Surf

Surf

a Ted Carrol story by by Stephen Brooke ©2019

A big set steamed toward me. If I paddled hard, I could make it over the first wave—barely. No chance on those following, those dark, steep walls rising from the ocean. Foam feathered already along their crests. I might duck-dive one or two of them successfully but not all; inevitably, I would be dragged into the impact zone. One choice only: I must catch that leading swell and ride it safely in.

It rushed forward, a locomotive pulling a long train of cars. Muscles already at their limit, arms aching, I pivoted, poised for the one last burst that would launch me down its face. Down into that blue-green canyon, down I would plunge, make a long careful turn and find the safety of the shoulder.

Not that I thought any of this; I was all adrenaline and instinct, fear and exhilaration. This was why I was out here. At times, it seemed like this was why I was alive.

What went wrong? I don’t know. Maybe the wave was too steep and my fin couldn’t hold; perhaps a gust of wind lifted the nose of my board. In an instant, I changed from a man in control to one in danger, from surfer to diver, taking a very different plunge.

Depth was what I needed, away from the impact of liquid tons, away from the board attached to my ankle by an elastic leash. That fifteen pound spear could become an all too deadly missile when launched with the force of a breaking wave. Oddly, though, I did not feel its tug as I struggled beneath the churning water, holding a quickly gasped breath.

At least the wipeout hadn’t been too bad. I could retrieve my board and ride in prone on the whitewater from the next swell. Surfacing, I felt the truth impact me like another breaking wave—my leash was broken, my board was gone.

The shore seemed distant now. No one near me. I was on my own, with wave after giant wave stacked up to the horizon. Here came the next one; I gulped a breath and dove.

It hit hard. I swam deep, but not deep enough for I went tumbling, rag-doll-in-the-washing-machine tumbling. How long? Too long is the only measurement available. I surfaced, coughing saltwater.

Maybe, I thought, I can body surf the next one in partway. If I tried and missed, I would be completely at its mercy; if I headed for bottom, I could avoid the worst of the impact. The approaching wave was larger yet. Which was not altogether a bad thing as it had already broken and dissipated at least some of that overwhelming energy. Turning, I stroked as hard as possible; I was already growing weary and it would require a lot of speed to make this work.

For a moment, only a moment, it seemed that I had done it. Then the turbulence surrounded me, great foam hands swatting me, bending me, pushing me under, yet carrying me toward the beach.

Great, I told myself, I’ll make it in but drown on the way.

When the surf finally tired of playing with me, left me floating in its wake, I had nothing remaining. The beach looked as far away as ever. You’re closer, said the logical part of my mind, but I wasn’t buying it.

Shouldn’t my life flash by about now? I asked. Isn’t that the cliché?

What I felt was—anger. Idiot, my monologue continued, look what you’ve gotten yourself into now! You’re too old for this.

But too young to die. I had to smile at that. Odd time for humor. The next wave was almost upon me.

I was not ready. My lungs ached still for oxygen; I felt I had swallowed gallons of brine. As the engulfing wall of whitewater approached, I took my last deep breath and dove.

Once more through the rinse and spin cycles. Not so bad this time; I avoided being sucked up into the wave but was held under far, far too long. Finally bobbing up again, I needed to clear the thick foam from around me with my hands to catch a breath. And there was the next car in this train.

This time, I was directly in the impact zone. The crest was rising, some monstrous shining executioner’s ax, ready to fall on a solitary swimmer. I could not dive again, I knew. I could not hold my breath long enough. I could not survive.

There was nothing to do but try to body surf again. Perhaps the steepness of this wave would make it easier to catch—but, oh, the wipeout that was sure to follow!

Yet, that didn’t concern me just then. My fear was of being sucked up that mountain of water, being launched into space with the descending curl, and free falling to the trough below as tons of water cascaded upon me.

You wouldn’t come up again, I warned myself. Make this good. I knew I was on the edge of panic.

I will, I promised, with a touch of a smile. Don’t be so dramatic.

Then, taking one step back from that edge, I was stroking as hard as I was able, arms and legs weakened but working with a focused efficiency. I felt the water lift beneath me, my body beginning to slide down that liquid mountain. I was in. I had caught it.

Riding it was another thing altogether. I could still ‘go over the falls,’ end up an all-too-fragile projectile aimed at the ocean floor. Keeping my body rigid, making it into a human surfboard, I attempted to turn to my left, slide away from the power of the breaking wave. The curl would crash down on me eventually, I knew; with luck, much of its force would have subsided.

I felt it catching up, the shadow of the crest curving above me. Momentarily, I sped through a transparent tunnel. Then, cartwheels in the whitewater.

But I was inside the break now. I floated a few seconds, breathing deeply, taking stock. The beach was closer, but still a long swim. I did not know if I could make it; I did not know if I had enough left. Long lines of foam continued to roll toward me, already broken waves. Weakened, they might be, but they were still capable of tossing me about, another bit of flotsam.

Is it worth it? I wondered. Do I even have a chance? I’m tired; I could rest, fall back here and sleep.

Sleep forever. It was something I’d thought of often enough, anyway. Putting an end to things—maybe that was why I came out here on days like this.

Out here. Out here, I left behind my empty existence ashore, the pointless pursuit of happiness. Live or die, life could mean something for a while. Out here, even as I dueled with the ocean, I controlled my destiny.

Each day we have that choice to live or to die. Most don’t think about it, I suppose. Most don’t hold guns to their head and wonder if they will pull the trigger.

And some do.

Slowly, I started stroking toward the shore. Some other time, maybe.

Each wave had to be judged as it came: one I might dive under; the next I’d let push me along a few yards. Between, a bit of tired paddling, treading water for the most part.

Maybe I don’t have a choice after all, I admitted, and that kind of pisses me. I stole another look at the shore. Closer. A little. In fact, I was now over a deeper section of the ocean floor, in from the reef, where many waves did not break at all. I couldn’t body surf here. I’d have to swim.

Stroke by stroke, I deliberately worked toward the beach. I had never been so weary; my arms and legs would move only by conscious command. Left. Right. Left.

It would be pretty stupid to drown when you’re this close. The thought both amused and irritated me. Keep paddling. Right. Left. Right.

Then I was at the inside break, smaller waves dumping on a sandbar. Dazed and drained though I was, I found myself body surfing one into knee-deep water. I waded the last few yards to the beach.

Two boys waited at the water’s edge. One held my surfboard.

“Hey, Shaper, I got your board for you. It’s okay.” Holding the red-and-yellow escapee up for inspection, he continued. “That was pretty bad out there, wasn’t it?”

I agreed that it was.

“We watched you swim a long time.” He nodded in the direction of his friend. “Robby thought we should call 911 or something, but I figured you were gonna be alright.”

“Sure, wasn’t a big deal.” I gave the pair the best smile I could manage. “Thanks for picking up my board.”

I took it from him and walked slowly to my truck.

This was originally written as a short story based on real events in my life. Eventually it was reworked as a chapter in my surf-and-crime novel ‘Shaper.’