A Shuffled Deck

I left the house just a few minutes past 3:00. I can barely remember the last time I swam this late but it’s my sole window of opportunity since Sunday and I’m going to take it. I figure I’ll be finishing up right around sunset and that seems kind of cool.

There is definitely some texture on the water but things don’t look so blown out. The afternoon surf report says there is fog over San Clemente and heading into Dana Point. From the Doheny web cam that looks south, I can see it but things don’t look threatening at all over Strands or Salt Creek.

I get to the parking lot and I have an internal debate over whether to bring my pack down to the beach. I didn’t even end up using it on Sunday but when you need it you need it and the water temps have not been going up. In fact a couple buoys were down a degree this morning. So I go ahead and bring it just in case.

I head down the stairs and try to just soak in everything around me with no internal commentary. I don’t want to give voice to my apprehensions about the cold. I know I just need to get in that water and let nature take its course. I don’t see fog anywhere.

It’s about a mid tide. There is some surf. It’s not small but not big either. I lay my pack on the rocks. Since they totally revamped the rock revetment last spring, I’m a little disoriented not to have my trusty familiar rocks right where I have always known them to sit. They completely shuffled the deck here. All the rocks are different and I will have to reacquaint myself with new friends.

I pick a spot, set my stuff down and head to the water. I can hardly look directly to the horizon as the sun is coming down and shining right at me so I just raise my camera and click. I walk into the water and through the breaking waves. A set rolls in and I let the waves break in front of me before approaching. Then another smaller one forms and I dive right into it.

The sound of my head plunging into the face of the water is what I remember most and then a jolt of cold energy envelops me. For a second things seem normal and then suddenly I feel the air escape my lungs and my legs go limp with fatigue - the familiar cold shock response. My head aches.

I just breathe, breathe, and keep breathing. I wait for my breath to return. I wait for energy to come back to my legs and until then I just kick as best as I can. I take it slow and gentle until life resurrects itself. Soon enough, my systems come back online and I’m swimming with my whole self.

The water burns and I just let my skin feel and accept it. Half way down the beach it starts to feel down right good. I wonder how long this feeling will last and know I am on borrowed time.

I can feel the current pushing me forward in a sort of pulsating rhythm as if I gain extra distance with every beat of the ocean’s heart. I’m heading south towards Dana Point and every once in a while I get a glimpse of it and it looks fantastic but I can’t bring myself to stop. I have to keep swimming.

This light is so great. It has such a different personality from the morning light. Both are great. The water is so dark. It is like night below the surface and above the water is a dark navy blue. I can barely see my hands move beneath me or perhaps I just choose not to.

As I get closer to the end of the beach, I notice the waves breaking further out. These northwest swells have a whole different face than the south swells of summer. I see a long shoulder of water rise and break into white foam just in front of the cliffs. I try to veer further west to avoid these and eventually I am about 75 feet outside my turnaround rock.

I pause, lift my goggles to get a better view and have a look around. I still feel pretty good. Then I head back north.

The mood of the water changes. There is more resistance. Now I am facing the horizon and I can hardly see thanks to the light of the sun. I just keep plodding ahead and hope that I am not heading hopelessly far out to see. I sometimes close my eyes when I come up for breath and open then when I dip below the surface. It’s tough even to look ahead towards the Ritz. Something about the cold makes it harder to see. It’s like I am being blasted by outside stimuli and nature is coming at me full boar all at once.

A bit further up the coast one of my calves starts to cramp up. The cramping eases, goes away and then returns. All the while everything around me is magnificent. This landscape is so raw and intense with color and texture and cold and wet.

I’m getting closer to the end of the estates at the south half of the beach and feel like I’m drifting outward. I steer myself in a diagonal line toward the bluff just short of the northern end of the Strand. I notice lights up above in the hills near Crown Valley. I wonder what those lights are doing there. They look like stars. Then I realize they are windows reflecting the light of the setting sun.

I’m about in front of the little lifeguard hut and feeling colder and also my legs are cramping up more frequently. I’m feeling like I’m ready to finish up and start to point more sharply toward the shore. Am I getting closer of farther from the beach. I am definitely getting closer but I sense a part of my mind that wants to panic convinced I am lost. I resign myself to relax and just keep swimming in.

I am undoubtedly getting closer to shore. For a moment I think I feel warmer. I find myself just a little further north of where I started and I correct my trajectory southward. Soon I see waves instead of wakes and notice I can touch the ground. The sun is just starting to set and it is magical here.

As I approach my pack I have no doubt that I will make full use of the amenities inside. I dry off with my towel and put on three layers over my upper body. I try to relax my legs to ease the cramping and also try to keep them moving.

I get to the top and decide to skip the shower and take a hot one when I get home. It has been a long long time since I have done that.