The Ocean Didn't Want Me Today: A Lesson in Resisting Not Evil

It was my 23rd birthday. I was in Oaxaca, Mexico, on the trail of Don Juan. I had gone to the famous beach Zipolite, meaning Playa de los Muertes, beach of the dead, with Paul Bowles’ Let It Come Down and other books.

The reason it’s called Playa de los Muertos is that supposedly there is an ancient burial ground nearby (some sorcerous history), but also because so many people have died there in the ocean. The ocean is so violent they have a system to let visitors know when it is safe and not safe, a red flag.

There were no hotels back then, only a few hippie-style cabin rental places, including one called Shamballa, which is probably where I stayed.

That day, I went in the ocean despite the warning flag. That was the way I was in those days (I haven’t changed much, either).

I went pretty far out, but not so far out that my feet weren’t able to touch the seabed. Pretty soon, I realized the waves were a little bit too big for me, so I changed my mind and started to head back to shore.

As soon as I did, I realized that the undertow of the next coming wave was pulling me out. I wasn’t moving forward, no matter how hard I struggled. The undertow was too strong. Then, of course, the next wave arrived, tumbled me and dragged me under.

After a number of these failed attempts, I realized with a sense of horror that I was actually getting pulled out to sea.

This was one of those “Oh shit” moments that only come a few times in one’s life. The truly terrifying realization that I had made a mistake that might be about to cost me my life.

Of course, the more terrified I became, the more desperately I struggled to get back to shore. But there was nothing I could do. The current was drawing me out to sea.

I couldn’t fight the undertow, and I was using up all my energy trying. And with each new wave, I was getting sucked under, right when I was at my weakest. I would come up gasping for air and be right back where I’d started, only weaker each time.

Finally, something in me realized that all my resistance was futile. Worse than futile. Since there was no way to resist the force of the undertow, much less the waves, I gave into it. I decided to let the waves take me.

What that meant, first of all, was neither going against the undertow nor giving into it. I held my ground by rooting my feet into the sand and simply doing all I could to stay upright. Then, when the next killer-wave arrived, I either dived under it, to reduce its impact (it would of course still knock me drag me with it), or I tried to ride it.

This way, I soon realized I could get closer to the shore at least some of the time. Letting myself be carried by the waves presented a new problem, however. The rocks. Jagged rocks, covered with coral reefs.

Ominous as they were, essentially, I was trying to get back to those rocks, because from the rocks I could make it to shore. They signified salvation.

But the only way to get back to the rocks was to let the waves throw me onto them.

So that was what I did, and I was eventually thrown onto the rocks. I landed on my back, and could probably have broken it if I had landed badly. As it was, I was only sliced up quite severely.

Happy birthday to me.

Terrifying as this experience was, I was aware, even at the time, and certainly, afterwards, that something in me had wanted it. I was also aware, terrifyingly so, that something, some hidden force outside of me, was trying to take me, to destroy me.

If I had continued resisted it, it would have succeeded.

I understood fully, during that experience, how powerful the ocean is. This was the crux of the realization: you can’t fight the ocean.

It’s too big. It’s always going to win.

So you may as well just surrender, and see what the ocean decides.

The ocean didn’t want me that day. The rocks got me instead.