The Sand Simians

The Anchorage at San Simeon is protected by a forested finger of land that juts southward from the mainland, creating a region of calm water ½ mile across, largely unaffected by the predominant northwest swell. When I awoke my first morning there, the sun was bright and strong, and the anchorage still as a mirror. I had but one neighbor, a bearded neo-pirate character named Skip on a ~40 foot ketch. He'd come zooming up in his zodiac the afternoon before, to let me know I could anchor closer to him if I wanted, and to fill my ear with stories. He told his tales and quickly established his credentials as a fine outlaw in keeping with the best traditions of the sea – tales of storms, rescues at sea, dragging anchors, ornery self-absorbed government officials, and shotguns barrels crammed in the ears of said officials. I liked him right away.

A few blissful days passed and I played guitar, sang, wrote, read, daydreamed, hiked onshore and generally just tried to adapt to the quiet and solitude, letting the trappings of mainland life slip away. The weekend brought beach goers and kayakers, and the laughter of kids playing in the surf echoed across the lagoon. Tuesday came and my friend Pete W. made the drive down the coast in search of a little peace and quiet. About this time, the swell was beginning to pick up a bit, and the beach surf with it, but getting off the beach in the dinghy went off without a hitch. The dinghy rows well with one person, but with two it's really slow, so timing the wave sets is critical. That night we barbecued, drank beer, and feasted like kings. In the morning breakfast burritos with bacon and eggs hit the spot, we tried our hand at fishing, went hiking among the cypress trees on the peninsula, and then went into town in search of a good burger. Coming out of the diner, we noticed these strange statues gaurding the door like stone lions, only with sheep heads. Not very intimidating sentinels, but a little disturbing, nonetheless. Perhaps they were 'Sand Simians', we wondered. In no way did they resemble apes, however, so we hypothesized for some time who the elusive 'Sand Simians' actually could be.

With our electronics and shoes stored in dry bags, we timed the sets and pushed off the beach in the dinghy, Pete rowing hard toward Cadence, and me in the back. An abnormally large swell darkened the water ahead of us, loomed up, and crested well above our heads. We took it square on the bow, and had only ankle deep water in the boat, but it turned us sideways to the next wave. Larger still, it nailed us broadside, and the dinghy was half full. Full of optimism, I said,”Point us into the wave, Pete,” as the next wave loomed up. “I've lost an oar!,” he observed. “Well, we're f-'d,” I concluded aloud. The next wave turned the dinghy into a 1000lb bathtub and we watched helplessly as our lifevests, oars, drybags, and groceries floated out. No use rowing any more - we hopped out into the waist-deep water and waded. Fortunately we saved it all, and the only damage done was to our prides. After a good laugh and a few minutes to regroup, we charged again and glided through the surf zone like pros. We were batting 3 for 4, not too bad, we told ourselves.

The next afternoon came, and it was time for Pete to go, so we packed up the dinghy again, with extra emphasis on dry bags this time. Too bad Pete's large backpack didn't fit in one. He had the oars again, and confidently rowed us to just outside the surf zone where we watched the waves like hawks, waiting for our window of opportunity. Perhaps we got impatient, but it looked clear, far as the eye could see and we went for it. Rowing hard, we watched the biggest wave yet loom from the deep and take aim. It crested well above our heads, and I leaned forward, hoping the lightened stern would rise to the wave. This was a very bad idea. Lighter stern = heavier bow, and as the bow dug in and I found myself hurtling through the air, I realized the error of my waves, er, ways. Then blackness and noise, swirling water and sand, and 'thump!', the dinghy landed on my head. Emerging from under the capsized dinghy, Pete standing next to me exclaimed “God Damnit!”. Always cool and composed, I'd never seen him even the slightest bit flustered, and I doubt if I ever will again.

I fished his floating backpack out from under the dinghy and we collected the rest of the debris scattered throughout the surf, then stumbling up the beach, sodden, downtrodden, and dejected, we began to laugh. With sand in our hair, pockets, ears, mouths, and other creative places, we were undoubtedly a sorry sight to behold. And then we realized who the mysterious 'Sand Simians' were. We were the Sand Simians.