by Ralph Todd
I was a “water baby,” couldn’t drag me away without maniacal protests and biting. I remember my first swimming race; the Woodcraft Rangers summer camp,LakeArrowheadin 1963. I easily defeated my age group and as I flashed back to an old Tarzan movie starring Johnny Weissmuller, quickly connected the dots to being an Olympic hopeful. Made my high school swim team, but didn’t possess a champion’s physique. On the other hand, the fish in me and a surf board were a match made in heaven. Perhaps half the boys at Mira Costa High could recount a similar story and passion.
TheSouthBaywas a hotbed of surfing activity in the 1970s. Crowds of boys looking forward to the weekend would gather to discuss the weather, wave height predictions, and of course, girls. Most weekend surfers were called Chum, Minnows and other derogatory names by the hard-core types like me and my friends. We went surfing on weekday mornings at dawn and still beat first bell – mostly. If a storm sent big waves, we got sick. We wore our cuts and bruises proudly and told the wannabies stories of big sets and heroic rides. Like all good story tellers at least 30 percent of our facts were true.
Our group consisted of six to eight members with new and old rotating through, occasionally. At the top of the pecking order were: Bill Jamison, “Pauly” Solano, and me, Kevin McNaughty – “Knot.” We were kings who basked in the warmth of the adoring. We had status, an identity and followers; we had reached the zenith of our lives and were only 17 years young. It seemed that luck followed us as well and the weekend arrived with word of an undersea earthquake and tsunami-like waves, prompting action from the big three. The kings confidently arranged their armor and waited for the morning’s glorious battle.
Despite the early alarm, complaints and red eyes quickly gave way to the teasing of teenage boys and then to an almost religious pause before heading out to surf. There’s nothing quite like the pre-dawn hour of 5 a.m. for a surfer. The rapture silenced us as we headed out the front door towards my broken down van. My two best buddies had stayed the night and now our attention refocused to the magnificent collection of earthy fragrances and the even more dramatic stillness surrounding us. Time slowed, nothing moved and the dead silence raised an instinctual combination of fear and excitement, as well as the small hairs on the back of my neck. Then goose bumps rose as we looked overhead to see stars rotating on their guide wires and an amber crescent moon lingering on the horizon. Our fears subsided and the anticipation of storm waves took over.
The drive along PCH went uneventfully with little to disturb our thoughts save the gaudy neon lights over our favorite early morning burger joints. Arming ourselves with a variety of fast food was an integral part of our routine and gave us time to debate the most desired destinations. Today’s choice, The Breakwater north of Redondo Marina, with local legends Hap Jacobs, Bing Copeland and Dewey Weber riding there on big days. But when we arrived the trickle of misty light painted a landscape of calm seas and gentle waves. There was no hint of a looming collision between titanic surf and sand, and despite driving for hours going from one favorite surf spot to another we were finally forced to admit the obvious, this would not be a day fit for kings.
With no surfable waves in sight we decided to make the best of it and headed to El Porto with its great beach break. Bodysurfing three foot waves may not be glorious, but it’s still fun, and because of the Indian summer weather there were lots of pretty brown girls to talk to. I thought of my sweet mom and remembered one of her favorite sayings; “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” Our wet-suits came off and we dove in.
Hours and several cheeseburgers later, we were feeling the fatigue from lack of sleep and the harsh reflection from a low hanging November sun. However, the girls we were flirting with needed a little more showmanship before giving up their phone numbers. I got to my feet and surveyed the kingdom – pathetic! But in my most triumphant tone I called to Bill and Pauly, “OK minnows, time for some fun.” The three of us reacted in unison and raced whooping and laughing towards the shore. We didn’t look back, we were confident and our mind’s eye could see the girls smiling in appreciation.
Perhaps it was the over confidence of young boys, the fatigue or just bad luck, but the fusion of all three compelled a battle and scars I will never forget.
“Water in general and the ocean in particular is a beautiful beast; to take her for granted is to invite disaster,” my father had taught me. As we raced towards the incoming wave sets my father’s voice crowded its way forward and I surveyed the scene for danger – there was none. We met the surf line and paused for a moment, watching the water’s lazy approach and quick dispatch. These warring waters created a powerful undertow; the sea beckoned, tugging at our ankles and stealing the foundation of sand beneath our feet.
Sprinting forward we got to thigh level before diving into the foamy brine. About forty yards out and we began chasing the small surf which would start to form but refused to crest and fall. One scrawny wave after another held promise but never delivered. The only thing that kept us going was the competition to see who would be first to catch one. Fifteen minutes later and drifting out a bit we saw a nice ridge forming 80 yards further out. The swim went surprisingly easy and we beamed in satisfaction of our skills. But again the waves refused to cooperate and after another 10 minutes of treading water our showmanship descended into ridicule for each other’s surfing skills. This was the familiar last act before packing up. We were dog-tired and ready to go home.
In our high spirits we had lost track of the beach and now looked up to see no girls waiting for us, and worse, we seemed much further out. Something wasn’t right, but the sun had soured our minds and we didn’t yet grasp the danger. We swam in with renewed focus and the long graceful strokes of practiced swimmers. But the easy banter of a few minutes earlier had vanished and I became aware of a withering ache in my arms and shoulders. It didn’t matter, I could feel the swell of incoming waves lifting us to shore. We were getting closer and it brought a knowing smile.
Now, 40 minutes since last touching ground, we stopped to catch our breath and bearings. As we looked to shore we were truly astonished, we seemed to have gained ground, but only a little. There was no mistaking the distress and confusion in each other’s eyes. We were nearing exhaustion and making little progress. We waved towards shore but the intense glare from the late afternoon sun made us nearly impossible to see. With no surfboard, no wet suit and a wrong headed plan our dilemma was only now becoming clear. The unctuous grey-green sea had a menacing, icy feel as off–shore winds whipped our exposed skin, and with hands and facial muscles trembling, the possibility of drowning took hold.
Stop and think! I told myself. Don’t panic! I could hear my dad giving me a pep talk like so many times before and it calmed me. Then the pleasure of recounting this harrowing encounter to the rookies back at school darted through my mind, as well as the massive teasing I would inflict on Bill and Pauly. But the moment of denial passed and I sobered to the fact that time was running out and we needed to take action. So I called them “cry-babies” and other names to make them angry. I’d remembered about rip tides and how you had to swim sideways to get away from the outbound current. I told them to swim on their backs to conserve energy and parallel to the beach before making a final run to shore. “Stay together and we’ll make it,” I encouraged.
Suddenly another swimmer appeared thirty yards away. By some miracle a lifeguard had seen our struggles and using his surfboard would tow us in! But like a mirage that raises hopes and then evaporates, it was just another swimmer caught in the rip. He looked older and foreign, and didn’t understand our gestures to follow us. The wild look in his eyes told me everything and scared me at the same time. I thought about my lifeguard training and how panicky swimmers will grab you looking for support and take you down. A wrestling match at this time would surely cost one or more of us our lives. With no margin for error I warned the boys, “Don’t let him get too close.” We formed up, but before taking off towards Catalina I looked for the interloper, he was further away and waving to unseeing eyes on shore. There was nothing we could do for him. A cruel fate was descending for some, but there was no time for remorse, self-pity or anything but cool determination if we were going to make it back alive.
We set out face up with arms and legs paddling together like oars but never leaving the water, each of us in silent prayer and bargaining with our maker. Progress was slow, but the slower pace allowed strength and hope to return as well. We continued like this for several minutes before taking another break to evaluate our situation – it wasn’t good. Pauly was having trouble keeping his head above water and Bill wasn’t doing much better; lean bodies are strong and fast, but they refuse to float. Pauly started to cry; he was swallowing sea water and realized that he didn’t have the strength for anything other than a dash to the beach. Bill voted to go in too, but we still had a swim of more than 100 yards and we had no idea if we were out of the rip.
The horror of being sucked back out sent shivers through me since that would be the end of us for sure. I began thinking I should split-off from Bill and Pauly and continue parallel for another ten minutes. Thoughts of my parents came again, warning me not to be a hero and pleading for me to come home to them. What should I do? The ocean’s malevolent grip and exhaustion were clouding my judgment.
“Let’s rest a minute and think about this,” I said. “Stay on your backs with only your faces out of the water or try submerging and holding your breath, use as little energy as possible,” I instructed. I did the same and looked up to a cloudless sky dominated by the sun’s brilliant light. I squinted at the ocean of murky blue sky and after several minutes completely lost the horizon and then my balance. Everything was upside-down and nothing made sense. The earth wobbled, spinning crazily and making me dizzy. I felt sick and my mood was swinging crazily too. Just minutes earlier I was yelling commands worthy of a drill-sergeant, but now I felt lost and hopeless. And then it hit me, I was going to drown. Strangely, a part of me embraced the idea. I was so tired, my arms ached and I didn’t want to be the strong leader any more – just let me sleep! And then I threw up.
The nauseating fear I had suppressed for the past twenty minutes came up in the form of a partially digested cheeseburger. Hearing the commotion, Bill and Pauly turned around and enjoyed the spectacle. The boy’s laughter had a magically refreshing effect on all of us, our lethargy passed and we regained the spirit of survivors. It was true that none of us had the physical strength to help the others swim in, but individuals are more likely to panic and do something stupid. Staying together still gave us the best chance. In that moment of clarity I swore my friends and I would come home together, and I swore off cheeseburgers.
Our ten minute stop and my retching had provided a much needed injection of energy and comic relief. “OK,” I said, “here’s the plan: we can swim on our backs for hours if we have to, so let’s go parallel for another ten minutes before turning for shore. If we’re still having trouble we’ll go parallel some more, patience is the key to getting out of this rip, agreed?” My friends nodded the same desperate grin and once again we set off. Like a convoy of used up cargo tramps we limped anemically into the choppy seas using the same slow-gliding backstrokes that saved energy and instilled confidence. Then again we felt the ocean’s swell and the methodical quickening of waves gathering beneath us, but we had been fooled before and stuck to the plan; slow and steady, no mistakes.
Finally we came about for the run to shore and it wasn’t long before we felt the strong rise of waves as they ramped up the shore’s incline. With only fifty yards to go we could hear people playing in the shallow surf just ahead. Hearing children’s laughter along with our exit from the rip was a potent elixir and our underwater backstrokes accelerated. But it was hard to resist the ocean’s invitation and moments later Pauly broke ranks, rolling over he began a sprint to the safety of firm sand just ahead. Soon Bill and I were in hot pursuit and caught the rush of a small wave which quickly gave-out. We lost each other under the foam and as I groped for the surface my toes touched ground for the first time in over an hour and just as quickly gave up possession as the under-current took me backwards.
The ocean tumbled me as easily as a T-shirt in a washing machine and I felt the horror of being taken back out to sea. My mind wanted to panic and thrash about, and my limbs were about to follow suit when by luck and training I righted myself and vowed to stay calm. At the same time I found myself wondering if my two friends had responded to the sea’s seduction with the same good sense. I was almost home and as long as I didn’t do anything foolish I would be OK. Rolling over and returning to the backstrokes I preceded towards shore and the next time I touched sand I stood in water only waist deep. I could see my parent’s faces with two of the biggest smiles imaginable – I was going to make it! I dragged myself slowly to where wet sand met dry; looking up and down the surf line for any sign of my friends, but there was none. I couldn’t have helped them anyway, my limbs had the strength of boiled spaghetti and I collapsed in the protection of the still warm sand.
Tears came to my eyes; tears of joy for successfully confronting the beast and tears of sadness for losing my friends. After several minutes I regained my senses and enough strength to rise up and look for them again – one of them must have made it I prayed. And then I realized, I was looking in the wrong direction. I turned to face the broad expanse of beach behind me and not far away I recognized the outcropping of two lifeless bodies piled in a heap. Ten minutes later and I had managed to crawl over to them asking if they were all right, sarcastic grunts being their only reply.
An hour later we were huddled against the rapidly cooling air and talking softly. None of us could make sense of what had just happened, nor what to do with this experience; it didn’t seem like something to brag about. The sun was eager to set and in the dusky twilight we could see a police helicopter circling overhead and what looked like a small Coast Guard craft patrolling the waters as well. A grim reality set in as we realized that the older man we had seen earlier was probably the missing person. The next day the Daily Breeze reported that a Chinese family visitingSouthern California had lost their father in a suspected rip current accident.
I had never met the drowned man really, and yet I truly felt something for him. We had shared the most personal and extraordinary experience, had shared the same space for a moment, had locked eyes for an instant, and I knew exactly what he knew; the horror of impending death. I knew he thought of his family and the hopes and dreams he might never see, how he had begged the gods for rescue and, as he gulped seawater and the flame of energy burned low, that someone would look after his wife and children. I had felt the same confusion, terror and surrender he had felt, and I now felt the same relief and guilt that all survivors feel.
My life was never the same after that; I had matured, my parents, friends and teachers all noticed. Studies and my real future had gained a foothold – the trauma had changed me as it often does people. I still went surfing, but it didn’t feel the same and my youthful dedication to the sport waned. My good fortune continued though and along with the losses I found a gift; I understood people. I had always been a reader and now wanted to be a writer too. A passion for psychology blossomed and I entered college the next fall a different person. I was no longer a water baby, a surfer or even a young man, just a man — ready for the races and difficult trials that lay ahead. B
