Creative Writing from
Fairleigh Dickinson University

Odyssey

Tom Fay

To most, October 16, 2002 was just another Wednesday, but, to a select few, it was a day to remember. Every surfer, fisherman, and meteorologist was aware that a deep low-pressure system had formed off the coast of Virginia and had traveled northward, skirting the Jersey shore. Its subtropical strength and location was just right for generating substantial swells. I was never too far from the computer that day, constantly checking the Internet buoy reports for the latest updates. The forecasts called for 13-14 feet surf, but I always took these predictions with a grain of salt, seeing as how there are so many variables involved, that it's nearly impossible to get an exact measurement. At 5:30 p.m. I decided to take the five-minute drive down to my favorite break off of 17th Avenue in Belmar. The anticipation and anxiety began to build during the short trip, and, when I was a block from the beach, I could already see the spray being blown off the tops of the waves. I knew then that whatever I was about to witness would be unprecedented. I pulled into the first open parking spot—no easy task, for it seemed every adrenaline junkie with transportation was already there—and sat awestruck at what lay before my eyes: absolutely perfect 12-15 feet faces slowly peeling left to right and hollow as all hell. Mammoth mountains of water racing towards shore like freight trains, complete with steam-like emissions that shot out the side when the giants imploded. It was a showcase of nature's raw, unmitigated power, and we all looked on speechlessly. This was the biggest surf seen all season and maybe the biggest in recent memory. I wasn't shocked to see that few dared challenge Mother Nature's fury.
        I started surfing before I could even ride a bicycle, and in a family full of surfers and swimmers, it's easy to see why I had been drawn to the ocean at such a young age. My father was more content with teaching me the vicissitudes of the sea than he was teaching me to throw a baseball. I learned to have a healthy fear of the water at an early age and, above all else, to respect it. As I grew older, I steadily challenged myself, pushing my own limits. By doing so, I gained a little clout among the local watermen and maybe even a bit of a name for myself. Respect is everything in the surfing world. You respect fellow surfers and, more importantly, you respect the ocean's authority. I had gleaned a good deal of experience over the years and had grown confident in my own ability in the water . . . or so I thought. This particular day would have made even the most confident individual's stomach turn. So as I contemplated my next move, I knew I wouldn't be thought of any less of if I chose to remain a spectator. There was certainly no peer pressure; everyone knew it was big and undeniably dangerous. But I think we were all a bit surprised to see that they were indeed possible to ride and there were a few who did. Then something very strange happened: I began seriously considering driving home, grabbing my gear and going in. I wanted to be among those fearless few.
        It was as if some overachieving, ultra-competitive, unknown entity (apparently with a death wish) had surfaced from the deepest recesses of my psyche. There was an ongoing debate in my head, one in which I had no say, between two parties: one daring; one discreet. Approximately fifteen minutes had passed since I arrived. Time was of the essence. I had to make a decision.
        The trip home and back was a blur. With my equipment in hand, I stood staring at the sand that had gathered around my ankles. It was around 6:00 p.m., and behind me the sun was setting and with it all perceived comfort and safety began to vanish. The clouds began to darken and the light was slowly retreating, as if to presage some unknown danger. It's funny how the prospect of nightfall carries such a connotation of fear and foreboding. I was never a big fan of cold water, and I knew the autumn water had cooled significantly since the fervor of summer had subsided. The few people I had seen in the distance earlier were all donning full wetsuits, an indication the temperature was less than hospitable. Despite this, I chose to forego the wetsuit in exchange for increased mobility. Needless to say, I was ill equipped—the cards were definitely not in my favor.
        As the water swirled at my feet, I noticed that the moon was set high in the sky; the ominous orb defying me to ignore all the harbingers. Every cliché imaginable entered my head to try to combat the second, third, and fourth thoughts I was having: “Pain is temporary, pride is forever,” “Go big or go home,” etc. I opted for a personal favorite— “Fuck it,” I muttered. After a running start, I leapt onto my board. Within an instant, my breath failed me as I came into contact with the colder than expected water. All the reservations came roaring back: Do I forge ahead, or turn around and pretend this never happened? I was being driven by something intangible over which I had no control: a singular impulse that propelled me forward. I was soon past the point of no return. No room for error now. I summoned all my strength and testicular fortitude and began feverishly paddling headlong into the maelstrom. I was surrounded by deafening, bone-jarring blasts of rolling thunder. Visibility was becoming nearly nonexistent, and I was getting desperate. Tons of water harboring ill intent became mere shadows, only discernible when they collapsed under their own immense weight, unleashing an avalanche of whitewater.
        I managed to scratch over each colossus—only to find another heaving mass of pain or torment following directly behind. I was the ever-resilient Odysseus, defiant in the face of Poseidon and deftly dodging Charybdis. With each near miss I gained confidence, and my heart gradually returned to its proper place in my chest. Suddenly, as if by divine intervention, there was a temporary calm—a ceasefire, if you will. This was my chance. Choosing to postpone any and all genuflections until a later and less harrowing time, I motored for the horizon. I had reached relative safety, not to mention an incredible view. It was utterly surreal: The moon hung above, the sun set behind, and I had a front row seat to the most beautiful spectacle of ferocity ever.
        My euphoria was short-lived, however, as I remembered the reason I was out there in the first place: to tame one of these beasts—or at least try to—without dying in the process. This was the stuff of legend. The character and setting were in place; all this story needed was some action. Reality began to set in as the last vestige of light slipped away. Earth's night shift took over, and I was relegated to using streetlights and lit storefronts for navigation. I was becoming increasingly nervous. At this point, I wasn't too keen on including action in my story. Hey, you gave it a shot and it didn't work out, I thought to myself. Besides, what good is a great story if the author doesn't live to tell it? With darkness came urgency, and I felt compelled to take off on something—anything—just to make it back to solid, stable, safe ground. I didn't even care anymore. I wasn't looking for the perfect ending. I just wanted out.
        Then, as if on cue, it came. Emerging from the black depths, the shadowy wall approached. It didn't look that big—Manageable, I thought. I wheeled in preparation, took two or three strokes, and used my fins to provide one final thrust, ensuring my ride home. Instantaneously, the hulking brute lurched skyward after passing over a sandbar, gaining several feet in size. I was in over my head, in more ways than one.
        I knew immediately that my takeoff was far too deep and hopelessly late. I was at the mercy of the wave and all its malevolent force. Taking the wave straight to shore would have been suicide, so I knew I had to attempt, albeit impossible, to cut parallel across the face while avoiding the curling lip, suspended above my head like a guillotine. I shifted my weight, buried my rail, and shot sidelong with dizzying speed. The lip passed overhead, accompanied by the most awe-inspiring whoosh of water. There I was, nestled in the belly of the beast— “barreled,” “shacked,” “tubed,” “pitted.” In short, it is the holy grail of all wave riding: the closest one can get to the very essence of the ocean's power (perhaps too close, in my case). I raced through the spinning cylinder. The only light lay at the end of the tunnel, as it were, and I aimed for escape. I leaned my weight forward to pick up speed, but the wave was breaking faster than I could travel. The water beneath my board bucked like a bull as I struggled to maintain my course. Whatever speed I had was diminished by the increasing turbulence. It was only a matter of time now. With a final jolt and one last gasp, the once triumphant Odysseus was unceremoniously cast into the unforgiving abyss.
        I subsequently found myself trapped in the bowels of some god-awful water ride only the devil would appreciate. A dark, churning void where I was being tossed around mercilessly, like a baby seal in the jaws a killer whale. Hopelessly disoriented and completely powerless, I tried my best to relax. Rule number one of a wipeout: Do NOT panic. Panicking only serves to expend precious, much-needed air. Knowing this rule is one thing, but following it is entirely different. The reality is, every moment that I've spent underwater, no matter how brief, has been terrifying. Nearly all my adult life spent in the water--or underneath it--has, in my mind, been attended by an underlying sense of guilt. Watermen are watermen because they love the ocean. It is their playground, their refuge, and a place where they feel totally calm and comfortable. As for me, despite my love of the water, I've always felt uneasy when submersed in it. The sea is fickle mistress, one you cannot reason with. Attempting to hold your breath while you are haphazardly thrown about is an unnatural and altogether uncomfortable sensation. I could never overcome that psychological obstacle. I could never learn to relax in hairy situations. I always felt my lack of composure would come back to torment me. It was a weight I managed to bear for some time, but it seemed that weight was destined to drown me one day. In the water, you cannot cheat for long; eventually, you get caught. I got caught this time. The only question was how badly. In the back of my mind, I believed I knew the answer, but I dared not dwell on it.
        Fear and his friend Panic had come to visit. I soon found myself trying to rationalize. I've been in many precarious positions before, I thought. I mean, odds are the more you place yourself in dangerous conditions, the more prone you are to a traumatic ordeal. I thought back on every chilling encounter I'd had with the ocean: that undertow back in the summer of sixth grade; the time I borrowed a friend's beat-up, porous old board and it nearly sent me to Davy Jones' locker; or the day I swallowed what seemed like a pint of saltwater—straight up, no chaser—when I was fifteen. I went through the mental Rolodex of sobering experiences, looking for a common solution. There wasn't one. I had reached the haunting realization that each instance had been predicated on a single factor: chance. Fortune, it seemed, was not smiling on me this day.
        Still unable to surface, I felt my heart palpitating in my tightening throat. Seconds turned to years. The sun had long since set, and it was completely dark; being the only one in the water, I knew help was nonexistent. Any semblance of hope was lost and I regressed into a frightened child not yet able to swim. I flailed my arms frantically in every direction, unaware of where I was. I could not get oriented, sky and sea had coalesced into a mass of muddled blackness. With lungs burning and the fangs of fear deeply embedded in my chest, I began to give in. My arms, crippled by lactic acid and fatigue, ceased to flail. With each bubbled emission of my dwindling oxygen reserve, I sunk further into the chasm.
        My guess is that I went through the soak, wash, rinse, and spin cycles during my ignominious wipeout. I really thought I was checking out that day—done, finito, fish food. Mercifully, the blue bully, having had its fill, released me to the surface, where I drew the deepest, greediest breath my strained lungs could bear. Eventually I was washed ashore, where I lay sprawled on the wet sand for several moments—disheveled and exhausted, but alive. Upon realization of this one critical fact, I leapt to my feet, vigor renewed, and launched into a torrent of self-praise and exaltation regarding my accomplishment, but not before making sure no one was looking. It was a scene very reminiscent of Castaway, when Tom Hanks' character creates fire for the first time. Thoroughly satisfied, I returned to the warmth and safety of home to further ponder my brush with certain doom. It was the single greatest day of my life, and it never would've happened had I not listened to the voices in my head.