Murky Waters

Autumn, a few years back: I was suited in neoprene and balanced on the gunwale of a 10-foot inflatable dinghy, cloven-toed surfer booties gripping a deck awash in seawater, masks, fins, weight belts, and long aluminum blades, the talismanic “abalone irons” that defined our mission. Brian, his beard splattered with spray, twisted the outboard’s throttle, aiming the boat’s bow down a swell the size of a blue whale. Behind us, the shallow reefs were frothing haystacks. Ahead, surf exploded on kelp-covered rocks and battered a glistening cliff. Whatever line Brian had picked here along California’s notoriously deadly northern coast, it wasn’t visible through the fog. But then he cranked the tiller and the Zodiac slipped through a gap in the looming rock wall.

The cacophony faded and the motor’s low grumble resounded from fern- and ice plant-covered cliffs that dripped with seawater pumped through hidden blowholes. Engine exhaust mixed with the scent of brine, seaweed,