He sensed it coming, long before he saw it. The sea went as still as a mill pond and the ubiquitous cawing of seagulls ceased abruptly. He looked up at the cloudless blue sky, which was eerily deserted. It was as though he’d stepped into a photograph — there wasn’t a trace of movement anywhere. And then came a rumble. Not in the air, but through the sea, as the sound waves travelled four times faster in the water than their airborne counterparts. It started as a low resonance in his solar plexus, increasing in intensity, until the surfboard beneath him began to vibrate.
The previously calm surface became choppy, forming small peaks, which buffeted him from side to side as they rose and fell. He started to paddle towards the horizon, anxious to meet his opponent on his own terms. His hands powered through the surf, feeling the tension on his palms as he pulled back, driving the board forward.
He was into a steady rhythm and making good speed when, suddenly, the water resistance increased and it felt like he was pushing through treacle. The force of the current was so strong that his biceps burnt after just a couple of strokes and he decided to conserve his energy for the main event. But, instead of slowing down, he seemed to be going faster. He looked behind him to see the coastline receding in the distance — the drawback.
Bring it on! His fear had morphed into anxiety driven by a determination to succeed. He recognised the feeling from the way he felt before every major competition — the fear of failure. Anybody who said they didn’t get nervous were either supremely confident (and were often the ones the condolences were for) or they were liars.
He gripped the sides of his board firmly and raised himself to his knees to get a better view. It was almost imperceptible at first; but, as he stared, he could just make out a thin white line on the horizon. And then he heard it. If he hadn’t known any better he would have mistaken it for the boom of distant thunder. The blue space above the sea narrowed as the wave started to rear up in the distance. The reverberations increased, enveloping him in a wall of sound as it echoed off the beach.
His momentum had picked up; he must have been doing at least thirty knots, equivalent to the speeds he’d reach surfing in a big wave competition. The sea continued to rise in front of him and he could now clearly distinguish the frothing, destructive water as it barrelled towards him at over five hundred miles per hour. He felt his heart beat rapidly against his ribcage as adrenalin coursed through his veins. He tried to calm himself by taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly; it seemed to work. His mind focussed on what he had to do. Timing he reminded himself. Too soon and he may not be able to wait long enough for the turbulent water to pass overhead; too late, and he would be caught up in it. He tried to anticipate how long it would take to reach him, but it was travelling at such a pace it was impossible to judge.
The sound now was almost deafening. The skyline was totally obliterated by the towering wall of water that stretched the full length of the horizon. At the last moment he decided on the lesser of the two evils. He would dive early — at least he would have a chance then. He knew his lungs were in peak condition; he had never smoked in his life — apart from the odd obligatory spliff, of course. He felt the spray off the advancing wave on his face and decided to go for it. He inhaled, held his breath and then put all of his weight on the front of the board, which dutifully sank below the surface. He instantly shifted his weight to his right leg to push the back of the board down before going under himself.
The whole procedure had taken less than two seconds to complete but, at the speed the wave was travelling, it was still probably a split second too late. As he sank towards the seabed, he was hit by the force of the surge which tumbled him over and over like a rag doll. He managed to hold onto his board and kicked out, hoping to release himself from its grip. He was so disoriented he didn’t know if he was surfacing or going deeper.
The spinning stopped abruptly as the front of the board struck something solid; only his physical fitness prevented him from being catapulted forward, his biceps taking the brunt of the jolt. He peered into the murky water to see what had happened, but visibility was down to zero. He dragged himself along the length of the board and felt for the tip. It was buried in the silt of the seabed. He gripped the sides and pulled, but it didn’t budge — the force of the impact had driven it deep. He tried to get a purchase on the silky floor with his legs, but it was too slippery. Should he leave it and risk surfacing without it? No — he would be a sitting duck. His board wasn’t just a floatation device; it was his ticket to ride.
He tried again, conscious he was using up precious seconds of air. His bare feet slid along the bottom as he heaved to dislodge it. His left foot brushed against something hard. He adjusted his position, his toes searching out the object and felt it again — a smooth rock. Whether the tsunami had deposited it there or it was a natural part of the underwater topography, he didn’t care. He tested his weight against it — it was stable. With both heals dug into the sand and the balls of his feet leveraging off the boulder, he tugged with all his might.
He felt the board give slightly and strained harder. Suddenly, he was back-peddling. It was so unexpected that his brain switched to self-preservation mode, automatically releasing his grip on the board, freeing up his hands to break his fall. But, instead of crashing to the ground, his buoyancy forced him towards the surface. He made a mental note to have a word with his brain, if he survived, that that instinctive reaction wasn’t necessary in water.
He twisted his body around and swam back to retrieve his board, feeling along the bottom to where he thought it should be. All his exertions were taking its toll on his oxygen reserves. His muscles ached and he had a burning sensation in his chest. If he didn’t head for the surface soon he would definitely run out of air. His hands searched the bed whilst his legs kicked to keep him down — nothing. Then he felt the rock. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the location; the board couldn’t be more than two feet away from it. He did a quick sweep of the area, but drew a blank. Perhaps it was a different rock?
It didn’t matter. His time was up. His lungs were telling him that he needed to take a breath. He had to fight against the reflex; the pain in his chest was almost unbearable. He did a quick mental calculation. If the depth of the sea was a hundred feet before the wave arrived and the height of the wave was a hundred feet, that meant he had to swim up two hundred feet before he broke the surface. He wasn’t worried about the bends, as that didn’t affect free divers; it was the nitrogen absorption from the tanks that caused the problems for scuba divers. What he was worried about was how long it would take him — a minute and a half, maybe two minutes. On second thoughts — he didn’t have time to worry. Whatever fate awaited him up there without his surf board was put to the back of his mind.
He pushed off the seabed with as much force as his legs could muster, keeping his arms by his side to make himself more streamline. He counted the seconds off to take his mind away from wanting to gulp in a lungful of sea water. Ten seconds… he had read somewhere that the frog kick was the most efficient way to propel yourself under water — more forward thrust with less effort. He wasn’t in a position to argue and gave it a go.
Thirty seconds… he looked up to see if he could see the surface, but the visibility was still as bad. He could feel the force of the wave carrying him along with it. Forty-five seconds… his lungs were screaming for him to take a breath and the pain was excruciating. He prayed he’d make it before he blacked out. One minute… abandoning the streamline approach, he used his arms to push the water past him, hoping it would increase his speed, more through desperation than any kind of logic. One minute twenty seconds… it seemed to be getting lighter — either daylight was filtering through or he was suffering from the effects of hypoxia. He remembered something about how people hallucinate when their brains get starved of oxygen.