Red Tide at Night

I'm not a particularly strong swimmer, as I think I've said, nor am I a particularly brave individual. The term "fraidy-cat may apply, though I'd like to think that I still manage to do the things I want (and I'd like to think a lot of things).

Last night, I wanted to get my swim in at the cove. It was overcast, and the sun had already set, though there was still light when I entered the water. Two snorklers were paddling about lazily about 5 yards from shore, but there were no other swimmers. The tide was out enough that there was plenty of beach exposed, even in the tiny inlet of the cove. I waded in, took a moment to put my goggles on and adjust to the chill, then plunged in, smelling the slightly sulfur stink of red tide algae and feeling the water close over me, silent and uncaring.

The first minute is usually fairly calm for me, but the black water under darkening skies already had me spooked. By the time I'd gone 20 yards, I'd drifted towards the cliff and into a tangle of kelp. I couldn't see anything until it was right in front of me... just my hands plunging into the green surface and pulling back. A strange affect of the water at night: when I pulled my hands down and back, the currents of water around them bacame darker, black masses pooling beneath me that would startle me every so often until I realized what they were.

In truth, I'd been trying to talk myself out of the swim all evening. Once you get wet though, it's hard to turn back without feeling like a wimp. Still, it's easy to forget yourself, floating in water with no visability; ALL that space underneath you, and not knowing what's down there... it's creepy. Like I said, I'm not particulary brave, so at this point, I had to tread water for a few second and calm myself: The ocean is vast. You are powerless in it. Panic will do nothing. You can swim on, or not. The ocean does not care. Alertness to danger will do nothing to stave it off. Surrender to it and you will be free to do what you want. You have no control here. And with that, I searched ahead for the buoy, my goggles fogged, hair dripping in my face, the light fading, and headed towards its blurry image.

Calm until my hand hits seaweed. PANIC. Settle down. Calm until I am face to face with a jellyfish. Panic. Each mass of kelp I pass, reaching up out of the darkness below, each unfamiliar sound, or play of light on my goggles has me practically out of my mind. By the time I reach the buoy (and am startled by it appearing on the wrong side of me, disoriented as I've become), I'm whipped up into a real frenzy. Wanting to stay with my head above water, but not wanting to be out there when the light leaves entirely, I turn and put my head under to go back. My hands break the surface and are now covered in a soft blue green glow. PANIC AGAIN! Wait, red tide, remember. This is normal. With each stroke the microscopic dynaflagellites emit their strange light. The bubbles around me pulse with bioluminecence. I am a swift arrow of glowing lightning. I am not to be trifled with. I am wondering if the glow attracts preditors, and there we are again, thinging about all the creepy crawlies of the sea.

The swim back is always scarier, tired as I am by then. I remember my friends telling me about how the fish leave glowing trails in the water. I start thinking about what I'll do if I see a huge glowing streak headed my way. Wait, I know exactly what I'll do. I'll be eaten. Better yet, I'll get my legs bitten off and I'll sink helplessly to the bottom where I'll drown, slowly and painfully, praying for whatever to come back and finish me off.

Guess who is panicky again. It occurs to me, as I pick up the pace, that the only real danger out here is hyperventalating. Wouldn't it be stupid if I drowned because I was afraid of drowning? Like all the other times-- though those were in daylight and this time, save for the moon and my now brightly glowing hands, the darkness is complete-- I remain calm enough, and finish the swim.

I feel better, not proud, because it's not that big an accomplishment, but better. I'm dizzy. I'm wet. I grab my stuff and trudge back to the shower shaking off . I'm still creeped out. Not at night again. Not alone anyway.