Santa Cruz, California. We have had remarkably nice weather the last two weeks. End of October can be variable, and all the swimmers have been delighted with the warm fall days we’ve been experiencing.
Early in the day I went to the cliff at Seabright to check out the conditions, in particular to see if there were waves. I watched for about five minutes, seeing what waves rolled in to shore and also what was happening about two miles away at the break at Lighthouse Point. It didn’t look like there were many waves to me.
I met Jenni on the cliff at 11 a.m. She’d been sitting there awhile before I arrived and her first comment was, “There’s some waves.” I objected to that observation, and then saw that there were more waves breaking than I had seen earlier in the day.
We walked down the stairs and across the beach to the water’s edge, talking about her recent experience with Open Studios and her visit with her folks. We then sat about twenty feet from the water. Every so often there would be a loud crash from a breaking wave that caught both of our attention.
I remarked, “The waves definitely look bigger when we are closer to them. I think if we were right at the water rather than on shore they would seem even bigger.” Jenni concurred. I was feeling a bit intimidated by the conditions.
We finished getting our swim gear on and walked to the edge of the water where the surge of the waves reached. Wave after wave broke and raced up the steep shoreline. It had been made so steep by the significant high and low tides we were having and by the recent big surf.
Ordinarily we would begin a slow walk into the water, timing our entry around the breaking waves. This time there was no break in the waves arriving, no lull that we had observed during the past half hour. Standing this close to the waves, as I expected, they looked and loomed much larger.
As I’ve mentioned in the past, Jenni has a similar take on ocean conditions as I do. We were both feeling somewhat intimidated about getting in, and also about getting out at the end of the swim.
I looked along the shoreline and noticed that the waves and surge were a bit smaller farther west, a couple hundred yards from where we were starting. I suggested to Jenni that we aim to come out of the water toward that spot rather than where we were now, and she agreed.
Jenni laid out the swim plan—head to the buoy line, which is about 200 yards from shore, turn right and swim to the next buoy, about another 250 yards, then head back to the beach. We agreed to meet up at that second buoy and evaluate the swim, deciding then whether to continue or head to shore.
Finally there was a small lull, or so it seemed. We went forward quickly into the water and waves, dealing with the back rush of water that had climbed the steep beach and was now racing back into the ocean while also dealing with the surge of water coming toward shore.
The waves were superpositioned, meaning they combined to a much greater height. We were lifted above it all at the peak of this interaction. Fun—and a little scary. Soon we were past the shore break and swimming out toward the buoy line.
The water was remarkably clear. There still was not much to see, but it felt fresher and cleaner than Cowell Beach where we had been swimming the past couple of years. I felt elated by this water clarity and it immediately renewed my love for Seabright Beach. But also in the front of my mind was the thought of dealing with the waves when it was time to return to shore.
We swam the route we planned (“Plan the swim, swim the plan,” Jenni has said), and when we met up at the second buoy we decided we were ready to head back to shore.
I have great confidence in Jenni’s ability to take care of herself in the water, so mostly I had my mind on myself and how I would deal with the waves. Jenni was about fifty feet to my right. Suddenly, a large seal—or perhaps a sea lion—emerged from the water not far from her and appeared to change course directly toward her.
I saw the look of surprise on her face—an unmistakable “Oh shit” expression—as she quickly began swimming toward me instead of the shore. “What the heck can I do to help?” I wondered, and I swam toward her as well. Neither of us are particularly keen on close marine-life encounters.
Moments later, while we were still recovering from the anxiousness we felt about the pinniped, a squadron of pelicans passed within just a few feet of our bobbing heads. Jenni saw them before I did and squealed, “Look at the pelicans!” It felt less like a gee-whiz nature moment and more like yet another surprise adding to the stress of our return.
We exchanged a few more words about the encounters, then turned toward the task of safely exiting the ocean.
As I approached the shore, I glanced over my right shoulder to see what waves were coming. I didn’t see anything big or even medium-sized, so I thought it was good timing to go in. Jenni must have felt the same because we were close together and both making our move toward shore.
Complicating our return was that huge backwash (or redound—yes, with a d) that not only prevented us from moving forward but actually pushed us back toward the sea. We were caught on the inside, between the approaching and breaking waves and a shoreline we couldn’t yet reach.
The first wave came and instinctively—but completely the wrong thing to do—I reached for Jenni to warn her and to try to hold her back from getting tumbled. Fortunately I pulled back my hand and did not grab her. There is nothing good that comes from trying to hold another person against the power of the ocean.
The wave knocked us down.
When we regained our footing and orientation on the sea bottom there had been no progress forward because of the redound. Compounding matters, the next wave was superimposed with the outgoing water. I don’t know about Jenni, but I was exactly where those two forces combined. I was lifted six feet into the air on top of the surge and then dropped back down.
It could have been fun—maybe it was—but I had no time to reflect because the biggest wave of the set was coming and I was about to get pounded.
I tried to dive under it, but it grabbed hold of me and threw me over, down, and around. Somehow I found myself standing again, facing the shore, calling over to Jenni and asking if she was OK.
She was.
That’s when I saw her orange swim buoy bouncing in the wash near shore, torn from the belt around her waist. My own yellow buoy was still attached to me.
I turned around and the next wave rose up as if it belonged in one of those disaster movies. I yelled, “Oh shit!” and again tried to dive beneath the break. Again I was violently tumbled.
This time my yellow buoy was torn from my belt and sent racing toward shore. Fortunately we were now close enough that we could walk out against the receding water and finally stand on dry sand.
Safe.
We looked at one another with amazement, surprise, and relief written all over our faces. We cackled, laughed, huzzahed, and high-fived, agreeing that we had made a poor judgment about the incoming waves.
A few minutes later the ocean looked perfectly calm. We simply shook our heads and hoped we'd learned something about timing.
We walked along the beach back to where we had left our clothes. Jenni said, “It’s a good thing I didn’t lose that swim buoy. It has the only key for our van.”
The van isn’t just their transportation. It has been Jenni and Nate’s home for the last five years.
She continued, “To get another key they’d have to tow the van over the hill. That’s the only way to get it.” I was incredibly glad that buoy had not disappeared, and I thought there might someday be room for a conversation about safer places to keep keys while swimming.
I was drying off and getting ready to change out of my bathing shorts. Jenni grabbed her sandals, called, “Goodbye!” and started walking toward the cliff and her van-life home.
She was already a good distance away when I turned and shouted after her, “We got the shit kicked out of us today!”
She turned, waved, and silently agreed.