This should probably be categorized as just too reverential to be discussed, but we have an obligation at The Skinny Island Post to report what happens within our admittedly narrow (skinny) field of vision,  so here goes.

There’s an update of the ocean temperature in the paper every morning, but you don’t need it to know when it’s reached 70 degrees.  That seems to be the threshold at which activity in the water really starts to take off every spring, and you can see it when it happens, like a switch being thrown.  There’s been signs we were there the last few days, but on the walk this morning it was clear we had crossed over.   Lots of activity, both inshore and way out was evident, splashes of fish, diving birds, and several dolphin feeding very close to shore.  No wind, clear sky, tide falling, a modest little swell just starting to feather on the outer bar, I felt anticipation build as the decision was made to eschew the wet suit and paddle out bareback for the first time this year.  All work tabled.

The Old Nine-footer

A hardy breakfast, and then I took the old nine-footer down from the rack out back and waxed the deck, then lugged it across the street to the beach.  Except for a couple of fishermen a half-mile north, it was deserted as far as I could see, north and south, and of course, nobody in the water.  That’s how I like it, unless my son comes out with me, and I am aware of the risks.  A few years ago, not long after I got this board, I was out one evening after work, by myself, and into some two-foot chop, mostly just for the exercise.  I dug the nose on a junky little wave, went down, and the board sprang right back at me, the tail catching me in the forehead just above the right eye.  I saw stars and felt I was blacking out under water, but a deeper reasoning thought that not such a good idea, so I popped up to breathe and then felt the blood.  A good three-inch gash had been opened and it was bleeding profusely.  I put my hand there to stop the bleeding and looked into the beach with my one good eye.  There stood my neighbor Jack.  I don’t know how long he’d been there, but he didn’t appear the least concerned.  I waved and tried to shout I was in some trouble.  He just waved back, and turned to head back up the dune to his house.  I managed a decent shriek, and he turned back.  This time I guess he saw the blood, because he waded in and helped me out.  I was woozy and still bleeding pretty good. We went up to the road and he flagged down the EVAC guys, who just happened to be returning from a run up north.  They took a look at me on Jack’s deck and said they’d take me in if I wanted, that the cut definitely needed stitches.  About then Meemaw shows up from work and, after a few shaky moments, loads me in the truck and we go into the hospital for stitches.  I’ve got a nice crescent-shaped scar just above that eye as a remembrance.  Hey, stuff happens.  If I waited for somebody to go out there with me, I’d never go.  Other times I’ve broken my leash in heavy water and had to swim in.  That’s a riot, too.  Some time I’ll tell about my son’s experience in one of last year’s hurricanes when his leash broke.  Not fun.

Anyway, it’s always with a fresh respect for conditions, my own limitations, and the vagaries of fate, that I paddle out.  This morning promised to be quite benign.  The waves were small, breaking 2-3 feet only, and infrequently out on the bar, but the water was absolutely glassy, not a drop out-of-place, and a beautiful, clear, light olive color.  On the way out I saw a big dolphin way inside to my left, and two more a hundred yards out.  I sat and waited for a decent wave, turning to look back to shore to line up with the dune path. Most of the little hacienda was obscured by palmettos on the dune, but I could see the studio shutters and door through a cut, my view from the other side.  I caught a small one that petered out after a few seconds, and just as I got back out to the line-up and sat up a big dolphin surfaced right next to me, close enough the reach out and touch if I hadn’t been so startled, blew spray on me and rolled back under.  He was a deep gray, as long as the board, and had a ragged-tipped dorsal fin with strands of seaweed caught in it.  He languidly surfaced ten feet away, then disappeared, only to resurface moments later a little inside and absolutely tearing into something.  Awesome to watch.  I caught a couple more waves, but mostly just sat waiting over the next twenty minutes, waiting and watching. Total immersion. Three more dolphin headed in towards me from the north, swimming horizontal to shore, on the same line I was sitting.  It was thrilling and a little daunting to see those three dorsals headed straight for me, even knowing what they were.  About fifty feet away they turned slightly out to sea and just rolled near the surface there, gradually drifting in closer until they were only fifteen or twenty feet away.  They just hung there.  I couldn’t see if they were watching me, but they certainly knew I was there.  Old ragged dorsal then surfaced again twenty feet from me on the other side, spewed, rolled under, then swam right under the board and surfaced in the face of a small breaking wave.  I instinctively pulled my feet up, but I could feel the swirl of his passing.  Oh, man!  The moment was not lost on me.  I felt very small and very large at the same time, something almost transcendent. They all stayed close for another five minutes or so, just rolling enough to breathe, and then the wind started picking up from the east, a little fine chop developed, the whole character of the water and air changed, and they were gone.  I stayed out for another two waves, attempting to adhere to my rule of not going in without one good last ride, and I got it, but it was weak, and I was getting cold, so I headed in, pretty much grinning from ear to ear.

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