In the early eighties, when I was just a wee
lass in a blue
gingham bikini, I learned of
sneaker waves firsthand. What I remember of the experience is as follows:
Going to the
beach was an everyday thing. Living in the
Philippines and being so close to such gorgeous beaches literaly meant daily trips. I was already very familiar with the idea of
rip currents and stingrays (the most notorious dangers), and the beaches were guarded constantly during daylight hours.
The day, as it happened, was no different than any other day and the beach conditions were calm. The only unusual thing was a curious number of
jellyfish washed onto the shore.
I was building a sand castle near the high tide line, well above waves. In an instant I was ass over end, completely disoriented. There was no
transition from sitting, building a sand castle to being flipped end over end underwater. I was under long enough to be distinctly aware of a driving need to
breathe. When I came up, I was startlingly far from
shore, but there was already a
lifeguard at my side. He grabbed me, swam parallel to the shore and after getting beyond the rip current, turned toward shore.
When we got back, my mother was terribly upset, but thanked the
lifeguard. She later said she had thought he was
asleep, but he was in the
water before she realized anything was wrong.
My attitude was
ambivalent; other than being underwater for too long, I hadn't been scared. My mother tells me that I even said it was "fun", although I was probably more enthralled with the
attention, rather than the experience itself.