Boys to Men

A week ago Friday I decided to start my mini-vacation a little early and raced off to the Eastside to catch a few waves before going home. It was warm, sunny, with only a slight breeze to ripple the surface…it was also high tide and very small. I was desperate and really needed to cool off, so I decided to join a small crowd of surfers at the Hook sharing the few waist high sets that managed to break a few yards from the cliffs. Between sets, the waves sometimes didn't even break, they just swished up the rock cliffs, soaking the foot trail. Despite the conditions there were a few fun waves, and the crowd was spread out and having a pretty good time making the best of it.

I had caught a couple of good set waves and worked my way down to second peak noting that another pretty good "old-timer" had asserted himself at first peak. Many of the faces, young and old were familiar. There were even a couple of surfers who had shared the session with Foondoggy and I a couple of weeks earlier. Familiar faces…but no names. I didn't know them except as neutral competitors for waves, and as fellow travelers on the surfer's path. Just a bunch of "kids"…

As I sat watching the smaller waves lapping the cliffs, I observed a 52 year-old father and his two young sons descending the stairs. He and his youngest son, about 10 years of age came with their wetsuits, fins and bodyboards; the older boy, about thirteen, descended with his shortboard. The dad seemed to be holding back as his two sons leaped into the water and began negotiating for a place in the lineup. He took his time zipping up his wetsuit, pulling on his fin socks, slipping on his fins, and attaching his wrist-leash. Slowly he cruised out into the lineup, caught a small wave and rode it decently.

A fresh set arrived and I moved out hoping to catch one that failed to materialize, so I sat on the outside watching for one more, not paying attention to the crew on the inside scrambling for the smaller waves. Slowly, in the back of my mind I began to be aware of a youthful voice repeating "Dad!…Dad!…Dad! over and over. Uncomfortable with the desperate tone in the young voice I glanced toward shore and saw the elder bodyboarder floating motionless next to his sponge while his older son tried desperately to keep him afloat.

Everyone in the lineup must have become aware at the same time as many eyes fixed on this drama. "Was the dad kidding around?" "What's going on?" "Shit, this looks pretty serious."

The boy's voice took an a greater urgency and he began to call for "Help!…Dad…Dad…Help!"

Instantly everyone in the lineup reacted, and all began to converge on the boy and his dad. By the time I got close, they were surrounded with surfers, many of whom were already checking vitals. "He's not breathing!"… "Can't find a pulse!"… "Get him on shore now!"... "What's the time!"

"Dad…Dad…Dad…" As more people converged, the boy was clearly scared and shaken.

Ten people, attached to their boards towed the victim up to the edge of the cliff and as small waves threw them and their boards against the rocks they heaved him up onto the foot trail which remained above the water level. Leash straps were ripping off and boards thrown onto the rocks without concern for the equipment as several indicated that they knew CPR.

Someone else yelled up at the tourists on the cliff to call 911. Two people with cellular phones shouted down that they had already made the call.

They laid the victim on his back and once again checked his vitals. Still nothing…

One young man tilted his head back. Another positioned himself next to the head, pulled the lower jaw open, clamped his right thumb on the tongue, swiped for obstructions, pinched the nose shut with his left hand, and blew two large breaths into his mouth in rapid succession. He put his ear next to the nose and mouth and listened/felt for life while someone else began monitoring his pulse. "No response. DAMMIT."

The two boys stood helplessly nearby. Unable to speak as their unconscious father lay sprawled motionless on the trail.

Someone else positioned themselves near the victim's chest, felt for the base of his ribcage, placed the palm of one hand about an inch above, put the heel of his other hand on top of the first, and began administering chest compressions. He was counting aloud so that the breathing and compressions could be coordinated. "One...Two...Three...Four...Five...BLOW...One...Two...

Some of us began clearing the trail and stairway of the many boards tossed aside earlier, to make room for the paramedics we hoped would arrive soon.

The boys mumbled something about "getting mom", and dashed up the stairs. It was then that we realized we knew almost nothing about this man. We didn't have a name. We didn't know his medical history.

The team of surfers surrounding the victim continued for at least ten minutes. At one point a large amount of yellowish mucous came out of the victim. Several shouts of encouragement erupted from the group. "Yeah buddy." "Hang in there!" "You can make it!" The young man doing the breathing, rinsed the victims face with sea water and continued his efforts. Still no signs…

The two boys were picked up by a motorist driving up 41st Avenue. They were running up the middle of the street wetsuited and barefoot, tearfully pleading for help in finding their mom. They eventually found her shopping in one of the thrift stores a few blocks away.

At last the paramedics arrived and set up their equipment at the base of the stairs, instructing us to halt our efforts long enough to move the victim to their location. Again, willing hands lifted the 250 pound man and carried him over the treacherous terrain. Within seconds the medical team began treating the victim. There were still no signs of life. The body lay motionless, and the color in his face and neck was turning a deep red.

The stairs, rocks and trail were lined with those of us witnessing this drama. We stood silently on shore watching the emergency team cut open his wetsuit, exposing his chest. There was nobody in the water. In our own way each of us was surely saying a silent prayer for this stranger and his family.

The defibrillator was administered several times, but hope was fading. "Clear...thud! No signs. Clear...thud!... An IV was established and Drugs were injected. It was becoming increasingly clear that this man was dead before we got him out of the water. Before any of us knew he was in trouble.

Several of us gave our appreciation and encouragement to the man who had been trying so determinedly to resuscitate the victim. He was clearly distressed as he slowly worked his way to the waters edge and repeatedly rinsed his face and mouth in the ocean water, as if the ocean could purify the exchange of bodily fluids, and rinse the dread of death from him.

Sheriffs prevented the wife and sons from coming back down the stairs and instead took them to Dominican Hospital where the ambulance was headed.

We followed silently, in procession, as the paramedics carried the man up the stairs and into the waiting ambulance, which rushed him away.

A surfer picked up the medical trash that was left on the scene.

Several of us who recognized each other from numerous sessions, introduced ourselves. The longboarder who had been surfing first peak was named Doug. Somehow it felt reassuring to have crossed the name barrier. We were both very close to the victim's age.

Doug and I collected the bodyboards, fins, and surfboard that the family had left behind. We realized that delivering it to the emergency room was senseless since the family had no transportation, nor were they likely to care about it at this point. Since he lived nearby, Doug took it home and we gave a sheriff his address to pass on to the family. We then left a note on the family's car, still parked in the lot, with the same information.

As the sheriff drove off he told us that the paramedics believed that the man was dead of an apparent heart attack, but the family had yet to be told.

An article on the second page of the local newspaper confirmed our fears the next day. He had no history of heart disease. There were no injuries. There weren't any dangerous or strenuous ocean conditions.

Clearly for me, as someone who surfs alone frequently, as someone who is nearly this mans age, as someone with a family who loves and depends on me, this has been a tough week. Celebrating Gopher's 50th birthday with many of my "old" friends, and witnessing the birth of a beautiful daughter to one of my wife's friends has not eased the weight I feel I am still carrying.

Yes he died quickly. Yes he died in the water as many of us would like to go, but I will never forget the haunting cries of, "Dad…Dad…Dad…" echoing off the cliffs. Nor will I forget the realization that the "kids" I was surfing with were men ready and willing to step up to this life and death struggle. I respect and admire them for that. You did good...you all did what you could.

I also won't forget that in a moment, two boys lost their father, and now must face their future without him. Can surfing provide them with the solace it so often has brought me? Or will it always be a reminder of that one terrible moment at the Hook?

Maybe surfing can become for them a celebration of what they knew and loved most about their dad and his life with them. Maybe they can feel closer to him there than anywhere...I hope so.

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Last updated on 10/11/01.

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