The First Crossing

As many of you know, my husband Mark is currently working on finishing his Bachelor's degree in Elementary Education at Lesley University. He's taking a writing class this semester and his assignment for the first paper was to write a descriptive piece. He chose to write about our Catalina channel crossing, and was kind enough to let me share it with you all here. Enjoy!

The First Crossing
by Mark Howley

The scene was reminiscent of one from the many World War II films I had watched on rainy Sunday afternoons, when I was young. A powerful searchlight trained, just above the waterline, on a narrow strip of lonely pebble beach; illuminating not bunkers and machine gun nests, but washed-out glimpses of the bigger rocks, boulders and rough-hewn cliffs beyond. In this instance the task force of redoubtable commandos had been replaced by an intrepid lone swimmer, who would be facing the foe with a swimsuit and a pair of goggles, not body armor and hand grenades. Backed up by a small fishing boat’s worth of supplies and nervous anticipation. And this time the hostile territory, into which the daring raid would be launched, would be the sea and not the land. Of course, no one’s life was really in danger, (we hoped), but I was no less proud of her for that. Even though the future of world peace did not depend on the outcome, the months of personal sacrifice and preparation meant that the peace and harmony of our own little world did.

The engine quieted to a low, gurgling grumble. Like an old curmudgeon, it complained in muttered, submerged tones as it fought against the inexorable movement of the tide to hold position in the surfzone just out from the shoreline. The water frothed and churned, black like a rich Indian ink spilled over and staining the entire world, a shade-perfect match for the coal dark sky. The firmament lacked any discernable features. If any clouds or stars hung in the sky, they had disappeared, blotted out by a sharp, incandescent glare, surrounded by the halo of extra darkness created by the oversized spotlight.

This broad glow caught the thick threads of diesel smoke, its pervasive stink rising in a sluggish fog. But it never rose far or fast enough to save us from another lungful that inhabited the inside of the nose long after it had added its weight to the bucket of nausea sitting under the ribs. Just as if the same bucket were stood on the open deck, with each convulsive surge or swell, it threatens to spill or up-tip altogether.

Looking out into the enveloping murk, I spied shimmering metallic streaks dancing across the water’s surface. It took me a moment to distinguish these as distinct from the bright reflections in the ripples and see that they were flying fish that jumped and skipped like the fireflies would overland. Even though it was the first day of autumn this was Southern California, and it would be a few more weeks before the evening’s chill would help hurry people indoors.

It quickly became apparent why the fish were dancing, as a rubber-black blur cut through the foam, briefly breaking the surface and then arcing over and slipping away again just as swiftly. Imagine a big dog; a big dog in a wetsuit. A big, mean dog with no legs. There was little comical about the sea lion’s prodigious bulk, which belied its speed and graceful agility in the water as it chased down the hapless fish. As I witnessed this predator/prey interaction, I could not help but ask myself: “What chases sea lions?”

Our swimmer, the reason we were here at two minutes before midnight, was about to enter the very same water and swim throughout the night and into midmorning. She had seen the aquatic activity too, and was asking that very same question. In that crucial moment, the many months of disciplined, early morning training and building anticipation proved ironically inconsequential as the real challenge suddenly became: would she take that one decisive step off the boat and into the water, or wouldn’t she?

The only time that any of us doubted that she might not be able to do this was then. The fear of not starting crowded out the familiar and long-held fear of not finishing. Her long hesitation­­— standing on the swim step at the back of the boat, peering into the darkness, fear writ large across her features— clearly indicated that she shared our misgivings.

Her whoop, only half full of bravado, was swiftly muted by the splash, significant beyond its meager volume. The plunge into the cool water strewn with clinging seaweed immediately submerged any lingering uncertainty with the body’s reflexive need to surface, breath, and move. As our first marathon swim began properly, the boat would guide me, and from a kayak, I would guide the swimmer. Pushed and jostled by the waves and wake, steadily sweeping and scooping with the long paddle I moved near to keep her between the boat and me, nestled and corralled in equal measure.

After a few strokes, her fear gave way to preparation and awe at the immediacy of the enormous task ahead. That in turn was soon replaced by an athlete’s professionalism as she settled into the strong, steady, rhythmic stroke of a practiced swimmer. That beautiful, wonderful swimmer. When I had met her the summer before, she seemed so normal and well balanced and now here she was, having jumped off a perfectly good boat at midnight into the dark, chilly waters surrounding Santa Catalina Island with the aim of swimming more than twenty miles back to mainland USA! A distant smudge of warm, hazy orange marked our goal, and somewhere in that direction the sun would come up. But for now, it was still night; the night that my wife, Elaine, would swim across the Catalina Channel.