White Riptide
MY HEART WAS beating so fast that I felt as if my chest would rupture at any moment and that blood would shoot through the wall of my wetsuit and paint the ocean red. My lungs were on fire, and my mouth was failing to supply my body with the oxygen I needed. I was fading fast, and the black spots that danced before my eyes eerily resembled evil little dark stars breaking through the bright blue sky, as the hot yellow sun supervised all beneath it.
* * *
My son and I had caught so many waves body surfing, that our arms felt like limp rubber sticks. The waves had kept coming, one after the other, and we were glad to have them with us. Then the waves suddenly stopped coming, as if they had decided that they had somewhere else they needed to be that morning. The water became glassy and smooth, and even the wind had stopped for about 30 minutes. It seemed that things would be dying down a bit, but I had spent enough of my life in the water to know better.
But when the sun is shining and the water is warm and the saltwater is soothing your soul, you can forget where you are and how you got there. Mick and I took advantage of the ocean’s temporary sleepiness to swim laps back and forth between the two black reefs that made Shaw’s Cove a cozy little secret destination for the Laguna Beach locals. We were splashing and racing and laughing and having fun, until it all changed so fast.
That first wave was a monster, and it approached us without warning. Its size was not nearly as horrifying as the way it silently stalked the two of us, like a serial killer on a dark and rainy night on a metropolitan street at 2:30 AM.
DOWN! I barked at Mick, while pointing my finger straight into the white foamy soup that had become the ocean’s surface. Mick dunked his little head under the water, disappearing somewhere into the vast heartlessness of the swirling, sandy water below. I went under, too, and let my arms and legs go limp, as the Pacific Ocean pulled me every which way and twisted my torso like an old piece of Red Vines licorice.
My head reemerged from the soupy whitewater. I opened my mouth wide and circular, like a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet. The air was thick and warm, and when it squirmed into my lungs, it gave me a little bit of energy, but not much. I searched around for Mick, and didn’t see him anywhere. Then his voice hit me from behind. DADDY! I turned around and there he was, scared and frightened, with his eyes wide open and his mouth gasping for air. I placed my arm around Mick’s torso to support him and give him a little bit of a rest.
Something bigger and even badder was coming straight toward us — a nasty blue mountain of water that harnessed all the power of the universe, while possessing the indifference of a death row prison guard. I looked at Mick and pointed straight toward the big bad wave. Our best chance would be to swim straight toward it, then dunk under it and let it glide over us. Mick was scared, and I could tell, by the look in his eyes. But as I put my head down and started frantically swimming freestyle toward the heart of the gray-blue monster, I knew that Mick was right behind me. After about four strokes, I looked up, and saw that the big blue son of a bitch was cresting right over our heads. Mick and I both simultaneously dove deep down, like a couple of synchronized swimmers. I felt the wave roll right over my back.
I popped up out of the water, and Mick popped up right next to me. We had made it, and we were both relieved as hell. Four more large waves came in, but Mick and I were out so far, that we just casually floated right on top of them, as they passed through us, before exploding upon the shore.
Mick was breathing hard and so was I. I asked Mick if he was all right, and he said that he was. But I knew that his arms must have felt like old pieces of string cheese, and he was probably having a hard time breathing, too.
Then I did the thing that I had not wanted to do. I turned around and looked toward shore. We were at least 200 yards out. That nasty set of waves that tore over my son and I had created a mighty rip current that was dragging us straight out into the deep blue sea, while at the same time gently tugging at our legs, trying to suck us under.
We were out there all alone, and we were getting more alone by the second. We would never make that swim back, and even if we could, the riptides and the increasingly large waves rolling in would make sure that we would not be the victors of the day.
“Alright buddy. Here’s what we’re going to do. Float on your back and look straight up toward the sky. Take deep breaths, and hold the air in your lungs for a few seconds, then slowly breathe out. Do that over and over again, and just let the ocean carry you,” I said.
Mick suddenly followed my every instruction, and I watched him just floating there, in his little red and black wetsuit, like a tiny Maple leaf floating down the giant Mississippi River. I did the same thing, as I was breathing so hard and getting so tired that I was starting to see black spots and my head was feeling foggy.
Every 10 seconds or so, I would look up just to make sure that Mick was doing all right. He would look back at me with terror and fright splashed across his face, but he would always manage to give me a little thumbs up to show that he was brave and that he could handle the situation like a man. I would give him a thumbs up right back, but the thought of what could happen to us within the next few minutes never fully escaped me.
The rolling of the waves became more gentle, and I soon realized that the set was over, and we maybe had four or five minutes to get back to shore before it was too late.
“I’m not wearing fins, so I can’t swim you to shore. It’s time for you to roll over and swim hard, but pace yourself. Start going now, and I’ll give you a little boost every few seconds,” I said.
Without saying a word, Mick broke out into a freestyle sprint, straight toward shore. I had thought that he would need a push along the way, but I was barely able to keep up with him. I swam freestyle too, poking my head up every so often, to see Mick’s white feet splashing water as he swam, like the backside of an old riverboat. He looked back at me just one time, and I gave him a thumbs up and pointed toward shore, to let him know that all he needed to do was just worry about himself.
When I was finally close enough to shore that my feet could touch the sand, I felt electrified, as if I had been searching an eternity just to rub up against the solid earth.
I stood in knee-deep water, hunched over, with my hands on my thighs. My breaths were so hard, that with each inhale, the rubber of my wetsuit pressed against my chest firm and tight.
I gazed at the shore, as Mick walked onto the sand. He had become so tall, that if I had not known him, I would have mistaken him for a teenager or perhaps even a college student. I watched as Mick unzipped his wetsuit and peeled it from his torso, shaking the water out of his hair, and rubbing his face. His chest was muscular and his arms were lean, and he was no longer struggling to breathe.
I was still tired and sore and scared. As I turned to face the ocean and looked out onto the horizon, I realized that it was not yet noon.
© J.S. Lender 2020
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