The waves are more powerful than we've ever experienced. After one ride, we are all out of breath. We rush back in, fighting waves that knock us off our feet. My. friends all catch decent waves, maybe five or six feet, but I want to be more selective. I want a really big one, and finally I see one. It has my name on it. It dares me to ride it. My friends shout their encouragement from the safety of the shore: "You've got it! Take it take it take it!" while under their breath they whisper, "Good Lord, he's gonna die." I start paddling a little too late, and I hear, "Hurry hurry! You're gonna miss it!" I surge forward, kicking madly, determined to take this wave. I catch it. I ride on top of it, gliding smoothly, arms outstretched, legs kicking madly. I begin to relax, and just as I begin to enjoy the ride, just as the wave is about to break, I look down. Instead of water, I see bare sand. Rocky sand. The wave grabs me around the waist and throws me straight down. My shoulder slams into the very solid ground, and the wave slams and smashes down, churning up sand, water, and me. I try to surface, I try to breathe, but I am held under in a confusing world of never-ending rolling and tumbling. I fight the power of the wave, knowing I must be near the safety of shore but not able to get my bearings. I finally get a footing, and thrash through the surf to the dry sand.
-- Jared. Essay "Just Another Day at the Beach". 1996.
Nat, Kate, Annsley, Jared - not the day of the 8 foot waves - Martha's Vineyard 2003