The Rip

It was a gloriously bright Tuesday in September when he crested the ridge and got a glimpse of the ocean stretched out to the horizon. He'd never approached his secret cove from the mountain before and the view was breath-taking. It was as if a whole different world lay hidden behind a bend in the road. He eased his vehicle to a stop and rolled down the driver’s window to take in the magnificence of the scene.

"This is what it must feel like to be an eagle," he whispered to himself, as his eyes took in the islands in the distance, dwarfed by the vast undulating water. White lines of surf, tiny from this vantage point, broke on a sliver of golden shore.

He looked down at his tattered wool jumper and fingered his jeans which were ripped from age, rather than fashion. A smile spread across his face as he realised he was the luckiest man alive. Whatever money he had jangled in his pocket, and when the van ran out of petrol, he’d call that place home. He wasn’t ashamed to say, he’d eaten from more than one dumpster, but at moments like this, he wouldn't trade lives with any billionaire you may care to mention. 

He slid the camper into first gear, and steadily descended, past boulders and waterfalls. He inched down the mountain until the road levelled out, and his destination neared.

Once the distraction of Gods personal view was removed, his foot lay harder on the accelerator. He was eager to be one with that vast body of water. The cove was known only to few, and the first time he had stumbled upon it, it had been an accident. The waves were pristine, and looked lonely. He felt they had been waiting an eon for him to come and carve them up with the fins of his surfboard.

With the thought of what was waiting for him looming large in his mind, each second seemed an hour, every foot a mile. At last, he turned into the unmarked Bohereen which ended before he’d reached his destination. He unloaded his board and wet-suit, shouldered a backpack, and trekked the last mile across the fields. As he marched, he thought about the word Bohereen which meant little road. It had such a musical sound, perhaps Irish was the language of happiness. Once he'd asked an old man in a pub, what made a Bohereen a Bohereen? The old fella wiped a Guinness moustache from his top lip and said, "A Boher is a road where two cows can pass. A Bohereene is where there’s only room for one." Such a simple, but beautiful, explanation sums up Ireland nicely.

At last, he stood looking out over his promised land. He salivated over the huge glassy waves, forced to die a virgin death upon the unfeeling shore, without ever knowing the caress of a surfer’s fin. Such an ending is a travesty for waves as perfect as these. Zipping himself into his wetsuit, he had his first twinge of doubt. From the shore, the waves looked substantial. but perfect. The substantial part would be magnified when he got in the grip of them. The question in his mind was not, if he could ride them, but could he get past them.

He strapped the board's leash to his leg and sprinted, undaunted, into the chilly Atlantic swell. His board skimming the surface of the foaming white water with ease, powerful strokes drove him further into oncoming waves. Some waves broke before he reached them and he had to power through the boiling froth, others paused just long enough to let him crest the lip before he plunged down the valley they left behind. Muscles aching, he battled the massive swell. Stroke after stroke taking him into deeper water. Then the feel of the waves changed. The colour of the water darkened from foam flecked grey to dark brooding green.

The water was freezing and his battered wetsuit did little to keep him warm. His fingers were already numb, and his feet were turning blue. He sat up to take a rest, confident he was past the impact zone. He scanned the horizon for an approaching set, and the horizon was filled with promising shadows. Wave after wave marched toward him, but none broke. He wasn’t sure how long he bobbed in the water before it dawned on him that something was wrong. The massive waves should be breaking, but weren’t.

He turned, but the beach was gone. The only land in sight was the upper reaches of the hills he had so carefully navigated earlier. “Damn,” he said and turned his board toward shore. He had paddled right into a rip-current.

Despite his experience, panic made him do the ridiculous. He tried to paddle directly back toward shore. Each frantic stroke sapped him of vital strength. Where he gained a foot, he lost two. Every second, the flow of water carried him further from land. The ocean seemed to have discarded all the heat it gathered from the sun and was now as cold as the grave. Layers of protective rubber couldn't stop the fingers of icy water probing his skin, robbing him of his most precious resource - heat.

He battled the rip for what seemed like hours before the shakes began, torturing his already jaded muscles, but fear made him push through the agony. Slowly, the shakes dwindled, and the cold seemed more bearable, but he was so very tired. He continued to paddle, but his arms had gone to jelly. It wasn’t just tired, this was something more. He knew he was in trouble…big trouble. His body was shutting down. He’d heard about hypothermia but never thought it would happen to him. He dug deep and gave it one last try, but it was futile. He collapsed on the board, in utter exhaustion, letting his arms hang below the surface of the frigid water.

His could see his ragged breathing create tiny waves on the top of the water. He felt drugged, as if he were tripping. Piece by piece, his body was closing down. All the pain was gone, all the fear had vanished, and a state of complete calm descended on him. Euphoria engulfed him with warming hands and he felt start to take him. Heavier and heavier his eyes grew, until he could hold them open no longer. He was past caring when a wave tipped up his board and his body slipped into the ocean. Some ancient part of his brain sensed the danger and forced his eyes open one last time.

In the depths, shadows condensed, moulding themselves into gracefully swirling nymphs. They danced as if to welcome him to the kingdom of Neptune, a brother eventually come home. Without fear, or sadness, the surfer surrendered the last of his strength and accepted this final embrace.