Bear Of The Banks
By Earl Shores
This time I was
ready. Ready to erase the humiliation of the previous year, when my new girlfriend and I
ventured to the Outer Banks for a wretched but memorable experience. In the full bloom of
youthful stupidity, I let my surf skills wither during a semester and a half of inland
collegiate hibernation. Yet as a surf-stud-in-progress, I still thought I could handle
the chilly March Atlantic, and show off my surfing "lifestyle." In between
watching the locals jump into the line-up from a fishing pier, and abandoning our tent for
a lack of bilge pumps, I managed to paddle out on three consecutive days and not catch a
wave. By the time I made it to the line-up, my lifeless arms flailed about my body as if
the sleeves of my wetsuit
were empty. With no hope of catching a wave, I proned in on the first set that rolled
through. But this year was different. Incredibly, after that fiasco, my girlfriend
remained my girlfriend and we were living together. With a new tent, a new stove,
reservations at a sheltered campground, and several months of lap swimming, I felt
prepared. So after a late evening arrival and a peaceful night's sleep, we watched an
empty waist-high Lighthouse swell shimmer in the mid-morning sun. Three other surfers were
paddling out, but I lost sight of them when I got to the water's edge. My mind focused on
my arms. What was going to happen this year? I had to be in better shape than last year,
right? Sure, just get in the water. I'll be fine. I felt pretty good as I made my way
through the shorebreak, and over the deep hole where the waves re-formed. And when I
reached the initial part of the sandbar where the dissipating whitewater rolled in, I
still felt okay. I slowed down, waiting for a lull, and when it came, ordered my
neoprene-laden arms to move as fast as they could. My progress was steady, and the
feedback
from arms encouraging, but outside another set started to form, and it became obvious that
I underestimated the size of the swell - by about half. I scratched over the first wave
(come on arms, come on), but as I submerged to push through the second one, my body wasn't
quite ready for one small detail.The 41 degree water.The most troubling part of the shock
wave that assaulted my spinal column was the decision by my lungs to expel their air - the
momentary paralysis of all my limbs seemed trivial by comparison. In backyard football
terms, I had "the wind knocked out of me," but now I couldn't lay on the ground
and get my breath back. I emerged from the wave, still on my board, gasping and wheezing
in oxygen-debt agony while another frost-free wall closed in. With my body too far gone to
go any further, the only effect of this wave was to
knock me off my board. I surfaced with my condition unchanged - numb. I drifted in the
lull, trying to coax coherence out of my anesthetized grey matter, but when the next set
came, I was still unable to offer any resistance and ended up getting pushed in to the
re-form section. My arms didn't feel that bad, but my head and heart were still frozen. I
came in and thawed out on the beach, letting my artificial black skin soak up the sun's
warmth like some kind of mutant seal. When my core body temperature clambered out of
hypothermia range, my tremors subsided and I noticed two waterlogged figures sharing my
listless state. There was some consolation in outlasting them, but we were truly a
pathetic bunch. We watched with thawing envy as a lone silhouette caught a set wave and
came in.I was disappointed, but not crushed like the year before. My girlfriend had
actually seen me surf during the interceding year, so that pressure was gone. We joked a
little about my encore performance, and were just happy to be on the beach enjoying the
sunshine. As we watched unridden sets, there was movement to the right of us. With a
slight turn of my head I saw a burly figure approaching. My mouth went dry as he neared,
for I assumed I was in for a lesson in localism. When he finally stopped, I looked up and
realized that I had underestimated size - again. He stood well over six feet, dark hair
falling to his muscular shoulders, while a barrel chest challenged the limits of the
wetsuit that clung to his body. A bushy beard and a determined squint accented his
dripping dishevelment, summoning visions of Blackbeard reincarnated. My ears went
red, and pulsed a cardiac code of distress. "How y'all doin' today?" he said,
with a characteristic Carolina draw, and a tone that was higher and softer than my fear
predicted. I don't know if my gasp of relief was audible, but Northeastern cynicism now
wondered what his angle was. Key chain beach pictures maybe? "See you had a little
trouble gittin' out," he continued," I wanna' go back out, but these other guys
- well, they said they're done for the day. I don't like surfin' by ma'self, so if you're
up for it, I can git' you out."
My brain whirred and clicked on his offer. Was he for real? "Southern
Hospitality" was only a term from trashy romance novels, right? Finally, with the
glow of a schoolboy who'd been picked to run the filmstrip projector, I said,
"Sure." "Great," he said, and a wide patch of white parted the dark
thicket under his nose. He held out his hand, "I'm Delbert - you know, like Delbert
McLinton the singer." He still had a head on me when I stood up, and his hand
swallowed mine with a modest grasp, "My friends call me Bear." I didn't have to
ask why. Reality already seemed a little distant as we headed down toward shorebreak, but
when he stopped to reassure my girlfriend with model southern gentleman gentility,
"Don't worry ma'am, I'll take good care of him," the chill returned to my
wetsuit. I waited for the diabolical baritone narrator and his eerie dissonant music.
"Presented for your approval, a young surfer who..." "Where y'all
from?" asked Delbert."Huh?" I answered, startled back to reality.
"Where y'all from?""Oh, uh, Delaware.""Oh yeah? Sometimes we do
some work off a' there." "Work?"
"Yeah. Fishin' mostly. I live about a mile or so down the road." The small talk
ended at the water-line, and I listened closely to his instructions. "We're gonna'
head out on the south side of this jetty here. We can float in the rip without even
paddling. Then at the end, there's some deep water where we can sit til' we get a lull.
It's easy today cause the swell's so small." "Small?" I asked. He looked at
my incredulous expression and re-evaluated. "Well - I mean it's a fun day for here.
You understand what we're doin'?" I nodded, and we waded into the rip, floating out
just like he said. I kept looking over at my giant new companion, unsure if it was the rip
or his aura that pulled me along. I seemed reduced to mono-syllables in his
presence, but I wasn't threatened, and in fact, felt oddly secure - after knowing
him for only five minutes! My skepticism was about to wrestle with this dilemma when The
Bear looked over, held both hands out of the water, and let his giant smile once again cut
through the dripping brush on the bottom of his face. "See, I'm keepin' right up with
ya'," he said."Uh-huh," escaped my mouth before my brain found something
clever, but my skepticism retreated like a scolded puppy.We reached the end of the jetty
and paddled in place for a few moments as the Bear carefully watched the horizon. He
turned and grinned, "Let's go!" With long powerful strokes, he quickly
left me behind, and I started feeling like I was in over my head again. I worked my arms
furiously, and could hardly believe it when they responded. The Bear angled toward the
South, while I took the shortest route to the line-up and went straight. With no set in
sight it was a dry-hair paddle out. Was there ever a doubt?
I sat catching my breath, looking about twenty yards south to where the Bear sat. I wanted
to paddle down to thank him, and learn more about surfing the Lighthouse, but my energy
was limited. So I waved and gave him a thumbs up. He smiled, returned my wave, and then
fixed his gaze on the undulating horizon. After two waves I came in to watch The Bear ride
his home break. He toyed with several overhead waves, surfing with expected power, but
also a surprising grace as he easily found the pocket on each wave. I walked down to meet
him when he came in."Did you get some waves?" he asked.
"Yeah, thanks a lot. I woulda' never made it-""Oh, you're welcome. Glad I
could help. You come back after lunch and it'll probably still be good. Tides gonna change
- might pick up some."That was a daunting thought, especially since cold water
fatigue was setting deep into my muscles."Yeah, well, we'll stop back up. See ya
then," I said, unsure if I was lying or not.
"Okay. Y'all take care," he said.My girlfriend and I did go back later, but the
beach was empty. The wind had gone onshore, chopping the glassy swell to shreds, and I
shivered easily as the chilly ocean air cut through my sweatshirt. It was hard to believe
how pleasant it had been earlier, and even harder to believe my encounter. But the
friendly stoke passed on by The Bear was real - and has never been forgotten.