The Last August

A diving adventure that may be the last.

Tales from the Coast

The Last August

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            With nearly a thousand pounds of gear aboard, we set out of the harbor into the open sea just before sunrise. Onboard a much modified late 60’s twenty-foot bayou boat call the ski barge, we make our way  into Redondo Harbor and into the channel toward Catalina Island. The surf is rough, kicked up by the wind and we frequently get sprayed by the sea as it bounces off the low bow as we watch the cliffs of first Palos Verdes and then San Pedro disappear into the marine layer as if only a dream.  The conversation, somewhat drowned out by the motor is light and easy. At the helm, Rich sets the GPS coordinates before commenting about how remarkable it is that the Native Americans used to cross this channel without any assistance from technology. We continue as the sun begins to reveal itself as a pale disc in the sky, rising out of the ocean and dulled by the early morning mists that soon completely disguise the mainland. The channel is wide, our destination roughly thirty miles ahead.

            With only about eight miles to go the engine quits without warning. So heavily loaded with gear, the stern sits maybe six inches out of the water. The swell of the waves offers the potential of swamping us and we quickly rearrange the equipment and our own seating so as to put more weight on the bow in an attempt to keep the waves from running into the boat. “Adrift at sea,” I say flatly, expecting and receiving no comment. I was not concerned. The comment was an attempt at levity and seemed duly noted.

            The fuel filter had failed and Rich, who had much to do with the modification of the ski barge, soon had the problem fixed and got us back underway, commenting on how close we were and yet the Island was still not visible, the incident of the engine failure already forgotten. In a fair sized chop, with the wind at our bow, Catalina came into view and we continued to Rippers Cove.

            We had made reservations for Saturday, August 18th, but had left a day early, gambling

on campground C being available. Even before we entered the cove we could see there were people camping there. After a brief discussion, Rich slipped the boar into the cove and Joe, ever the ambassador, stepped out into the clear shallow water to investigate. As it happened the campers, who had been there a full week, were intending to leave within a couple of hours. Impressed with our good fortune, we unload the boat and suit up; ready to kill the time before the other campers left with an early morning free dive. The sun begins to pierce the morning mists as we enter the water, augmenting the clarity and brightening the wide variety of colors visible in the very clear and somewhat shallow depths of the cove. Within seconds all of the never ending and unfinished business of the mainland vanished, forgotten, leaving me feeling fulfilled, as if finally remembering the answer to a question vexing impatiently. I divulge such convalescence, once again immersed in the womb of Mother Ocean, gratefully plodding my way to put myself up against the other inhabitants even as I challenge myself. Taking three deep breaths to expand my lungs before going under, I finally submerge, spitting out my snorkel to silently enter the solitude of the water.

            Twenty feet down my relaxation deepens, the clutter and contamination of the asphalt jungle quickly fading. Soon it is as if it did not exist at all, the liquid shroud graciously rinsing it away as I lay hovering beneath the waves as a child unborn. Out of breath, I emerge into a new world as an innocent, seeing things for the first time. In all honesty, it was as if I had shed no less than twenty years. Now feeling both younger and energized, I set out to find my way into this nearly forgotten world that, with each passing moment, seemed more like where I belonged. The day was young, the water fresh, exhilarating. Time seemed to slip away as old instincts, too long dormant, awaken me to a familiar world, as if finally coming back to consciousness from a bad dream. I dove again, this time to hunt.

            Clearing all of the bubbles of air from my suit and spear gun, I fall silently behind a large rock, skirting the bottom of it as I slowly make my way to see around the other side. A Garibaldi floated up slightly toward me, checking me out like a fearless and large guardian goldfish. He drifted slightly off, disinterested as I made my way comfortably back to the surface for a breath of air. The rock had revealed that there were no game fish here and I kicked on, fins beneath the surface so as to make no splash, a sound that would spook the species I was hunting and send them scurrying away.

            I headed west out of the cove and into deeper water, the ocean cooperating by offering good visibility. Another rock came into view, kelp behind it and in about twenty-five feet of water. Just beyond that the ocean dropped off another twenty feet or so. I could see a fair sized Sheephead hovering around the base and I dove down without a sound, not moving my legs until I was certain that my fins were completely submerged. The fish, unaware of my presence as I approached, remained calm, fairly still. It was an easy shot, and I was angled in such a way that I could shoot him without hitting the rock and damaging my spear shaft. Still descending, my spear tip now only a foot or so away, I suddenly see a Calico. This weary predator sees me and, perhaps because I am only falling but not otherwise moving, remains still and curious about what I am and studies me. He fans his tail gently and begins to move away. My spear gun was pointed away from him. Once I moved it so it was aimed in his direction the calico, a preferred target over the sheephead, decides to bolt. I squeezed the trigger and miss, then realizing that my spear shaft had come untied and was now sailing into some much deeper water. I watched the rubber, buoyant end of the shooting line rise up slightly from under a nearly flat rock. Then I surfaced, completely out of breath.

            From the top of the water I could still see the black piece of rubber at the end of my

shooting line. It dangled like a rubber lure in the current. It was very far down and I had never dove that deep. As it was I was huffing and puffing, having just dove down about twenty-five feet or so and stayed down longer than usual. Somehow I had to get the spear shaft that rested at least fifteen feet deeper than I had just been. Initially I convinced myself that it was likely lost, that at best, I might ask Joe or Rich to retrieve it later while scuba diving. I looked at the shore and marked my spot, ready to head back into the cove and get out of the water, conceding to defeat. After a moment, once my breathing slowed, I reconsidered and decided to concentrate on slowing my heart rate down and, taking a few very deep breaths, I made an attempt at retrieving it and managed to get hold of the end of the shooting line, the piece of rubber, then grabbing further up the line and pulling at the spear shaft. It was lodged into a thick tangle of kelp and wouldn’t give. I tugged at it until my lungs were on fire before racing to the surface and gulping in several breaths of air. After a couple of minutes I try again, this time determined. The line was now free and floated about twenty feet down. I grabbed hold of it and pulled myself to the spear shaft as fast as I could, still utilizing as little movement as I could so as to conserve the oxygen in my system. Clearing my ears with my left hand I hold the string with my right for a moment before proceeding downward, getting to the bottom. Knowing I had never been this deep before, I begin to defeat myself psychologically. About forty feet down I make a conscious effort not to emphasize the depth, but measure the time I had been down, which wasn’t that long. It seemed to take forever but I finally reach the shaft and grab it. I tug at it hard and it moves slightly, the thick vegetation seeming to claim it, half digested. I put my feet on the rock that hosted this cluster of seaweed and tug hard, my lungs screaming as I burn up the little oxygen I had left. The shaft came loose at last and I rose up quickly, kicking hard, finally breaking the surface with a gasp. My heart rate was accelerated greatly, labored by the lack of air, but I had got it, I had retrieved the spear. Diving to at least forty feet and staying there well over half a minute while struggling was a personal milestone. Yet another boundary crossed I reattach the string and, not trusting the knot tied in the ocean with gloved hands I make my way back to camp slowly, enjoying the view along the way.

            Rich stood on deck holding a nice Halibut. Roughly twenty-eight inches long, it was fat as a toad and had great, healthy looking color. A great hunter, Rich is skilled both on top and beneath the waves to the point where I sometimes wonder if he has made a deal with Neptune himself. Nice fish, but it is already being fairly covered with bees. Later we would discover that this particular species of bee has an incredible and aggressive appetite for fish, swarming and annoying us as we try in vain to keep them off the filets at least long enough to cook it. A woman that came by to inspect the campgrounds later informed us that the bee was a seasonal species that usually made its appearance about the same time as the marlin. They were a true annoyance. We move far away to Cabrillo B where we keep our food mostly covered, cleaning fish deliberately away from where we spend most of our time. After resetting up camp we set out to find another place to dive, checking out spots that look as if they may be good for pelagic fish, monitoring the depths and visually inspecting the water for current, clarity and depth, paying especially close attention to kelp patties, a favorite haven for White Sea Bass, Yellowtail and Calico. Our intentions are thwarted as the ocean reveals its own agenda as the water grows choppy with swells that threaten to swamp the boat. We make our way back to camp slowly, Rich at the helm, easily navigating his way through an agitated sea.   

            The next morning we are up at dawn and, after allowing ourselves time for coffee, we suit up and make our way west, slowing occasionally to make mental notes of depth, clarity, currents and fish population, noting the structures and the similarities of the heavily populated

areas and the other conditions. Like scientists, we dissect the phenomenon related to better areas for diving and spearing the larger, more challenging species, none of us shooting at anything we would not eat or use for bait. One thing we knew already was that the fish population was down dramatically from what it once was and from what it should be. We share a love of the ocean and a respect for all within it, each of us allowing the smaller fish to grow and maintain a strong and diversified gene pool so as to do our part to ensure the survival of each species into the future. Eventually we find our way to a place called Arrow Point. Current ripping to the east, we tuck inside of it, close to shore and drop anchor.

            The water is crystal clear and full of both plant and marine life. Giant kelp shoots up in huge stocks, leaves dancing in the gentle roll of the tide inside the current. Already relaxed, it was like a second but healthy dose of some form of sedative that somehow served also as a stimulant and I relish the view as I begin to explore.

            I drift slowly through the kelp, kicking gently, relying more on the movement of the water to direct me than my own efforts, knowing that it will often carry me to where I want to end up anyway.

            It is enchanting, a wild liquid forest filled with creatures I have scarcely seen that dwell within a world I am no less than clumsy in-and in danger! The sea welcomes all equally, whether as victim and eventual food, or as predator. Survival is a direct result of personal choices I make within the realm of this massive and direct food chain. In this environment even the vegetation can kill someone, especially the stronger species such as boa kelp that has strong strands which are not easily broken with a flic of the leg, their enduring and engulfing wrap easily able to hold a person down as they scream into a silent world where a one may very well die within less than three inches of the surface. Death takes you, and without glamour. I would them become prey,

food, part of the endless cycle that only includes me because of my own particular circumstances that I myself arrange, something I had control of and lost to become fodder for the weak, food for the strong. Fish food. Eyes soon bulging, sad stories follow.

            I find myself not far from shore, an immediate twenty feet of water demonstrating the abundance of sea life. Here no less than eight Bat Ray lie on a bright sandy slope that leads neatly to the surface. A Turbot, small and unobtrusive lay nearby, inches from a ray. The two cohabitate within inches of one another in a silent harmony that flourishes from millions of years of evolution, each species knowing that it needs the other for universal balance. The sea sang a song before my eyes. At this point I was listening, and hoped I could become capable of hearing its melody. I had only to find the means that lie buried and dormant deep within myself. Peace came easily in the ocean, but understanding could come only from remembering, digging past the lull of sociological positioning and into the arena of importance. We are survivors living in a world with ever shifting rules born of greed and ego as we pursue with lunatic fervor a wealth that leaves no trail of importance while it selfishly consumes our lives. Time alone guarantees our demise, the interim our choice, a period of fluid movement where each of us are given only a single opportunity to demonstrate who we are, and what we alone have to offer as a contribution from our personal plight. Life rolls violently over life, perpetuating, correcting, replacing and evolving, pursuing its own intentions if only to ensure survival. Death is a harvest intended to feed the living. From within this liquid arena I find a new freedom, now a member of more than one society, a participant among those that actually thrive in a world that mankind has long forgotten as we wallow within a sea of denial. This place offers a flood of knowledge and I embrace it. Despite my efforts to relax and understand, I feel much like an illiterate schoolboy unable to read the language of this environment as I drift into this classroom filled with roaming

masters.

            Here is a Calico Bass, also known as a Kelp Bass. This one drifts off slowly, avoiding me with what seemed to be mixed emotions as it continues looking after me curiously. It looks to be borderline legal size and, for this reason I do not pursue it. I had only recently come to realize that it was easy to determine if a fish of this species was worth spearing. The young one’s inexperienced, are not yet evasive, their curiosity too much for them to overcome as they invariably move only a few feet away and then stop to see what you are. This made them not only easy targets to the point of being a boring hunt, but told me that they had not yet had enough time in their life to procreate, that their contribution to the earth’s cycle was not yet complete. It is not sport to shoot one this size, legal or not, the act as lackluster as fishing in a barrel. It is a basic and unspoken policy not to shoot the calico that did not try to avoid you. With admiration of this creature I rise to the top, still feeling no urgent need to do so, jealous of this fish that had no need to leave this environment to sustain its own simple but important existence. On the surface I begin to further dial in my own psyche into this environment, making direct links to every individual fish. I imagine the one fish I might unnecessarily spear as being the one remaining creature that somehow survives when all of the other members of his species have become extinct. I dive once more, this time plunging deeper, feeling more a part of the ecosystem as if it were all spelled out more clearly now, a predator with the best interest of life that takes only that which is needed to survive, keeping the delicate system of checks and balances intact. To my right is a fair sized Calico, a large rock behind it. I drift toward this fish trying to find an angle to take a shot without having to risk ruining my spear by firing it into the rock. A spear shaft can actually ricochet off a rock and stab the shooter. At the very least it can blunt the tip, or even break it off. You just don’t shoot at rocks, period. It is all around bad news. When shooting in and around rocky regions, shots are more likely to be at very close range. For this reason, I generally only run one band of a two-banded gun I use, scrutinizing torque and utilizing only what is necessary.

            This fish, though unusually bold for its size, sits only observing me. It is as if it knows that it is safe because of the rocks that surround it. As I approach it slowly makes its way off behind that rock and into an even more rock filled region where it sits almost thumbing its nose at me. Amused, I find this fish to be clever and abandon it. Moving east, I see a fair sized male Sheephead and I stalk it, this one intended as bait for our rod and reel fishing. I spear it easily and turn around to find that same Calico once again looking at me. I rise to the surface already knowing that this Calico would make an excellent great, great grandfather. A credit to its species, this fish was cunning enough to contribute to the survival of the Calico. I could sweep around him and shoot from the other side, the depths offering a clear shot from the opposite direction, but given his intelligence, he would have been spooked and left. Instead, I leave him alone and move on, content to find another target.

            For no particular reason at all I turn west. Hugging shore in maybe fifteen feet of water I traverse through plant life and rock alike with no specific destination. I follow only a feeling that guides me, the voice I had heard earlier now more clear, much more inviting. I follow a natural kind of GPS reading that I cannot see but very strongly feel. I continue on.

            A leopard shark appeared just beneath me, a full five feet in length. On more than one occasion I have dove with this species. Once I had stumbled across a school of maybe twenty of them, all about three to four feet long. I remember thinking with some sadness that this school may once have been fifty or a hundred, perhaps a thousand. I dove amongst them as a friend that day, not intending to shoot a single one. At the top of their food chain, the sharks were unafraid and came close to me to investigate before one by one, each swam casually off and went about their business. A beautiful creature, the leopard sharks are docile toward mankind and are a marvel to behold. I watch this large fish for as long it is in my sight, once again feeling as if it were the first time I had ever seen one. As he moved through the clarity and into the eventual haze I found it uncomfortably easy to imagine that this was the last leopard shark and I had just witnessed its final appearance before it disappeared into extinction. I stay still in the water for a moment before I think of the Great White shark, how it is not only possible but likely that one or more of them could make an appearance out in these wide open waters. Long ago I confronted that idea, resolving in the fact that if it happened, it happened. In fact, I consistently feel that if I am to be taken out of this world inevitably anyway, then there sure as hell were worse ways to go than to be confronted and perhaps defeated by such a worthy adversary. Bring it on, I remind myself with each and every dive. Bring it on. If I am ever to see one and it does not attack, it will be the thrill of a lifetime. If it does attack and I am killed, then it was meant to be. If I see it and it chooses to attack me, I will do all I can to defend myself against it. If a White Shark circles me aggressively and continues to investigate me then I will attempt to get out of the water. But to let the reality and potential of their presence haunt me to the point of staying out of the water permanently is to have already been eaten by one, and without a fight. It is not in my character to respond that way and for this reason I simply have no concern for it at all. If this fear were to bother me that much then I could not truly dive anyway, as the thought of the great fish would prevent me from the state of mind needed to hunt freely in these waters and I would be too busy looking over my shoulder to see what may lie ahead of me. Bring it on.

            Up ahead lies a large area of dense kelp. Teeming with fish, I find this to be where I should go. It not only looks like a potentially good area, fitting all of the well-known and descriptive qualities, but it feels right. I recheck my suit to make sure there are absolutely no air pockets, once again tipping my spear gun upside down to be sure there are no bubbles in the handle, either. I make a deliberate and conscious effort to relax still more. In sports, when an athlete is dialed into his own abilities to the point where he cannot be stopped it is referred to as “the zone.” Some philosophies may refer to this phenomenon as Zen. Whatever label you may choose to put on it, I would simply say that it all felt right, that something was going to happen, I have only to follow this feeling and stay in this state of mind. I had to continue in the direction I was going. The ocean is calling me, and I am listening.

            I enter the kelp forest as an eagle soaring in silence atop the canopy, vision honed. Dozens of fish swim beneath me, a variety of species. There are no Yellowtail and I see none of the cherished White Sea Bass. It doesn’t matter. I am no longer hunting. I am simply there, a natural being that belongs in this environment as much as any of the other creatures. The hunt is no longer important, as I have shed my land-based tendency toward selfishness. I move on.

            Three or four stalks of kelp lie just ahead of me. Beyond these, a six or seven pound Calico. He has not seen, heard or felt my presence. With all the ability I can muster, I dive down, keeping the kelp between myself, and this beautiful creature. I sink down below the fronds, using them for cover, knowing already how this will turn out. I am in the zone and on this day, at this moment, I am the grim reaper to this magnificent fish.

            I move forward, barely kicking with the swell in my favor as I position the tip of the spear gun to face the fish. I have lost sight of him as the kelp I am using for cover also prevents me from seeing him. In my mind I have already taken this shot and the fish is as good as mine. My heart rate remains slow, an interesting part of this whole phenomenon as one might be inclined to have an accelerated heart beat due to the exhilaration that comes from the feeling of victory. I drift up over the amber leaves and squeeze the trigger. The arrow hit the old calico just below and behind it gill plate-a gut shot! Instantly, spear shaft run through him, the fish swims in tight circles around the kelp, wrapping the line around the medium height stalks repeatedly. I rise quickly and take a deep breath and submerge again fearing he would come off the shaft, the soft flesh of his belly easily torn. It is one thing to lose a fish. It is another, much worse thing to lose a fish after having killed it anyway. Yes, the ocean will absorb this fish into itself, but it amounts to an imbalance within the fragile society of the cove without necessity.

            I climb down the shooting line to the spear shaft, which was now in fairly deep water. The depth is irrelevant and I grab hold of the shaft, yanking the kelp strands and breaking them with my other hand. Putting my hand inside his gill plate, I thank him silently for allowing me the privilege to survive another day because of consuming his great and wild spirit. I surface and make my way to the boat, placing the Calico in it immediately. He is the last fish I spear that day, the only one I need.  

            Pending legislation that will prevent individual sport fishing in and around the waters of Catalina Island to all but commercial fishing vessels that ruthlessly rape the sea, The Last August of freedom fades into the opaque mists that enshroud the island and forever cloud the future of exploration, and the dreams of mankind.

 

Thank you for reading this, and I hope it took you away for a while.

For more free reading and extensive examples of writing by Brian S. Goodson, visit www.caucuspress.com 

Lakutawakon

(peace)