Ghost Wave - Chris Dixon [12]
The crews alternated sleeping and eating, while maintaining a steady two- to three-knot pace. By the time the moonless quilt of stars gave way to dawn, a silhouette of low ridgeline loomed in the distance, and the raven was released from his cage as a scout. Dolphins and sea lions regarded the men with fearless curiosity. The Ti’at finally squeaked onto the white sand of a small cove along the eastern shore of the smaller, closest island—today the submerged feature we call the Tanner Banks.
A hike to the top of a 75-foot-high ledge of hard, black rock revealed an atoll of strange and utter beauty. A long, low, and narrow ridgeline stretched to the northwest and southeast for a couple of miles, eventually bending into a broad oval. In the center lay a vast lagoon ringed with white sand and filled with thousands of squawking seabirds. Along its near shore, a small troupe of otters basked in the sun, bashing open clams with rocks.
A pair of narrow openings a mile distant allowed in a small surge of ocean and swell. At their edges, hundreds of elephant seals lounged and bickered on a narrow sandy beach. The highest of these rock hills rose at the south end of the lagoon, standing sentinel over a smaller lagoon perhaps five hundred yards across. At this lagoon’s curving entrance unwound a flawless, chest-high right-breaking wave with a thin, translucent lip. The wave was almost identical to the one that reeled across the cobblestone beach that mainland tribes then called Humaliwo, and which later Spanish destroyers would one day call Malibu.
The most telling aspect of this peculiar island, however, was that it was almost entirely devoid of vegetation and surely offered no fresh water. The western flank had been beaten considerably lower than the eastern, clearly the work of ferocious, scouring winds and even more destructive, gigantic surf. The western shoreline of Kinkipar did regular battle with furious waves, particularly in the wintertime. How high would those same swells rise out here?
The party hiked south to the highest overlook, a broad-based, rocky summit of roughly 150 feet. The land here was more substantial and in the pockets of sandy soil, familiar dry grasses and sage scrub clung precariously to life. The smaller lagoon below also held water of fantastic clarity. In the tidepools at its edge crawled a riot of sea stars, anemones, limpets, mussels, and enormous white abalone twenty or more years old.
A walk along the western ridgeline gave the men a better look at the entrance to the lagoon—to determine if a Ti’at might navigate inside. As they trekked above a narrow sandy beach, the men were amazed. No animal, not even the ducks, displayed an ounce of fear.
The lagoon’s waters were considerably warmer than the ocean. They swarmed with toothy sheepshead, seabass, and bright gold garibaldi, while huge halibut, stingray, and leatherback turtles stirred the sandy floor. Tiny shrimp rocketed away from disturbed stands of eelgrass and brown pelicans dive-bombed into a shimmering swarm of baitfish.
The southerly opening to the lagoon was the narrowest—fifty or so steps across, but aside from a rock outcropping in its center, it appeared free of obstacles. The opening, a five-minute walk to the north, however, appeared considerably wider and marginally deeper—an easy entry point for a Ti’at.
A glimmer of spray turned heads offshore. A trio of orca rocketed into the mouth of the lagoon. Ahead of them, a panicked great white shark. An angling orca rammed the shark broadside. Geysers of blood roiled the water’s surface. Should any men ever paddle into this lagoon, it would be best to stay in the boat.
It was agreed; this island was not terribly far from home. Were passages made during fair fall or winter weather, it presented an opportunity for hunting and fishing the likes of which simply did not exist on Kinkipar. The Gods had created an oceanic eden.
The team easily spotted the craggy rise of the next island from the hilltop above the lagoon. Its summit lay tantalizingly close, a paddle