Life on the Edge

I want to explain why it is that even after 500 days I will continue to swim; why it is still important to continue this daily immersion into the waters of Roaring Beach. In part it is because I have not remembered the forgotten language of the flippered fairy penguins and dolphins of the ocean.

In early April there is to be a colloquium of gathered nature writers discussing the issue of art and political environmental activism; a subject very dear to my heart. To attend, though, would mean giving up on the sincere quest to reach three years, three months, three weeks and three days or a total of 1212 continuous, unbroken surfs at the beach that is my home. Ultimately, the final number is not important. But what is, is the seriousness required to stay with a ritualised discipline long enough for a transformation to take place. When, how or what this might be I will admit to having absolutely no idea. My soul, however, urges me to accept this mystery and just get on with the practice. As for the colloquium, my hope is that in a few years another one will happen and I will receive a second invitation to attend. There is every possibility that at the next colloquium I just might have something worthwhile to talk about; something grounded in an authenticity that comes from intimately knowing the particulars of the place where one dwells; something where "the sense of place" includes the languages of the place. As for the fairy penguin in the photo..... I rescued the little fellow from the surf four days ago when it swam up next to my boogie board, all exhausted from malnutrition, and asked for a lift into the shore. True. I gently picked the fairy penguin up in the palm of my hand, placed him/her on the board and kicked slowly to the beach. After an overnight of drying out in a box full of fluffy blankets in the house, a friend and I tried to release him/her back into the surf, but the penguin only wanted to crawl into the nearest cubby hole and sleep. Sensing it was still too weak, I took the bird to Leslie "the sea bird lady" for her to look after until the penguin's undernourished body has gained sufficient weight for it to survive another attempt at finding fish to feed itself. Hopefully, at our next encounter in the water, the fairy penguin will be chipper enough for a decent conversation.

Yesterday evening just at dusk (a little later in the day than usual because I had been carving in the studio without paying attention to the time) I went into a fairly choppy, roller coaster surf at Roaring Beach. In the dimmed twilight with the setting sun hidden behind darkening clouds, the colors of water, land and sky were a steely grey. The air temperature was cold with a stiff breeze blowing across the water. It wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, a cheerful setting. Yet, being in the water had its own comfort. Different, I thought, than what was being experienced by the lone figure walking at the far end of the beach and cutting a dark silhouette against the dunes. Catching a breaking wave and riding it in, half my body just keeping ahead of the frothy white, out of the corner of my eye and less than two body lengths away I caught sight of a blue object riding the wave in with me. Yes, there was a micro second when I pissed in my wet suit, but fairly quickly the shocking surreal impact of the initial encounter turned into a laughing at the total incongruity of it all when I realised that what I was looking at was a balloon; a bright, blue balloon. Unlike most balls or other floating objects,the balloon's speed and movement in the water was being hampered by the dragging action of the attached long string, making it bob and duck in an animate fashion much like a seal's head. We both got to the beach about the same time, but before I could get to the balloon the wind was moving it up the beach faster than I could run while wearing flippers. But flip along I did. From the far end of the beach, did the man on the log, hunched over in contemplation, gaze upon my end of the beach and, seeing a black wet-suited seal like adult figure wearing blue flippers chasing a blue balloon, have much cause for concern? When he eventually left for the car park and drove back to his tourist accommodation, did he question what he had witnessed at the lonely Roaring Beach? If he had come depressed, did he leave smiling? I did.

Yesterday was day 333 of swimming daily at Roaring Beach. During the preceding night I was awoken by thunder, lightning and a noise only made possible by terrific winds howling through trees. The Tasman Peninsula was being hit with gale force winds gusting to 90 knots. Trying to photograph mountainous seas in salt spray laden air while bracing against a continuous barrage of walled winds proved difficult through the whole day. The image above of an 8 meter (25 foot) breaking wave caught in a flash of dawn sun, although demonstrating a particular moment, does not fully convey the immense powerful story that was happening all around. Sound, taste and smell were equally demanding of attention as were numerous other senses. At the end of the day, the sensory overload was so great that at 8:30 PM I crawled into bed unable to write up the story for this blog "Life at the Edge". Part of the reason for this exhaustion was that after my "careful" swim that afternoon in outrageous surf; just after finishing with flippers off and wrist strap undone, I was swept up by a wave, floated laterally along eroding sand dunes and, as luck would have it, deposited on top of a rocky outcrop before the wave washed back out to sea.

I had actually seen the wave coming; had even judged its ability to reach me. I guessed wrong. The volume of the surge behind the wave was the unknown factor as it had stayed hidden until I found myself being lifted up off the sand, buoyed along like a cork. Moments earlier, I saw this wave begin its roll up the beach and I figured there was enough time to skirt along the sheer wall of collapsed dune to a safer vantage point 100 or so meters further down. Jumping off from the rocky outcrop onto the sand below, I had gotten about twenty feet along when the wave was half way up the beach. From all the many thousands of waves that I had seen come up the beach over the past twelve years, I mentally calculated its speed and height and guessed that, at best, it might just reach my ankles. Within seconds the thought "Oh, shit" was impacting on me as I was suddenly totally out of control, flippers in one hand, boogie board in the other and floating down some Amazonian river to a possible white hell. I could go on...... The point I want to make, however, is that I never panicked or later felt stupid or angry (or proud) with myself. I knew I was in real danger, but there was an acceptance to it. I had made a mistake in judgement, but would not judge myself whatever its outcome. To truly live "life at the edge" requires an equanimity or balance between safety and danger and knowing how (and a willingness) to engage either. One other point. I believe we should all try to live by Thoreau's quote "In wildness is the preservation of the world". As without, so within. The wildness within our own personal worlds has to be nurtured so that we don't entropy into becoming domesticated house cats or politicians passing legislation condemning our rain forests to charred hillsides. Our soul's survival requires it. Our society requires it. Jung writes: "...the lack of meaning in life is a soul-sickness whose full extent and full import our age has not yet begun to comprehend". May we all have healthy souls.

On October 6th of last year, I started out on what was to be a six month ritual of surfing daily at Roaring Beach. Well, that was eight and a half months ago and I still feel compelled to make the walk from the house to the beach. The photo I took today, just after the 250th surf and late in the day, captures a lot of why the inclination is there to carry on with this watery journey: storm brewing, but still relatively calm with just enough warming sun to create a sense of real grandeur. To be in the water, tossed around on darkening waves when a beam of focused sunlight hits center stage, really does feel miraculous. It is not easy to give up on this. And why should I? One compelling reason to stop is that, although winter is officially here, as of the first of June, the really cold water comes into Storm Bay from the Antarctic in July and August, dropping the temperature to 8C/ 47F (down from a summer temperature of 20C/ 70F). Surfing then can become an act of “endurement”. One reason to continue, however, is that by going into the mystery, even if cold, something valuable can be gained. This then becomes an act of “endearment”. I suppose this is what "tough love" is all about.

Last October when I first started the ritual of surfing Roaring Beach everyday, I had assumed that it would end on the first year anniversary of the Peace Fire, April 6. Obviously, this date has come and gone and I still find myself walking down to the beach each day dressed up in my wet suit, carrying flippers and boogie board. The intention, now, is to continue through autumn and winter until the full year comes around in October. My motivation: simply to keep learning what can come out of a devotion to a sacred discipline. The end goal of having surfed through a winter at Roaring Beach is not important. What is, is to learn to walk through the wall of inertia that confronts me each day with more and more acceptance; to understand how water is an extended part of my being rather than an environmental border to be crossed; to become more aware of the many languages spoken through the medium of water; and, most importantly, to learn to love this world ever deeper by being more conversant with its many moods. And besides, what a privilege and blessing it is just to live here at Windgrove and be able to embark upon this little pilgrimage to the beach each and every day. How many people get a chance to surf 200 days in their whole lives, let alone 200 days in a row? Then again, maybe I’m the only one who wants to.

What you're looking at is what I had to look at before heading into the water for day 148 of my six month ritual of swimming at Roaring Beach everyday. With such a strong wind and squalls of rain blowing in, it was hard to take a decent photo, but I hope you get some idea of the mood of the ocean. Yes, somedays are better than others. And, this was one of them. To quote Thoreau: "In wildness is the preservation of the world". Today could not have been wilder with hugh surf pounding into the shore and gale force winds hammering anything exposed out of the water. Odd thing is that I'm finding this sort of day not as dangerous as less wild days because the surf rolling in is so big that it is almost impossible to get past about the forth or fifth break. One just gets pushed back into shore. The rips carry me out just so far before a six foot wall of white foam takes me in the opposite direction. Exhilerating is too soft a word to describe the emotion that sweeps over the person out in this water. Funny that I'm always alone. I don't know about preserving the world, but I do know that after today's swim my sanity has been preserved for a few more days. So, come at me again Bush, Blair and Howard with your depressing, stupid ideas of war. I'm feeling more peaceful than ever and more willing than ever to keep on marching for peace.

A picnic table glistening with water might signify a washed out lunch for some people, but today it represents the difference between plants and animals dying or making it through this long, dry summer. Waking up this morning to the first spits of rain on the roof was a real blessing. And, I carried this sense of blessing down to the beach for swim #117 as I gazed out at the gently breaking greenish surf under a continuous grey blanket of cloud feeling a wonderful sense of relief. Floating like the storm clumps of broken seaweed found around me and gazing directly into and onto the surface spatterings of gentle rain drops, time lulled sleepily everywhere. Today, the recreational aspect of swimming that had been the norm during the summer's "perfect" weather, was replaced with a deeper experience; a more ritualized, meditative immersion of body into water.

"I want to bathe myself in the waters of Roaring Beach. I want to slip into the softness of forgiveness; to cleanse my soul of the pain and anger that comes after days of listening to chain saws rip into the trees on a nearby hill. I want to float in the arms of the ocean. I want to be embraced and loved and told, once again, by the wet kiss of a wave breaking over me, that I am beautiful; that the puffy clouds about to give up themselves onto this valley are beautiful; that the curvaceous dunes clothed in maram grass soon to receive this gift of rain are beautiful; that this very valley whose small creek empties into Roaring Beach is and always will remain beautiful no matter who or what tries to alter its face." The above is a personal journal entry written when I first began the six month ritual of going into the water at Roaring Beach everyday no matter what the weather or the conditions of the surf. It commenced of October 6 and will end on the first year anniversary of the lighting of the Peace Fire. Yesterday was the 100th day in a row of putting on the wet suit and flippers and walking into whatever wanted to greet me. The discipline has been a good teacher. The flush of salt water through my system has sustained me. The photo was taken on day 99 when the surf was particularly good. A tiny surfer can be seen in the upper left hand corner.