Primal Forces

A soft, southern drizzle was falling that night, a minor prelude to the main symphony that was soon to play out as the hurricane edged closer. Hurriedly, we tied our surfboards down and ran back to the shelter of my friend Rob’s apartment. Once under cover, the steady calypso rhythms of the storm gave way to the enraged tantrum of nature gone wild. Hurricane Bertha was nursed in the warm, tropical waters off Western Africa. This angry, petulant child cut a swath of destruction across the Caribbean and now she was steadily bearing down on us. My friends and I had hoped this storm would come. Indeed, such is the recklessness of youth, we had even prayed for it. As morning broke, the sky was a Rorschach blot of disturbing swirls and shapes that seemed a fitting backdrop to the insanity that was about to take center stage. I could barely hear the car engine start, the wind and the rain was that intense, but the engine managed to sputter and cough its way to life, and we were off to the beach. The deserted streets and the unnatural light created a nervous energy; a primal fear in those who strode forth to challenge the sea as we were.

Arriving at the nearly deserted beach, we could see that the swells were enormous. Sets of ten to twelve foot waves and even the occasional fifteen foot monster were storming across the great stone jetty like a panzer blitzkrieg across the Low Countries of Europe. The jetty was nothing more than piles of carelessly placed, enormous stones, shaped like a “C.” The jetty ran due east for about one hundred yards and then curved south for another fifty or so. Like a sheltered cove, it provided a safe haven for us to paddle out into the ocean, out to where the waves were breaking. The three of us started to paddle out when we were suddenly caught in the death grip of a rip current that shot us down beach about three hundred yards. In a calm spot for a moment, we settled in and waited for the next set of waves to break; the wind and the rain swirling about us. It wasn’t much of a wait. Rob caught the first wave, a nice twelve footer that he peeled like an apple before slicing and dicing it. I was next in, on a similar wave, rushing down this raging wall of water before snapping back up; thrashing and grasping at empty sky before plunging back down; forty-five seconds of pure adrenalin rush. Jeffy went next, flipping off the backside of his wave in a truly spectacular wipeout. Catching wave after wave, we were having a great time. The three of us were young and indestructible in that idiot way that only youth could be.

Paddling back out, another set loomed large behind us. Rob caught his wave and was off, while half a heartbeat later, there was, I think, well over eighteen feet of water at my back. Realizing what a bad position I was in, relative to the wave, I began paddling like hell, hoping to gain position on the wave without being crushed by it. Blink. It was do or die time. I jumped up, planted my feet firmly; I did it; a smile and um, no I didn’t. Suddenly, the world turned upside down as I was hurled like a rag doll through the air and into the bottom of the wave; the leash on my ankle pulling my surfboard along behind me like an angry snarling dog; a dog that was soon to turn on its owner. Spun end over end, I was completely disoriented. I was deep and there was no indication of which direction was up. The logical thing to do would be to follow the surfboard to the surface as fiberglass and foam likes to float. Unfortunately, my board was below me. Large waves continued to crash down, keeping me pinned where I was. Realizing I was trapped,

I thought, “This is it, the end; game over.” Well maybe nothing quite that stoic but my thoughts did contain a lot of words that just aren’t fit for print. Strangely, I was calm and detached; resigned to and accepting my fate, when suddenly I was at the surface, gasping for air, my lungs straining to catch a breath. The surfboard exploded from the water right next to me, the nose smacking my head while the fins bit deeply into my flesh. Any relief I may have felt was short-lived, I had surfaced just in time to be hit by another large wave, dragged under, only now to find myself caught once again by the rip current. I can’t say with any certainty how many times this scene repeated, spinning over and over again, lost in the endless hours of seconds until the sea finally released its grip. Exhausted and bleeding, I washed up on the shore, more a piece of flotsam than a human being; but at least I was still alive. Maybe I should have been thankful, jubilant, even joyous to be alive, but I felt none of these things. Instead, I felt cold, wet and absolutely miserable. I felt as if I had tried to tackle a freight train, albeit a very wet one.

After choking and sputtering for a few minutes, coughing up what seemed like half of the Atlantic Ocean from my lungs; I managed to drag my waterlogged butt further up the sand and away from the ocean. I was amazed to see that I was over a thousand yards away from where I had started. After checking on me, my friends paddled back out, eager to catch a few more waves before the full fury of the storm landed upon us. As for me, I was done for the day. It had been man against nature, and nature had clearly won. Hurricane Bertha took the lives of two surfers that morning; I was lucky not to have been the third.

Here's a few pictures of where this story took place.

This is the jetty at Bal Harbor Beach, FL

Haulover Beach is on the other side.

Click on any photo to enlarge it.

I did not take any of these photographs.

Aerial view from the Harbor House.

Just to give you an idea of what the surf can occasionally be like.

Nothing like a stormy day and cutting school.

These aren't very large really.

This is mild compared to the day of Bertha.

It was never this crowded when I was a kid.

R.I.P. Shawn

Nothing like a beautiful day and cutting school too.

Long Boards and Old Guys. We Rule!