I glanced up at the cliff again, assessing any possibility of scaling it. But there was no way; it was altogether too steep and too dangerous. The only thing I noticed was a small ledge about the height of a man above me. Perhaps I could climb up there and wait for low tide? Turning back around, I glanced at the ocean. If anything, the water looked even more out-of-control and dangerous then it had twenty minutes ago. The prospect of trying to punch through all that whitewater and then angling north against the current seemed too daunting to comprehend. Still, I’d made it out once already. Maybe I could do it again? The final option – of heading north on foot along the jagged rocks, dodging incoming waves – was, like the other options, equally unappealing.
Of the three, the second option – trying to paddle back through the surf – seemed the most viable. I didn’t have the patience to huddle on a ledge for several hours, waiting for the tide to drop, risking hypothermia or getting washed away. Nor did I relish the idea of scrambling around on rocks, getting pounded to mincemeat while trying to dodge watery missiles.
I took a deep breath, got a running start, and launched myself back into the maelstrom. For the next several minutes I paddled furiously, fighting against wall-upon-wall of whitewater, trying to bust through to the outside. But I was hopelessly outmatched. Every time I thought I had made it – had gotten over the final wave – another set roared in and savagely disabused me of that notion. Whatever strength I might have had the first time I paddled out was gone – sapped by altogether too much paddling in the interim. And I was drifting south again – not a good sign. I finally gave up, and paddled back to the beach. Like a drowned rat escaping flood waters – weary and bedraggled – I staggered up the sand carrying my board, which felt depressingly heavy after all my paddling.
Now, of course, I was really worried. I had no other option but to try hoofing it over the rocks. I knew that trying to navigate a dangerous obstacle course of razor-sharp rocks and pounding waves while carrying a board would only make an already difficult task that much more difficult. So I opted to leave the board behind. I decided to put it on the ledge and hope that it wouldn’t get washed away.
I gave the board one final glance, as if bidding a friend goodbye and good luck, and then turned to face my next challenge. I waited for something resembling a lull and then, head down, sprinted across the sand, leaving deep footprints. I scrambled up the rocks, reached the top and immediately had to crouch down as a wave slammed into the reef. The noise was deafening, like a thunder clap, and a sheet of spray and foam cascaded over me like a passing squall. Shaking off the water, I dropped down the other side into a tiny, u-shaped cove, which was filled with waist deep water. A surge rolled in and knocked me off my feet, but I regained my footing, waded across the cove, and scrambled frantically up the other side.
At the top, I dropped to my hands and knees as another wave roared in and exploded with a thunderous crash. The impact sent me sprawling on my butt. I felt a sudden pain in my left hand but ignored it. I scrambled to my feet and raced across the top of the rock, dodging several more incoming waves. I stumbled numerous times but managed to reach the other side.
I continued like this for another twenty minutes, moving in fits and starts, crouching down or diving behind rocks when waves hit, and racing like mad during “lulls,” scrambling up and over points and wading through waist-deep tide pools. At one point I actually had to wade out into the water to get around a point that projected too far into the water and offered no way up and over. To this day, I’m not sure how I made it.
I finally came to the last obstacle – a small cliff that dropped off into a cove maybe ten or fifteen feet across. I’d seen this cove before; it was a scenic little spot filled with tide pools and sea grass. Now, however, with the high tide, it was completely submerged. To get to the opposite side – which posed an additional obstacle of a six foot high cliff – I’d have to jump into the water and either swim or wade across. I sat down and stared glumly at the surging water below me, feeling a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. Those ten/fifteen feet might as well have been fifty. I couldn’t tell how deep the water was – but it looked deep – so I figured I’d have to swim across. Of course, seemingly every second a wave roared through and smashed against the cliff.
I sat for a spell, dangling my feet over the side of the cliff, pondering my fate, listening to the roar of the surf. It was at that point I glanced down at my hand. A ragged cut, red and oozing blood, ran diagonally across my palm. I made a fist, feeling a sting of pain. I clamped my right hand over the cut and applied pressure for several minutes. But I knew I was really stalling for time. What I needed to do was take the plunge; I needed to get off my ass and get on with it – come hell or high water.
I’d made it this far, I mused, and had only sustained a cut on my hand. If that was the worst I was going to experience then I had it made. Or so I told myself.
I sat for a minute longer and then, with some reluctance, stood up. No time like the present I told myself. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and hopped off.
I hit the water with a splash and realized that it was in fact pretty deep. I started swimming, thrashing at the water, fighting the current that both pushed me one way and pulled me the other. A wave roared in and I dove underneath it. But the wave’s momentum knocked me against the base of the cliff – so close that I used it as a springboard, pushing off it with my legs. I surfaced and continued to stroke hard for the other side, adrenaline coursing through me. I somehow reached the opposite side and scrambled half-way up the cliff. I grabbed desperately for the closest thing I could find to a handhold and attempted to pull myself up. But my booties couldn’t find traction against the slick sides of the cliff and I slipped off. I tried again but another wave hit me, knocking me end over end. Surfacing, I clawed my way back and again reached for the handhold. This time I managed to haul myself, grunting and cursing, up the steep rock face.
At the top, I lay on my back, breathing hard from the effort, my chest rising and falling. I stared up at the gray, overcast sky, as if in a stupor. Crossing the cove had taken more out of me than I had thought – both physically and emotionally.
The crash of surf brought me back. I sat up, gazing around, slightly dazed. Just below me, down a small cliff, was the reef from which I had originally paddled out. Waves were crashing against it with alarming regularity and force, and I suddenly realized how stupid it had been to think I could’ve possibly paddled out and caught waves today. What had possessed me? Pride? Obsession? A gross overestimation of my skills? All three? I knew now I had really been tempting fate.
I stood up and descended the cliff in a stumbling walk, then plodded across the sand to my vehicle.
There were only a few cars in the parking lot. A small handful of people and dogs were milling about but no one paid much attention to me; or if they did, I didn’t notice. I was too tired. At my car, I stripped out of my wetsuit and put on dry clothes. Then I opened the door and slumped into the driver’s seat with a heavy, prolonged sigh. I sat there for several long minutes, staring vacantly at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and rheumy, and my face looked drawn and haggard, like I had run several miles. All in all, it looked like I had undergone a good ass-kicking.
I finally mustered the requisite energy to start the car and drive off. Behind me, waves continued to thunder in and crash against the rocks.
On the drive back I couldn’t help but dwell on a quote I’d once read by the Chinese mystic Lao-Tzu. “The power of intuitive understanding will protect you from harm until the end of your days.” Short and succinct. Listen to your intuition.
Postscript: Much later in the day – at the height of the low tide in the afternoon – I returned to retrieve my board. The big swell was still in the water but the shoreline was exposed and dry. Several tow teams were out, plying their trade among the big waves. I wasn’t sure if I’d have to wade through water so I decided to put on my wetsuit. I headed south, picking my way along the rocks and coves. It was difficult to believe that several hours ago, I had passed along this same route, dodging waves and fearing for my safety. Finally I came to the pocket beach. Amazingly, my board was still there, on the ledge exactly as I had left it. I picked it up, gave it the once-over, pronounced it sound, and walked back, carrying it under my arm. I felt like I had rescued a dear friend.
When I got back to my car, I noticed a man eyeing me with a look of surprise.
“How was it?” he asked.
Several answers ran through my head. But I finally just said, “Pretty big. Got pushed south.” I couldn’t help saying that with a mild grin.
He stared at my board for a moment, and then back at me. “I’ll bet.”
