Catalina Monsoon

Yesterday began as days at CELP often do, with Riptide groaning in the pre-dawn hours about the impending breakfast bell. However on this day our groans were joined by the distant boom of thunder. This seemed an ill omen for the unfolding of the day, but it was 5 AM, so I tabled the dark thoughts summoned forth by the low rumbling and shut my eyes optimistically. A few hours later the breakfast bell clanged out the call for food and consciousness. I arose rapidly (or at least faster than Phillip, so probably at normal speed, but still cheetahesque for Riptide)

I cracked open the front door of Riptide and let the gray light of morning sear through the frame. As pale and dim as it was, Andrew and Phillip both moaned in agony, as if they were vampire spawn. The scene before laid out before the stoop of Riptide was dominated by rain. As a proud product of the finest State in the Union, I'm something of an expert on the whole precipitation issue, and I had long ago dismissed the legends of true rain on Catalina Island as mere superstition, stories told to tourists and visitors to give them the impression that this place is anything other than a desert. In one instant this illusion was stripped away, and I beheld for the first time ever on this arid island, a pure and heavy rain. Every surface seemed thoroughly saturated with it, and as I pulled on my gore-tex footwear, I began to ponder what the day might bring.

Breakfast passed without incident, although several of the tables were soaking wet and the CELP staff found themselves taking their meals in somewhat closer proximity to children than is usually preferred (CELP staff members all dine at one long table at the far end of the dining hall, much like the teachers at Hogwarts). Thunder continued to echo off the hills around camp, and I concluded that whatever I would be doing that morning, it certainly wouldn't involve snorkeling. So much for training Lindy on Dive Coordinating... (oh yeah I'm the dive coordinator sometimes, it means I lifeguard from a kayak and run the whole suiting up process)

I returned to the Tide after breakfast expecting to report for further instructions at 8:00, this however was not to be, as Travis the Indomitable arrived at my door with an urgent quest. He drew forth his sacred Blackberry and charged me with a holy crusade to swim out in the midst of the great maelstrom that raged upon the waters of Howlands Landing and retrieve precious algae for a last-minute microscope lab (the activities at CELP that run well in a downpour are few and far between, and this is one of them). Travis immediately detected my initial apprehension at this request, as my lack of enthusiasm for jumping in the ocean before 9 AM was betrayed by my unruly face. Nonetheless, I agreed to set out on this quest, and so I rapidly donned my wetsuit (mastered the zipper unaided for the first time I might add) and strode across the field, my sandals sinking deeply into the mud as I walked.

About halfway down to the waterfront, as I was passing the sports court, a brilliant bolt of lightning shot down onto the ocean to the southwest, in the direction of Ship Rock. It could not have been more than five miles off, a suspicion that I confirmed by counting out five seconds before the thunder. I froze mid-stride, considering the stories I'd heard of lightning strike victims in Boy Scouts (you'd be surprised how often that happens to scouts...). I concluded my thoughts with the classical Riptide Response; "it'll probably be fine", shook my head, and continued walking toward the dark gray ocean. I later found out that Danny Sudman and Andrew had observed this moment with much mirth.

I reached the Deck of Dives, where Master Marine Biologist Lindy McMorran was waiting for me. She didn't seem particularly enamored of the whole lightning-storm-algae-collection concept, and while I could appreciate that point of view, the idiot in me decided that a bunch of damp children were depending on us for entertainment and education on this rainy morning, and I'd be damned if I was going to let them down. While we were gearing up, Lord Travis (CELP Director) arrived wearing a somewhat anxious expression and asked us if we were comfortable going into the ocean in these conditions, and my bravado-riddled response was apparently convincing enough to get us moving.

Myself and the Lindinator waded out into the water on the right side of the cove, grabbing whatever samples we could reach, not worrying about quality, merely filling our collection bags as rapidly as possible. I managed to slice up my foot pretty good on some rocks, but the cold water quickly numbed the injury. Travis stood on the beach clutching his phone with white-knuckled enthusiasm, looking pale enough to hail from Seattle. We ventured out a bit further, leaving our feet and sticking our masked faces into the water, seeking out more algae for the children. Lightning had struck a few times during this process, at distances that all seemed fairly reasonable to us, but it was at this time when I had my face in the water looking around, that a bolt of lightning came down close enough that I actually saw the flash from underwater (not in the water mind you, merely that it was bright enough on the surface that my mask filled with elemental light for a brief instant). I stuck my head out of the water and noticed Travis frantically yelling and motioning for us to come back, while Lindy remained oblivious of the bolt that probably came within less than 4 or 5 miles of our position. I swam rapidly over to her, got her attention and informed her that algae-collection was now over, and despite her protests involving a need to collect bryozoans (and they call ME nerdy!) managed to convince her to depart the ocean.

The rest of the day unfolded without incident, I spent the morning with the Lindy the Lightning-Defier running a series of microscope labs, and became an expert on the Jean-Michel Cousteau video of deep sea critters off the coast of Australia. (Although somehow the title escapes me...) It's a really cool video with a truly fantastic soundtrack "The Oh of Pleasure" from an album by Ray Lynch called Deep Breakfast. Check it out, tell your friends, it's a winner. (Also according to notorious liar Phil West, the song is featured on one of the plethoric radio stations of Grand Theft Auto IV, wikipedia agrees, but he could have just edited it himself...)

In the afternoon myself and my esteemed colleague Andrew Wright of Oklahoma stamped and checked a great many postcards. The people who set me on this task made the fatal mistake of placing me at a table with about ten thousand rubber bands, and many unsuspecting innocents fell victim to the sting of my missiles (namely Becky and Julie) Also I slung a pen at Andrew's forehead and almost took out his eye. After that I agreed to disarmament and continued working.

At dinner I was informed that although the snorkels during the day had been cancelled due to adverse weather, the chaperones of the school group in question were committed to getting a night dive in. Lindy and I began the necessary preparations, and determined that even though we would be Dive Coordinating from kayaks, it would be worthwhile to wear wetsuits regardless as more rain was forecast for the evening. She didn't wear pants, which later turned out to be a grave error in judgement.

We gave the Night Dive speech to the children, a carefully crafted masterpiece that simultaneously tries to inspire enthusiasm for braving the dark (and sometimes cold) water, provide some light curriculum to let them understand what they'll see (and operate flashlights), and instill just enough fear to make sure they stick together and don't ditch their snorkel buddies. That was an excessively long sentence.

Anyway, having suited up the children and armed them with dive lights bright enough to scar retinas (Phil says he fried an egg on top of one once), we shoved our firetruck-red kayaks out onto the dark water, just as a light rain began to fall gently down from the starless skies. We paddled out and awaited the arrival of the CELP instructors with their squads of students and the drizzle began to thicken and intensify until it became a downpour. Lightning crackled in the distance over Los Angeles, and myself and Lindy became completely absorbed within the power of the storm. It was then, as precipitation literally flooded down upon us from the heavy clouds above, that Lindy lamented not having pants. The CELP instructors got their children into the water, and like geese leading goslings, guided them toward the kelp forest on the left side of the cove. As the rain began to let up, the lights from the Chateau d'Kern, (ancestral home of the Kern family for 2 whole generations) began to reflect off the dark water, and the rain actually let up altogether. Each stroke of my paddle through the water set off subtle green sparkles as tiny plankton were disturbed and began to bioluminesce (yes that really is a verb in some circles). While lightning still shot down over downtown LA, the clouds overhead began to thin, to the point where glow of the moon began to peak through, followed shortly by that most famous of wannabe stars, Jupiter. I suppose in summary, it was very beautiful.

We clambered out of the water, every bit as wet as those who had actually been snorkeling, and set about the business of cleaning and stowing 40 odd wetsuits and other bits of gear. That was the last of the real rain I observed at Howland's Landing this season, and within 24 hours, the puddles and rivers that had formed throughout camp had all dried up, the moisture consumed by the parched and arid earth. The next morning, tiny sprouts of grass emerged, carpeting the whole of camp in a thin but vibrant layer of green, which would stay with us until we departed the cove for winter.

Look, a picture!

"I am a being of Heaven and Earth, of thunder and lightning, of rain and wind, of the galaxies." - Eben Ahbez

"I'd like to be able to use Storm's powers for good, like have it rain more in Southern California. We could do with it." - Halle Berry