Ahrens close call

Context: Carl has been commissioned by an American author to paint illustrations for a book on the
California missions. While he is still not free to marry Madonna, she has joined him on the trip out west, and is now several months pregnant. At this point in the book they are traveling from Ventura to Santa Barbara by the coast road. A fisherman warned them about one harrowing stretch of road where they could easily be caught by an incoming tide and have no escape route. He told the best time to cross the bay, and they are attempting to follow his directions.

Setting out for Santa Barbara at three in the morning, they allowed an extra hour to reach their destination. The road was indeed good, but navigating in the impenetrable darkness of a cold, California night proved harrowing. Their lantern illuminated Billy’s rump and little else. Following the shoreline of the ocean was like chasing an elusive lover while blindfolded. The sound of the waves should always come from their left, yet at times it came from everywhere, echoing off the cliffs, and nowhere at all, when they rounded calmer bays. Still other times it seemed the sea was beneath them. At those moments Carl tried not to imagine how near they were to falling off the edge of the earth.

They arrived at the bay at seven in the morning. The tide washed in and out, but appeared to recede, the road clearly visible. Rugged bluffs banked by boulders the size of motor cars rose vertically from the sea floor in imposing shades of green, gray and black. Behind them, the landscape reminded him of crumpled paper with its random patterns of mountains and valleys, all blanketed with chaparral. Millions of parched scrub oaks screaming for a hint of moisture – at least that is how he would paint them. The cool breeze blowing in off the water tasted of sunshine and salt, the sea a mosaic of a thousand blues, some of which touched a nerve so deep he nearly forgot to breathe. Madonna dozed beside him while seated upright. He watched her for a moment, aching at the thought of how tired she must be, and chose a careful path down to the shore so as not to wake her.

Once inside the bowl of the bay, he discovered it was further across than it appeared from above. Instinct told him he should encourage a quicker gait, but the wagon’s wheels sunk into the sand, causing Billy to strain against the added friction. Carl feared tiring him long before they reached the other side; he allowed the horse to pick his own pace. The road followed the curve of the shoreline, and within moments they were surrounded on three sides by high cliffs. He wiped sweaty palms across the legs of his trousers, and pressed on. Between two boulders he glimpsed a shattered wagon wheel, a silent memorial to the man drowned here last week, or perhaps one of the many others lost in a string of tragedies stretching back at least a century. Perhaps it was their spirits he saw congregating on the top of the cliff directly in front of them.

In the distance, the roar of an engine ceased. Madonna stirred, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Why are all those people waving at us?”

Not ghosts then. Not if she saw them, too. Carl cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the panic, and wrapped the reins around his wrists in preparation for what he now knew was coming. They had been gravely misled; he would not fuel her fear.

When the first wave crossed their path, Billy squealed, leaping sideways to avoid it. Carl made no attempt to slow their bolting horse, instead focusing his energy on keeping Billy’s head aimed at the place where the road climbed out of the bay. A second wave came and a third, each time receding less until the road remained submerged.

Billy charged closer to the boulders. If he rammed them it was unlikely the wagon would remain intact. A pregnant woman and a handicapped man would stand no chance of reaching the opposite side of the bay in time, though the distance was not far. Billy must be calmed and persuaded to walk through the water. It was their only chance.

“Take the reins,” he told Madonna, enfolding her fingers around them with his own before she could protest. “Keep the pressure steady on the left one. It’ll slow his progress.”

He eased himself from the driver’s seat down onto the wagon shaft. Sitting astride it for balance, he inched his way toward the horse, speaking to Billy constantly so he would not be startled when he felt Carl’s hand on his rump. The icy water rose to his knees, the current threatening to pull him from his perch.

“He’s too strong, Carl. We’re going to hit --”

A wheel on the opposite side of the wagon bumped into a boulder. He had intended to chance a leap onto Billy’s back, but there was no time for that now. Latching onto the harness, he jumped into the rising tide. Relieved to find the water only rose to mid thigh, he thought surely he could withstand the pull long enough to reach Billy’s head. Another wave hit, ripping his feet out from under him. It dragged him under, the breaking wave raining a punishing blow to his back, and then spitting him out. When he emerged, he was several feet from the wagon and another wave approached.

“Keep driving, Madonna,” he shouted just before the second wave knocked him under.