The Rest of the Story

This is my fourth visit to the Pacific Ocean. On my previous three visits I’ve only mustered enough courage to let the water come up to my ankles. I have this theory that the Pacific doesn’t really appreciate visitors very much. It’s cold waters and rough shores aren’t exactly the pineapple-style welcoming this southerner is used to. Those who do brave her beaches need to build some type of relationship first. I’ve not yet learned to see her violent fits as cute or endearing. Tourists . . . we’re asking for trouble.

So, when Kyle suggested that we go snorkeling after church on Sunday, I was a little hesitant. He assured me that the 68-degree waters would be refreshing. Blindly trusting my local friend whose managed to build the necessary relationship with the Pacific, I agreed to go on this little expedition. Even though the breezy, humidity-free, 80-degree air here seemed plenty refreshing to me.

We got our gear and headed to the sand. I was reassured by the enormous amount of people on the beach. I figured if this many people are here, it can’t be too dangerous. Then I noticed that at least 80 percent of these throngs confined themselves to the sand. Regarding the 20 percent minority, quite a few of them wore wet suits. I allowed my ankles to touch the waves of the Pacific, fought the thrice-repeated habit of flight and pressed on. Ten minutes later I’m nearly waist deep. Kyle decides he’s tired of fighting and decides to just plunge the rest of his body into the next wave. He lives. I decide to try the same thing. I live. Not only that, but it seems that Kyle was right. After only a few minutes the water actually seemed refreshing.

Jamie and I follow Kyle’s example by putting on our masks and examining the ocean floor. Nothing to be seen except sand, water-bent light, and a few tourists. After about a half hour, we decide we must have the wrong location. We go to the shore, take off our gear, and walk a quarter-mile down the beach. Jamie is the first to get her gear back on. She sticks her mask in the ocean and immediately yells, “shark!” Normally when someone yells “shark” you’re supposed to run as fast as you can the other way. But since this is the creature we came to see, my instincts were strangely reversed. I put on my mask as fast as I could and put my head into the ocean. Immediately I saw a Leopard shark. I followed him a little trying to get a picture with my $10 disposable, waterproof camera. As I follow him, I very quickly began to realize that he was not the only shark around. I look and see I’m surround by dozens of leopard sharks. They’re not quite as small as I originally thought. Some of them are nearly six feet long. As big as me. I hoped they weren’t hungry and turned around.

Jamie, Kyle, and I all stood up with our masks up and speculated our next move. We decided if we wanted to keep snorkeling we needed to just swim through them. I guess Kyle had never heard of anyone losing any appendages to a leopard shark. I didn’t really want to know, so I didn’t ask. As we swam thought them, they seemed to change their habits very little. They didn’t mind us getting extremely close. They didn’t flee. Why should they? We’re in their town now. After we swam nearly 20 yards into the cove, most of the leopard sharks were no longer around. Instead we saw all sorts of other life, but you should read Jamie’s blog to hear about that.

After about two hours of touring the ocean floor, we started to get a little cold. Quite cold. The body isn’t really designed to be submersed in 68 degree water for two hours. It began to rebel. Fingers became numb. Kyle spotted a very inviting beach with no one on it. The sun hitting the dark rocks looked gloriously warm. We swam toward it. We began to get out of the water. The sound of the waves rolling off the large rocks on the shores was unlike anything I’d ever heard. A little like soothing percussive instruments. God turning a rainstick and tapping thousands of wood blocks simultaneously. It seemed very inviting.

I stepped on the shore. My ankle turned. Ouch! I took another step. My other ankle. I blamed the flippers. Sat down and tried to take them off. The “gentle” waves began to pound me against rocks. I took them off as quickly as possible and began to step out of the water. Every stepped turned an ankle, pinched a toe between rocks, or punched the bottom of my feet. Slowly and carefully, I get out of the water. I look to my right and see Kyle sitting on the shore 15 feet away from me. Neither of us is about to come to the other. The steps are too painful. I look to my left and see my wife wrestling with her flippers 15 feet away from me. Three successive waves come in. Each of them throws her against the rocks. I try to come to her aide, but I move at a snail’s pace. Not even a snail’s pace. I think I see sea snails passing me in fright. I eventually give up. She’s pulled herself out of the waves by the time I was able to take three steps. I can’t go to her. Each step hurts too much. I can’t go to Kyle. I don’t even want to go back to the warm rock cliff because of the painful steps. Jamie apparently feels the same way. She sit down right were she is. She doesn’t even really get out of the water. Each cold wave that hits the shore soaks her up to her waist. She just sits there shivering.

After a little time passes, we realize that we can move fairly easily, although not very comfortably if we push ourselves with our heals and slide our asses around. Using this method we are all able to move close together and sit against the warmer dark rocks. The miracle of the whole thing is that all of us were able to laugh about it even during the moment. It was amazing how inviting this little beach looked, but how torture laden it turned out to be. After warming ourselves up for about 20 minutes, we reluctantly, but necessarily, decide we must go through the whole process again to get back into the water.