The Cloudy Pacific

The California dream is a golden coastline, glorious water and stress-free living. Only one of those things is true. I found myself desperately missing home as my toes anchored me to the Malibu shoreline. Was this it? Violent, cloudy water? The drive to Will Rogers Beach from my Echo Park apartment had me melting like a popsicle in the driver's seat of my CRV; but somewhere along the Pacific Coast Highway the seasons magically transformed and suddenly it was winter in the dead of July.

I gripped my orange soft-top to my side, anticipating that any one of those angry waves would rip it from my hands and tow me under. There was no other way in but to duck dive; the shore break would pummel me back onto the sand if I eased in. So I raced into the icy sea, greeted with a mouthful of the bitterest water I have ever swallowed, and thrashed wildly until I reached the calmer back. Still sputtering and spitting, I straddled my board and peered around to make sure no one had witnessed my struggle, to preserve my very last shred of dignity.

The Jersey shore was so much more agreeable. Unbearably humid, the tepid Atlantic was the perfect reprieve on a summer's day. It wasn't often the wind would generate a nice enough set to drop into, but when it did, the ride was smooth and lovely. There, I could call myself a surfer. Here, I wasn't confident I could even doggy paddle. There was the added comfort of only having encountered a few jellyfish and crabs while surfing back home. The infamous Jaws incident in the '20's long forgotten, surfing in the Atlantic was carefree and easy. I dropped the thought as soon as it entered my mind. My legs dangled in the muddy water and I couldn't see an inch past my kneecaps; if I didn't intercept my fears before they consumed me I'd catch the very next wave back to the beach and never touch the Pacific again. I wish someone had warned me just how tumultuous and moody the water would be before I dropped everything to move here. My mother's native Haiti came to mind, ocean so crystal clear you could see the rainbow of fish nibbling at your calves, sand like a pillow in a shallow bathtub. I would float on my back there and nap sometimes, the breeze inland too gentle to generate a wave, just the gentlest of tides caressing me to sleep.

It was in my reverie that something grazed against my left shin. I froze to prevent from panicking. It bumped my shin again, harder this time as if shoving me, and it was powerful. I drew both legs out of the water and placed them gingerly on my board. Seals are not known for aggressive behavior. Dolphins travel in pods. Blood pounded in my eardrums as I could just barely decipher the shape of a massive gray mammal underneath me--that insidious fin poking out of the water--and in the most serendipitous stroke of luck, I felt the swell of a generous set as the ocean sucked me back into itself, and I paddled laterally for my life towards the lineup where a group of unsuspecting surfers had gathered. "Shark!" I shrieked. I saw them whip their heads in alarm just as the wave overtook me. As I popped up the wave barreled around me, like a protective shield, hastening me to shore. Amidst the beauty of the barrel wave, my first ever, my fear devoured my elation, and I launched myself right into the undertow, getting tossed so fiercely I imagined my limbs might be torn from my torso. I braced myself for the monster to come devour me. The water had been so murky the thing could have been five feet or twenty feet long; it could swallow me whole. Although I couldn't see, I might be able to feel around for its gills and pinch hard. I might be able to poke it in its beady eye. Instead, I washed onto the shore like a rag doll, and my broken soft top washed up right next to me in two neon orange pieces.

A beach patrol guard dragged me onto the hot sand as I spit the ocean up out of my lungs.

"You okay?" he asked casually, snapping his gum, his sunglasses reflecting obnoxiously into my eyes.

"There's a shark," I responded, my throat stinging and hoarse. Still facing the water I could see the gang of surfers I had already warned still catching waves as though nothing had happened.

He laughed and pointed beyond them to where I had been floating just outside of the shoulder. As the sun began to sink into a cotton candy pink horizon, white-sided dolphins danced playfully together in the distance.

"They just wanted to play."

I grit my teeth. If the Pacific weren't so damn cloudy, I would've known that. I went on to tell my family that on my first day in California I caught my first barrel wave and swam with dolphins.

My soft top in the trash can along with my self-respect, I drove home. The golden sunlight reflected off the highway and nearly blinded me. The California dream is a golden coastline, glorious water and stress-free living. Only one of those things is true.