The Ocean Forest

I head North, snaking along California's undulating, twisty two-lane Coastal Highway. Since dawn on this lovely, early foggy morning, my eyes have scanned westward seeking the great Pacific Ocean. I hear the seagulls squawk and an occasional Walrus bellow. I hear the crashing and splashing of the massive salty waves as each one, in synchronicity, like a slow heartbeat, pummels the rock cliffs. The sounds are dulled, as if they are farther away than they truly are, and their origins remain elusive thus far through the dense atmospheric water vapor. Yet I know the deep blue-green sea is but a stone's throw beyond and a distant drop below the cliffside edge I parallel as I peddle, pursuing my goal trekking North.

Slow and steady, I proceed up each hill. My heart pounds four times in its steady rhythm with each breath. I inhale the seaside’s fresh fishy air, so strong I can taste it. My chest muscles and diaphragm expand and contract fully, heaving with each breath. With spinning legs and pulling arms, I reach the crest, conquering another of the seemingly endless California coastal highway hills.

Feeling another early A.M. accomplishment, I hold my hands skyward, yelling, “Free ride,” as I initiate my screams downhill, winding between the dense purple Lupin and California Golden Poppy-lined two-lane road. The crisp, cold, wet wind hits my capillary-dilated, beet-red face and arms, then, hitching a ride, courses inward to cool my metabolically hot core.

Since dawn's first light, I have remained isolated. For four hours, my repetitive physical actions were on autopilot, allowing my mind to meditate in the serene atmosphere of this oceanside paradise. Mid-morning, the first auto of the day, a Mini Cooper, politely beeps. I wave it on, and it passes, then squeals around a hairpin curve at the bottom of a small ravine. Heading uphill directly across from me, he looks over, smiles, and waves. I recall the days when, as a teen and before I minimized burning fossil fuels, I raced around in a BMW. I know he's having fun. I return the smile and wave.

With the sun's rising warmth, the fog thins, revealing over the next few hills the deep blue Pacific, starting with the small inlet beaches and rocky cliffs. How many more hills must I conquer, and how many more well-earned free rides until I reach my early teen playground? At the crest of what feels like the longest uphill confrontation with gravity, I pull over and lean the bike against a lichen-covered boulder. I sit upon it, dangling my legs over the ledge that drops a hundred meters to an isolated grey sandy cove. Looking North, I spy my goal, the familiar coastal promontory reaching a quarter mile out to sea.

The ocean, as it has for endless eons, pounds the Franciscan Complex, a geologic formation composed of erosively resistant greywacke, basalts, shales, and serpentinites. The ocean's powerful hydraulic forces are beautifully exhibited as seawater swells strike the promontory and shoot a sunlit spray skyward, developing into a prismatic rainbow of color. This is where, when I was a young teen, my dad and our dive buddies spent many weekends. The autos are increasing in frequency. I hop aboard my pedal machine and head towards my goal to avoid the forthcoming heavy traffic.

I pedal past the promontory and pull over at the first cove, relieved to escape the threatening traffic and free from the relentless, horrid headlines. Thirty meters below sits an isolated shore about half the size of a football field. The ocean, which over eons created the beach, beckons: touch me, feel me. I will heal you. I shoulder the bike and gingerly walk down the steep, crumbling trail. Negotiating numerous yellow-flowering succulent-lined switchbacks, I reach my goal: a half-football-sized beach. Instantly, I feel at peace in the presence of the ocean's tranquility, which deeply soothes my mind and soul. I strip until I’m naked in nature. A quick dip to rinse my sweaty body, and I am instantly aware of how cold a fifty-five-degree sea is. I drop onto the sun-warmed, grey sand. I gaze fixedly out upon the endless ocean. Exhausted, I drop and close my eyes, listening to the meditative lapping of the waves, perfectly timed like a metronome; they roll in then recede, moving and grinding the sand in and out, back and forth, swish, swish, swish. I am at peace, as one with the rhythmic lap, lap, lap . . .

I awaken cold, brush off the sand clinging to my skin, then unroll a sleeping bag and snuggle in. I remain physically worn out from the two-day-long haul, although I feel good. Intensive exercise does that. Good and tired, I lay back, fixated on the lovely, multi-layered sunset on the distant horizon and the rhythmic lap, lap, lap of a gentle tide rolling in. Such peace and tranquility I have not felt for quite some time.

I dream of the Pacific Northwest Ocean, this very cove, as a young teen. I don a wetsuit and swim out a hundred meters into the Kelp Forest, a small area within the massive Kelp Forest Ecosystem that covered an area from Monterey Bay to the Aleutian Islands for thirty-two million years. The kelp's long, wide, grass-like fronds are anchored to the seafloor rocks. They reach the sea surface, held up by their air-filled bulbs and sway, undulating in synchronous rhythm with the tidal currents.

I dive down and sway with them, recalling my dive team buddy's lessons, “Go with the flow, son. You can’t fight the power of the ocean. Power kick when the current is with you to gain distance. Kick gently to maintain position or fall back when it reverses. Ten feet forward, a few feet back, ten feet forward, a few feet back, to make steady progress and save energy. Fight it and you will quickly tire, tangled in the kelp, and you may drown. “

I go with the flow, feeling comfortably in sync, as if I belong in this water world that few land lovers have taken the opportunity to visit. I float, observing the forest and its inhabitants. The leaves, known as fronds, are in constant motion. Each, up to thirty meters in length, moves in a wave-like fashion from top to bottom, similar to a wave on the surface. Light streaks through the water, illuminating the kelp fronds with rhythmic regularity as they sway, changing their color from dark, emerald green when in shadow to translucent, bright yellow-green when the light strikes them. The effect is hypnotic. Ling Cod, Rock Fish and many other species come and go between the rocks fifteen meters below me. Smaller fish nibble and snails are attached to the fronds. Clinging to the rocks are Abalone, purple Sea Urchins, and Starfish, their sluggish movements imperceptible. I surface to see dozens of Sea Otters bobbing about, floating on their backs, sleeping in their safe haven, out of reach from their shark predators.

***

Barney is a participant within Earth's largest ecosystem, which covers approximately 70%, or nearly three-quarters, of the Earth's two-dimensional flat surface, with an average depth of nearly 4,000 meters. The land surface is not only smaller at 30% but also lacks depth, making it inhospitable for creatures to live, except for invertebrates, fungi, bacteria, and burrowing mammals. Since the 1950s, humans have removed 95% of the world's fish stocks from the oceans. One would think that humans would have learned their lessons after the 1800s, when human slaughter nearly drove the oceans' whales to extinction for their oil, the North American Bison and Beaver to extinction for their pelts, and numerous birds to near extinction for their feathers. Not to mention murdering and the treatment of their fellow humans, North America's First Peoples, one would think the self-proclaimed ‘superior species’ would learn from their Biblical teachings, such as compassion, love, kindness, and the wisdom of conservation.

I mention these historical facts because of what Barney, after a thirty-year absence, will awaken to. He will enter a place he could only imagine in his most vivid nightmare. He is about to enter what Rod Serling termed, The Twilight Zone.

***

I hear the ocean lapping against the cove's grey, sandy beach and open my eyes to a light fog, taking a deep breath of the fishy, salty air. I light a driftwood fire, just big enough for boiling some water for a few cups of coffee, and eat a few energy bars. I walk along the beach to a dark blob and am shocked to find a bloated, headless seal, the remnant of a great white shark.

Breaking the buddy rule, I slip into a wetsuit, mask, fins, and snorkel, then swim out 100 meters. Perplexed at finding no kelp I swim farther and still find no kelp. I take a deep breath and dive down to the rocky bottom, and am in shock to see the rocks covered in purple sea urchins. Nothing else but urchins. No abalone. No starfish. In fact, there are few fish at all, except a few small Ling cod and rockfish. Nothing but invasive purple sea urchins blanket the rocks. I resurface and explore in every direction for an hour with the same ocean scene. Sickened, I return to the beach.

The smell of the dead seal reaches me. I now understand why it is here. The Kelp Forest Ecosystem, home to a vast array of fish, crustaceans, and mammals, has been decimated. The forest habitat sheltered and protected the fish and seals that lived within. The once-balanced community of creatures, such as birds, without trees, crashed. But why?

I hear voices and look behind me. Three men are negotiating their way down the cliff trail.

I greet them, “Howdy.”

They respond in kind, “Hello.”

One makes introductions, “I am Shui. This is Joe and Billy.”

“I’m Barney.”

Billy, “Are you diving for urchins?”

I shake my head, “No. And you?”

Billy, “Yes, no limit. We sell them to restaurants. They make uni sushi.”

I ask, “What happened to the Kelp Forest?”

Shui explains, “It started with the 2013 heat Blob, which wiped out ninety-five percent of Northern California's kelp forests. Then a bacterial disease devastated twenty species of Sea Stars.

“Oh, lordy. I had no idea until I saw it myself this morning.”

Shui, “It's climate change in action. Toss in overfishing and pollution, and the result has been a sixty percent loss of the world's coastal kelp forests. Japan to Norway and Tasmania to California.”

Joe, “The kelp forests are extremely difficult to restore. The urchins feed on the kelp’s bases that cling to the rocks. Seals eat the urchins, but with their protective habitat gone and the rapid growth rate of the urchins... well, you see the harmonious balance is skewed far out of whack.”

“So you guys help by harvesting them and make a living.”

Shui, “Hardly a living. Like the seals, people can only eat so much and our labor cost is high.”

“Right.”

The kelp forest is dead, taking with it the vast number of species that once thrived there. The sapien species destroyed this habitat, like many others. I think about the Northern California Redwood Forest and how much outcry would result from its destruction, recalling the ’60s folks who protested to save the last ten percent from the loggers. But that was different. Logging had a direct impact on the forest, where our species' use of fossil fuels contributed to the climate crisis, and the increase in sea temperature is an indirect consequence.

I climb the cliff and look back. It all looks so normal. The waves roll in, gently crash on the rocks, and spray upward. In the bay, three divers are surfacing and tossing purple urchins in large float bags, taking advantage of an environmental collapse. Beyond them, two seals lay on their backs feeding on purple urchins. But the ocean is not normal. On the beach, seagulls pick at the dead seal corpse. I know the ocean is not healthy. I know what lies below the surface and recall my teen days when there was a herd of a few dozen seals.

A car pulls up. Two people get out. One exclaims, "Oh, is the ocean not lovely?"

I think, 'Do I explain to them the reality?" Instead, I say, "Beauty is only skin deep."

I head homeward. My ride back south is faster. The wind, like a sail, is with me. My dream of the oceans' promises to heal me has disintegrated. Instead, I return severely depressed.