Six Men Swimming

I arrive at Baby Beach, on Maui’s North Shore, at 10:30, expecting to meet my swim buddies, but no one is there. I must have the time wrong. To my dismay, the weather is windy, overcast and cold. There are only a few hardy souls on the beach. The water inside the reef is shallow and murky and not very inviting. I decide to go in anyway. Even though I have a wetsuit on, I grit my teeth in shock as the cold water seeps through to my skin. To warm up I swim inside the reef towards the channel that leads out to the open ocean. Usually I’ll swim out on my own, but today the water has been churned up by the big waves and is silty-brown in color. After last weeks’ fatal shark attack I decide not to risk it, and turn back. Time to head home. How nice, I think. I’ll have an unexpected hour to myself. Maybe I can even take a nap after lunch. What a treat.

I walk back to the car, and to my surprise, I see that Tom is next to his car pulling on his full-length wetsuit. I must have gotten the time wrong. With his wet suit half way on, his curly head of hair and white chest hair, he looks like a satyr who stepped off an ancient Greek vase – part horse, part goat, part human. Tom is a great lover of beauty. Every time he sees a pretty young woman – or preferably two or three – on the beach, he’ll engage them in conversation with a delightful twinkle in his eye.

When he sees me, he says with a friendly grin, “Peter, how are you?”

“Great, Tom, and you?”

“Couldn’t be better.” I notice him strapping something to his ankle. He catches my curious look. “It’s an electronic shark repellent. I thought I would try it. Apparently it scrambles the shark’s brain. Maybe it’ll scramble mine too.”

After the fatal shark attack of a friend a week ago, everyone is on heightened alert. Maui has the highest incident of “shark incidents” in the Hawaiian Islands, with over 44 encounters since 1995. Five of them have been on the North Shore, where we’re swimming today.

We turn to see Max come out from his beautiful oceanfront home, looking somewhat vulnerable as he walks towards us under his own steam. He tilts slightly to one side to compensate for the fact that he only has one arm. Usually he has an assistant helping him to balance, but today it’s just him, barefoot and wearing a black bathing suit. Swiss born Max was a world famous treasure hunter and adventurer, traveling the world in his custom built catamaran. Seven years ago he lost his arm and received terrible brain damage when a powerboat ran over him in the Mediterranean. His recovery is a day-to-day challenge, taking immense courage. Our daily swims are an important part of what keeps Max doing. He’s an inspiration for all of us and in many ways the reason we’re all here.

Even though I’m cold to the bone, I decide to go back in the water. We’re walking towards the beach, when Barry pulls up in his old, beat-up convertible. Barry makes sure his sweet dog Emma is comfortable in the back seat, then gets out to join us. He shows us his handcrafted anklet, made of ti leaves, which he received at the ceremony for his friend Margo, who was killed by the shark. It is called a Kupe’e, and comes from an ancient Hawaiian tradition, providing protection for those who go into the ocean. “I thought I would leave it on,” Barry says with a chuckle. “Like Tom’s shark band, it at least gives me some comfort. For all I know, they’re both placebos.”

“Tell us about the ceremony, ”Tom asks with concern.

“It was beautiful,” Barry says. “There were twenty of us, and we all swam out to the spot where she died. I recited a poem, and others scattered flowers in the ocean. At one point a big yellow bee flew up and landed on one person’s mask, and then flew off and landed on another. It kept flying around us. It was unreal, something a bee would never do.”

“How beautiful,” I say. “Margo was sending a very clear message to all of you. I remember when my wife Fran died, monarch butterflies kept appearing in the most unexpected places. When Linda died, dragonflies showed up out of nowhere.”

For a brief, quiet moment, we take in the immensity of it all. Death will do that. Our moment of silence is interrupted when Crafton, Max’s personal assistant, a strong and buff young tennis pro, runs up, carrying Max’s mask and flippers. Close behind him is Daniel, hurrying to catch up. Daniel, who is also Swiss born, was a former triathlete until a terrible bicycle accident slowed him down. He’s still a powerful swimmer. We all greet each other with warm hugs and hellos, and head off towards the beach.

Six men on a mission.

Max is first in. He falls backwards in the water like a big Douglas Fir, and heads off immediately, swimming on his side with one arm. Tom and Barry laugh like kids as they put their new swim gear on – florescent bright orange and lime green swim caps that look like bright soccer balls.

We all swim through the gap, a thirty-foot wide opening between reef and beach, where there is often a fierce rip current, sweeping us out to sea like a wild amusement park ride. Right now it’s low tide, and fairly benign. But once through the gap we hit a rough section of shallow water, where the rocks are just beneath us and the waves are crashing over our heads. It’s impossible to see anything as we head blindly out to sea.

Soon we’re in deeper water, and the waves calm down considerably. The ocean becomes crystal clear – a luminous turquoise. Tossed up and down, we keep on swimming, with Max taking the lead, powered by his big flippers. Who needs two arms when you’re as strong as he is?

After ten minutes, we come to a point where three palms trees line up on the distant shore. “Stage Three!” Tom yells into the wind, raising both arms in the air and pointing towards the sky with three fingers. “Stage Three,” we all yell back over the roar of wind and waves. “Stage Three!” we cry out, more for the fun of it than anything else; it’s very therapeutic.

On we go, plowing against wind, waves and current. Max, believe it or not, is leading the way. I swim up by his side. “Max, we can barely keep up with you,” I shout.

He doesn’t respond. I can hear him talking in his deep voice as the water washes over his head. I listen closely, trying to understand what he’s saying. To my astonishment, I realize he’s speaking French.

“Max, what’s going on?” “I’m reciting Baudelaire,” he says, swimming on. I don’t recognize all the words, but it sounds like a stanza from Les Fleurs du Mal: Mon esprit, tu te meus avec agilité, Et, comme un bon nageur qui se pâme dans l’onde . . .

A man with one arm reciting a poem in French by Baudelaire as he swims in the middle of the Pacific Ocean? I realize that I’m witnessing something absolutely extraordinary.

At times we’re bunched together, peering at each other through our masks; at other times we’re fifty yards apart, as we struggle to make headway. The bigger waves crash over our heads and snorkels. How Max keeps breathing while swimming on his side, I don’t know. I keep gasping for air as my snorkel fills with water. I notice Daniel close by, swimming like a seal with no mask, no fins, and flimsy little swim goggles.

Twenty minutes later, we look towards shore, where a few tiny-looking people can be seen on the beach. There’s an old tree trunk that lies on its side. “Stage Two!” Tom shouts, raising both hands with two fingers up. “Stage Two!” We all yell back in unison, “Stage Two!” The water has become even more clear and blue. Crafton dives down to the ocean floor, twenty feet beneath us and takes pictures of us from below with his Go Pro. Even Max dives down, after seeing a huge lobster beneath him. The last time we were out, he banged into a turtle. At least there are no sharks, to worry about, thanks to Tom’s shark repeller and Barry’s bracelet.

Usually this it the time we turn around and head home. But today Max keeps plowing on. “Max is in the zone,” Crafton yells. “There’s no stopping him!” This means we’re going all the way to the lifeguard tower, almost a mile from our starting point.

I look at the bobbing heads around me – Max, Crafton, and Daniel with their heads bare, Tom and Barry with their brilliant headgear, all of them peering out through goggles, their snorkels sticking up beside their heads. I laugh in delight. I’m not someone who easily relates to being with other guys, but here I am, in the middle of the ocean with five other incredible human beings. Things can’t get much better than this!

For what seems like hours we’re fighting against the current, at one point almost standing still. Finally we’re directly opposite the tower. “Stage One,” Tom cries out. “Stage one!” we shout, almost too tired to raise our arms.

We start to head in. The water gets shallow and the bigger waves start breaking over us. “Whoo, hoo!” I yell as a wave raises me high in the air, then drops me down into the trough. Barry and Daniel are gleefully enjoying being tossed about as well.

I go onshore, leaving my flippers and mask on the beach so I can go back and help Max come in. By the time I reach him, someone has taken off his flippers, and he’s standing in waste-deep water. Crafton, Barry and I help guide him through the surf back to land, as breakers smash against us from behind. Max, not only has one arm, but has trouble with his balance from his accident. Helping him get onshore takes all our strength. “Here’s a little one coming up,” Crafton says, as a big wave hits us. We all laugh, including Max. Then another wave hits us, and Max ends up face down in the water. Crafton helps him get to his feet. Max seems unfazed.

Once on land, we raise our arms in a hearty cheer. Six men . . . all but Crafton and Daniel in our seventies.

As Jeff Bridges’ character “Bad Blake” says in the movie Crazy Heart, “We all had so much fun, and nobody died.”