It is often said that the sea is a harsh mistress. While that may be true for Captains Ahab, Nemo, Sparrow, Kangaroo and Crunch, my relationship with the briny wench has never reached the level of sexual congress. For me, the sea is more of an annoying acquaintance whom I see on a semi-regular basis and thinks it is the epitome of human interaction to grab me by the neck and apply a noogy. That is until the son of a bitch tried to kill me.

I first met the sea as a child of about seven or eight on a family road trip. It was a somewhat casual encounter either at Padre Island in Texas or one of the two coasts in Florida. Building mound shaped sand castles, digging deep holes, and an amateurish effort at body surfing were the extent of my activities. but if you were to meet my father, he would be apt to regale you with one additional story of awkwardness and embarrassment. Sitting on the shore, I was furiously clawing at the sand with my back turned to the surf, so I was unaware of the increased intensity of the waves other than the fact that the water was now occasionally filling the hole I dug. Dad screamed at me over the roar of the surf, the whoosh of the wind, and the deafness of my ears that I should not have my back to the ocean. Of course he always told me I shouldn’t play cards with my back to the door either, so I'm not sure I would have heeded his advice. As soon as I had decided to ignore him a wave, clearly in collusion with Dad, rudely smashed into my back lifting me off of my ass and back on to it a foot further up the beach. I may, or may not, have tumbled back to the sea like the water worn pebbles that I had been chasing earlier.  This elicited quite the guffaw from Dad.

A few years later, Dad once again had the opportunity to exclaim, “I told you so,” and he did not pass it up. We were in California and the family decided to take a boat to Catalina. I was offered Dramamine, but I was now at an age that I not only ignored parental advice, I actively defied it. Taking Dramamine was for the weak, and on the ride out to the island I was vindicated in choice. However, on the journey back my frenemy the sea was not so kind, or at least I guess this was the case because I spent most of my time lying on a bench clutching my abdomen in an attempt to keep its contents from making the reverse trip up my esophagus.

It would occur to casual observers of my past that the young protagonist would learn from these humiliating and abrasive experiences. Of course those same observers, if they had been paying attention, would know that the defiance that defines my persona and the cosmic irony that plagues my adventures would keep those lessons from concretizing in my addled mind.

I would revisit the sea without incident during family vacations as an adult. Our trip to Padre Island National Seashore to see baby sea turtles released at dawn and a little shallow diving at Key West to see a few tropical fish lulled me into complacency. Like the playground bully that would shove his way to front of the line for the slide or push you off the merry-go-round, my relationship with the ocean mellowed with age, but a class reunion was just around the corner, and even though I had achieved career success and was a father myself the sea was going to swirly that swagger right out of me.

Initially it was just a little hijinks. We were on a trip to Alaska and visiting Kenai Fjords National Park. In addition to several exhausting hikes at elevation and a chance to view the ever shrinking Exit Glacier before it vanishes entirely the park service offers boat tours in conjunction with vendors out of Seward. We had booked a half-day wildlife tour with Major Marine Tours, and I was assured by the website that their “half-day cruises travel through calmer waters than our full-day cruises, making them ideal for those who are concerned about seasickness.” 

After lunch Evan earned his Junior Ranger badge and was sworn in with the other children on the cruise that day. Even though there was near constant drizzle we remained on the deck eagerly pointing at and photographing sea otters, bald eagles, and sea lions. While on deck the captain announced that there had been whales spotted and they were going to head a little further out. We stopped just short of “speaking whale” like Dory in Finding Nemo, but our excitement was palpable.

My excitement lasted until the first roller coaster rise and fall of the ship’s bow.  Filled with fresh caught fish and rice pilaf, my stomach stayed on a steady level Newtonian course forward as the boat began undulating in accordance with the waves. Colette consulted with the crew about my predicament, and they advised that being near the back of the boat and chewing on ginger candies were the only remedy readily available. I can attest to the availability, but as for the remedy, it was not forthcoming. I pride myself on not throwing up. It is one of the few things that I have been consistently good at, and I was determined not to end my up-chuckless streak now. The embarrassment of hurling barely digested chunks of cod into the blowhole of a gray whale was too much. There are times in each child's life when they realized that their parents are not omnipotent beings on high but merely mortals prone to mistakes. I'm sure Evan had realized this long ago, but if not it became clear that day as I moaned alone along the aft railing. While Evan and Colette spotted flukes and spray, I was clenching my abdominal muscles and keeping a laser focus on the horizon in an attempt to fool myself into believing I was not at the mercy of the choppy waters that shook me upside down as to empty my pockets of lunch money and my stomach of lunch. Amazingly, I was granted a brief respite as the boat came to a rest for whale viewing, but the nausea resumed as soon as we began the return journey. Once back in the harbor, I began to feel better, but my intestinal memory would be indelible.

That memory served me well when we returned to the sea a few years later near Cape Cod National Seashore. Again, we went whale watching, but this time I doped up and had a much more pleasant trip. Of course this wasn’t the only lesson that I had learned as a child and forgotten as an adult. Perhaps not so much forgotten, but assumed that it no longer applied to me. I was an adult now. I had been adulting several years. I could no longer be bullied. I had determined that I could no longer be shoved into a locker, I was much too heavy to effectively wedgie, and I had my own car so I could not be abandoned in the middle of nowhere. The ocean could no longer push me around like a 98-pound weakling getting sand kicked in my face, or in this case having my face thrown into the sand. When I was a kid, inevitably at the end of whatever comic book I was reading there was either an ad for Sea Monkeys or an offer from Charles Atlas to give me a “broad chest and shoulders.” According to Chuck if I want to be “a real MAN after all,” I needed to punch whatever problem presented itself squarely in the jaw.

Colette expressed her concern about going out “too far,” but I dismissed these warnings as the rantings of a worrywart. She is the same person who fretted unnecessarily about bears in Denali National Park, flash floods in Zion National Park, and sharks in Amity. She had never literally cried wolf, but given the opportunity, I sure she would

“Dan don’t go out too far.”

Holding my hand to my ear, I would mouth, “I can’t hear you. I’m out too far.”

Each time I would ride the waves back in, I would assure her that I could always touch the sea floor. “I’m not just worried about you. You have to watch out for Evan.” She was right of course, but I was relatively confident in my abilities and Evan has been on the swim team since he was five, and not nearly as stupid as I am. So, once again, if the world is indeed a stage, then it was set to deliver a cosmic wallop across my back side. As you may have guessed, I went too far.

It is a curious feature of the shore that while you may think that it gently tapers on a steady decline, there are on occasion drop offs which leave one suddenly bobbing in the brine with no reference of depth and only brief glimpses of your wife wagging her finger at you from what has become impossibly distant damp land. At first I was not terribly concerned. A couple of strong pulls and kicks of a crawl and I would once again be in tippy-toe contact with terra somewhat firma. What I did not take into account was the riptide which I just learned from my research is a common misnomer for rip current, or as it will be known henceforth Neptune’s Nut Punch. 

I am sure there is a technique of swimming in the ocean, but I was left to improvise considering I could not Google it from my present position. I attempted timing my strokes with each wave to take advantage of the tidal energy to propel me to my awaiting beach towel, I was confident in my ability to overcome the present difficulties. However, each time I rested, Neptune would nab me by the nads, the center of my manliness, and drag me back out and a little further down the coast. The sea was holding me down. Knees on my arms, he was dangling a loogy inches from my face sucking it back for a brief reprieve, but the ultimate besliming was inevitable. To my right I saw a jagged jetty that would eventually arrest my progress, but I was concerned that it presented a rather violent and bloody end to my escapade. After several attempts, I started to get tired. I was able to tread water, but I was becoming convinced that getting out of this situation was beyond my capabilities. A surfer in the vicinity noticed my struggle and asked if I need help. My natural inclination is to refuse assistance that is proffered, but I distinctly remember answering in the affirmative. At about this time the lifeguard showed up.

Unbeknownst to me, Colette had been frantically screaming from the beach. Her excessive concern for danger was what saved me from definite injury and possible death. I am grateful that my grasp on Charles Atlas masculinity had weakened enough to accept rescue when offered. I grabbed the float that was offered, and which was strapped around the lifeguard's chest in a Hasselhoffian fashion. While he swam back, I merely allowed my body to be buffeted by the waves. Eventually we made it to where I could stand, and I stumbled up the beach and collapsed from exhaustion. The lifeguard, who I now realized was an extremely muscular and tattooed young man, asked if I was okay. By now I had recovered enough of my breath and dignity to nod yes. My ridiculously pale and flabby weakness could be compensated for with a little ragged breath swagger.