Upon waking, I’d found that Saturday evening’s five-foot sets had unexpectedly grown to a steady procession of ten- to twelve-footers. Barely able to contain my excitement, I made my way downstairs and walked barefoot to the shoreline, feeling the shock of the crashing gray-green slabs of water drumming the sand beneath my feet. Enveloped in roar and mist, I stared out at the angry Pacific, awed by its power. Briefly I considered forgoing my customary weekend swim. Getting past the break line through five-foot sets was one thing-getting out through twelve-footers was something else. Then I noticed the birds.
They were circling offshore a quarter mile up the beach, an avian anarchy of pelicans, gulls, and terns wheeling above the water, their flashing gray and white bodies catching the first glints of the morning sun. I watched for several minutes as singly and in twos and threes they dived, their wings folding like fans as they struck the water, tearing at what I knew to be a panicked school of anchovies. Over the past years baitfish had been making a steady comeback in the Santa Monica Bay, along with the larger fish that always followed.
After donning my surfing wet suit, I grabbed my swim fins and goggles and fought through the surf, deciding to get a closeup view. Riding a riptide out, I dived under each approaching wall of water, progressively sucked seaward by the out-rushing flow. Once through the breakers I swam to a small raft I had anchored offshore several summers back. As usual, I found its ten-by-ten redwood surface spattered with a collage of bird droppings. Before climbing aboard, I splashed water onto the deck to clear a place, then made a forty-foot dive to check the raft’s anchor, following the mooring line to the bottom. Satisfied with my inspection, I resurfaced and climbed aboard the pitching deck. There, tossed by the swell and shivering in the first rays of the sun, I waited. Fifteen minutes later, when the dark shadow of the approaching anchovies finally became visible in the water, I dived in and positioned myself directly in its path.
Now, as the first of the besieged school of fish began to reach me, I dived again and remained motionless, holding my breath. Above, below, and on all sides their shimmering bodies enveloped me, nearly obliterating the early morning shafts of sunlight angling down from above. Round eyed and staring, their mouths agape in the current, the river of six-inch fish parted like a curtain as they passed, closing behind me with seamless symmetry. I extended a hand. Like a flock of pigeons they darted as one, their flashing bodies staying just out of reach.
Able to hold my breath no longer, I rose to the surface with a quick flick of my fins. After taking several gasps of air, I again descended the clear blue depths. Once more the fish surrounded me. Unmoving, I hung in their silvery mass. And then came the birds.
With unremitting violence, the winged predators flung themselves upon the school. I observed from below as the horde of hungry avians dived into the churning throng of fish. With each attack the anchovies scattered in panic, then quickly reformed their ranks, programmed by nature to seek safety in numbers. The latter proved a tactic that did little to save them from the feathered death raining from above, and soon ragged wounds and dangling chunks of flesh in the escapees bore testament to the effectiveness of the birds’ voracious onslaught. I knew the injured wouldn’t last long. I could already see larger fish, mostly bass and sheepshead, moving in on the periphery.
Occasionally rising to the surface to breathe, I drifted with the long-shore current for thirty minutes or so, studying the interplay between the birds and their prey, fascinated and at times stunned by the brutality in which I found myself immersed. At one point, sparked by something I saw in the water, my thoughts inadvertently turned to similar brutalities I had seen in the Larson’s bedroom. Resolutely, I pushed those thoughts aside.
When the anchovies finally passed, I turned my attention toward the beach, surprised to see how far the current had taken me. Estimating that I’d drifted more than a quarter mile with the beleaguered fish, I set out again for home, electing to swim rather than walk. Arms cutting the surface, breathing on my right to avoid a chopping spray from windward, I began working my way upcurrent.
Despite my wet suit, by then the frigid November water had taken its toll. Ten minutes of steady swimming lessened my shivering, but feeling had not yet returned to my hands and feet when I stopped to check my position. Treading water, I felt a swell lift me high in the air. At the peak of my rise, I peered over the rounded hump of a wave that had just passed. Briefly I glimpsed a green thicket of cane and bougainvillea that marked my house farther up the beach.
The next wave lifted me even higher. To my surprise, this time I spotted Travis, Nate, and Callie sitting on a sandy berm near the water’s edge. Left to their own design, none of my children ever got up early on weekends, at least not without reason. Puzzled, I set out again, fighting the current.
Earlier, I had twice drifted too close to shore. On each occasion incoming swells had forced me to head for deeper water. Now, as I glanced over my shoulder, I saw one of the largest waves of the day approaching, bearing down on me with the fury of an avalanche. Well over fifteen feet high, the huge wall of green threatened to catch me inside the break line, something I had to avoid. Heart pounding, I turned seaward and pulled for all I was worth, hoping to meet the wave and dive under it before it broke. Suddenly I saw Allison.
Forty yards farther out, she was treading water directly in the path of the oncoming giant, glancing over her shoulder to gauge its approach. Thrust skyward by the sloping ocean bottom, the monstrous wall continued to build. But instead of turning and diving under it, as the foot of the swell began to lift her, Allison sprinted for shore.
With a feeling of horror, I watched my daughter’s slim form rising on the swell, higher, higher… her hands flashing in a quick clean series of strokes. One final kick… and she was in. Left arm extended, she skimmed down the nearly vertical face, a glitter of spray flying in her wake. Arching her back, driving her body into the turn, she cut left before bottoming out. Hair streaming like a pennant, she rose again on the translucent wall, then slowed and dropped again, accelerating…
As the looming monster started to curl, I took one final breath and scratched for the bottom. I caught a glimpse of Allison as she sped by. And then she was gone.
Even at depth, I could feel the power of the passing swell sucking me back. Somehow I managed to claw my way through. After what seemed forever, I resurfaced. Fighting panic, I turned toward shore and scanned the boiling water. I spotted Allison an instant later. With a surge of relief, I realized she had managed to cut out of the wave an instant before it broke. Raising an arm in triumph, Allison waved to me. Then, with a lazy overhand crawl, she started toward me.
Having grown up on the beach, all my kids were accomplished swimmers. As I had done earlier, Allison used an out-flowing riptide to carry her through the next swell. After diving under a smaller barrage of eight-footers, she joined me in deeper water. “Hi, Pop,” she said, smiling proudly when she arrived. “See me catch that last one?”
“I saw you, all right. What were you thinking, coming out here alone?”
“I’m not alone. You’re here.”
“I am now. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I distinctly recall telling you not to surf big waves by yourself.”
Allison’s smile faded. “I can’t help it if Trav was too chicken to come out. Besides, if I had gone over the falls on that last one, I’d have been toast. Someone else being out here wouldn’t have made any difference.”