A Grebe In Linda Mar
Reminders of our lack of certainty
The memory could be half a second, or an hour. Sometimes it’s not just one memory, but a series of small incidents building over the years that culminate in a mountain you're done climbing over. It hurts to recall these moments. I’m sure you have one, maybe recent, maybe old, that you’re thinking of right now. A huge fight that ended a gentle love, or maybe you witnessed a dog being torturously abused. These painful memories, holding so much shame, guilt, or great uncertainty, have some dark enchantment in them to remind us what it felt like then to be in that moment. But what confuses me most is that maybe that pain, maybe that righteous hurt you felt, that neglect, that sorrow, maybe it was all made up. Maybe you were looking in the wrong direction at the right moment, and so that pain was misplaced. Maybe you were wrong to let go of that person. Maybe you were right to, but you neglected their pain to be just as strong as yours. Maybe it wasn’t your fault. Maybe it wasn’t you. Maybe it was just bound to happen, a fate regardless of your agency.
In the past month I’ve had two experiences like this. I’ll tell you of one.Â
I was surfing in Pacifica. It was a cold day and the waves were small, little things breaking just beyond the shore. But you could still get a decent ride in. You could still find your way into a corner and maybe catch a wave down the line for a couple of seconds before the whole thing came onto you, came over you and you were smacked into the water, almost playfully.Â
At first, and as usual, it was fun. I was catching a lot of waves, a lot of short rides in the quiet of Lake Linda Mar as people like to call it. But all around me, torn kelp flowed about as though some torrent was quietly tearing apart the kelp forests south of the cove, the dead bits of detritus washing up and making murky this quaint little beginner surf spot. After a while I decided to paddle further south, away from a crowded peak to one that only two people sat on.Â
,_Corte_Madera.jpg){kind=link}
When I got there, sitting a bit closer to shore, I watched as a western grebe dove under a small wave. I looked at it, excited and happy like the child I am whenever I see a bird. I waved at it, then looked back to the horizon. Soon, I forgot about the grebe, a wave came, and I caught a little ride. It was fun, nothing wild. But as I paddled back out past the breaking waves I noticed the color of the water change. It was no longer that light brown of dry tan oak leaves, but a deep black red sucking the brightness out of the white foam. I wasn’t sure what it was but I didn’t like it, so I paddled to shore and walked north again to get away from the red waters. For some reason I was certain it wasn’t a shark, but I can’t tell you why I thought that or even if I was right to think that.
As I entered the line-up again, I looked back at the water where I was, and the red color seemed to disappear. I thought that I maybe imagined it. It just seemed too sudden for it to already have blended into the ocean with all the rest. The red was gone, replaced again by the banal murky brown of sand churned by ocean. But I paid it no mind and kept surfing. The water always changes, I thought.Â
After half an hour I looked to my left and again I saw the grebe. I smiled at it and waved again, the other surfers paying it no mind, as expected. But as I kept looking at it, furiously scratching its back I noticed something was hanging from its beak. I thought maybe it caught something. But as I watched this thing flop around its neck, I realized it was its tongue. It’s sharp beak ripped clean off. I looked at it, my hand over my mouth, nearly paralyzed. I scanned the line-up to see if anyone else saw it, but no one seemed to recognize it, or even care — all the surfers just staring out into a flat horizon devoid of waves.
I couldn’t help but question myself. Did I have a part to play in this? I thought I maybe could call a wild care facility, but having volunteered at one I was certain that would only end this bird’s life in some sad form of euthanasia. You can’t rebuild a beak. Maybe I had hit the bird with my board, but I hadn’t felt anything. Though I worried.
I got out of the water, just to think on the bird, wish it well in its next days, then headed back into the water, the grebe never quite leaving me. As I sat again in the break, I said aloud a little prayer for the grebe. I just didn’t want it to suffer, at least for not so long. We humans break so many things, and though it’s such little act to pray, but in some moments that’s all we can do. And I prayed for its smooth passing. I watched a wave approach me as I prayed in the water. As I turned to catch the wave, I said I love you to the grebe, and slipped into a small corner, the wave nearly taking me to shore.Â
I could’ve read that moment as just me baring witness to a small tragedy, one of the billions of tragedies that occur everyday. But instead I was trapped, and maybe still am trapped, by the fear that maybe there was something I did, or could have done. But maybe I’m reading the story wrong. My ego is maybe too big in this moment. Who am I to have so much power that I could change the trajectory of the only fact I know: that the grebe lost its beak? After all, like the grebe, I am only alive, trying to stay that way as long as I can.