsuits in a manic hurry, and began the long walk down the winding golden cliffs, through thick branches of poison oak.
From the beach, it was another long walk to the break. The elephant seals were beached — compelled by their polygynous winter habits — and looking for mates. There is no walking past one of these behemoths, only around them. Two tons of rough and raw skin; eyes as red as the devil, surging with testosterone. Pure musth males.
With truck-sized meals congregating by the hundreds, it’s no wonder that this place constitutes the southern tip of the Red Triangle.
As we danced and weaved through the marine mammal lineup on the beach, the surf began to pick up. The explosion of waves sounded like small blasts on the beach. That’s why they call ‘em bombs.
We timed the sets and paddled out. With every duck dive I could feel the great pressure raining down from above. Meanwhile, the undertow sucked under and up, placing me a few feet behind the breaking wave.
Finally on the outside, we waited for the next set to roll in. Lines appeared in the distance, feathering, their white tips waving to us. Then came the tense moment of stress. Time to make a decision: go or back off.
I whipped it, paddled hard, caught the wave, and rode it in. I turned around to see Bob catch one right behind me, and ride it all the way to shore. We traded glances and headed back out for more. Perhaps we were basking in glory because our leisurely pace caught up to us. Large sets started to pour in. We were too far inside.
After ducking a few waves, a massive roller came through. The proverbial cleanup set. I grabbed the rails of my board, bucked my foot into the stomp pad, and dove deep — hoping to hit the bottom. Luckily, I made it under the wave and it popped me out the back. I was tired and hoping to take a rest on the outside. But where was Bob?
I sat beyond the breaking waves and scoped the water. Nothing. I caught a smaller wave and did slow s-turns back and forth, scanning the water for any sign of him or his board. Maybe his leash got stuck on a rock and he was trapped, taking sets on the head. Once I got to shore, I made an unsettling discovery: half a broken surfboard. It was mangled. By what, I didn’t know. Was it a big wave, or a man in a grey suit?
Año Nuevo is one of the sharkiest beaches in the state, thanks to those blubbery elephant seals. At this point, I was shaking in my booties. What was I going to do? Should I go back out and look for him, or call it? I thought of Bob’s mother, and couldn’t swallow my spit at the thought of telling her that I didn’t even look for her son.
So I grabbed my board and paddled back out. After getting to the outside, the enormity of the sea surrounded me. Where the hell was this kid? At this point I was starting to think a shark snagged him and that I wasn’t in a safe place. I recall pausing for a moment and looking to my right, then it hit me.
Bob broke his board and probably couldn’t swim against the surging current. His most likely location was around the bend to the right, sucked into a small cove that empties onto a rocky beach. I turned my board around and set off into the cove. Sure enough, Bob was sitting there on the beach, legs crossed with a huge smile.
We both laughed.
His board was snapped and useless, so he grabbed the back of my leash like a tow rope and we tried paddling out. We washed up onto that rocky beach twice before we quit due to exhaustion. We were screwed, rim-rocked, stranded, whatever you call it. No energy left, one board, and only a prayer of making it back to the sand. We mustered up one more attempt.
This time, we both decided to swim as I dragged my board behind me on the leash and he dragged what was left of his. In God’s grace there was a moment of rest in that wild sea. We humped our way to shore and kissed the gritty, skin-colored sand.
We made it. It was a baptism of fire, but we made it.
