The God Particle (20 page)

He had heard that, as the wave approaches shallower water,
the leading edge slows down, but the trailing part is still moving rapidly in
the deeper water behind, causing it to compress. This piling up – or
shoaling
– results in the growth of the wave; the height it finally achieves is
determined by the depth of water near the shoreline. Chad would always make a
point of knowing the underwater topography before any competition. A big wave
wipeout can push surfers down twenty to fifty feet below the surface. Strong
currents and water action at those depths can slam a surfer into a reef or the ocean
floor. The notice boards on surfing websites were always full of condolences
for the latest casualties, with an estimated fifty surfers dying each year,
professionals as well as amateurs.

He had done his homework. He knew that the Gold Coast had a
steep underwater shelf that ran to a depth of two hundred feet before plunging
vertically down, three miles, to the ocean floor. Even with his limited
education, he could work out that that meant he was going to encounter the
mother of all waves.

But the enormity wasn’t his only concern. He was proficient
enough to be able to ride any size wave – as long as it had a clean face. That
meant that, when the wave broke, it did so from the crest down, leaving a
carpet of blue sea rolling towards the shore on which to surf. Unfortunately,
tsunamis differed significantly from wind-generated waves in a number of ways.
Not only were they bigger and faster, but, contrary to popular belief, they
come ashore as a large, cresting wave. When a tsunami hits shallower waters, the
shoaling effect breaks up the leading edge of the wave, turning into a wall of
mushy white water that rolls towards the coastline like a gigantic surge.

Because there would be nothing for the bottom of the
surfboard to grip on to, he’d essentially get bounced around in the foamy mess
until he fell off, and that’s something he needed to avoid at all costs. His
strategy was to wait until the very last moment and then ‘duck dive’ under the
surge. A difficult manoeuvre at the best of times but, given the speed of the
approaching wave, he’d have to time it to perfection. Essentially, he would
paddle as fast as he could towards the wave to build up momentum; then, before
getting caught in the maelstrom, he would hold down the front of the board so
that it submerged. Taking a deep breath, he would kick as hard as he could and
follow the board under the surface, pushing down on the back of it with his
foot to gain extra depth. The deeper he could go, the better chance he had at
surviving the initial onslaught.

Next, he would have to judge when the front edge of the wave
had passed over him, before pulling up the nose of the board and allowing
himself to float to the surface.

And this is where an idiosyncrasy of a tsunami may work in
his favour; in fact, he was counting on it. All waves are made up of a series
of peaks and troughs – the high point being the peak or crest, and the low
point the trough behind it before another wave starts. The distance between
these two points in a normal oceanic wave can be measured in terms of feet;
but, with a tsunami, it’s measured in miles. If he could time it so that he
missed the turbulent water at the front and surfaced just after the peak on the
back side of the wave, he should be in a position to ride it all the way inland
until it burnt itself out. He would then have enough time to get to higher
ground before the next one came in.

He had been through his strategy what seemed like a thousand
times in his mind but there were too many ‘ifs’, ‘buts’, or ‘maybes’ for him to
feel confident. He would have to wing it, react to the conditions as they
happened, relying on his experience and instinct. He didn’t mind admitting to
himself that he was the most scared he’d ever been in his life.

To top it all, he knew that tsunami waves were a lot longer
than the ones he was used to, sometimes stretching for hundreds of miles. So,
once he was committed to riding it, there was no turning back. He couldn’t
simply pull away to the side to avoid a wipeout, as there were no sides.

He sensed it coming, long before he saw it. The sea went as
still as a mill pond and the ubiquitous cawing of seagulls ceased abruptly. He
looked up at the cloudless blue sky, which was eerily deserted. It was as
though he’d stepped into a photograph – there wasn’t a trace of movement
anywhere. And then came a rumble. Not in the air, but through the sea, as the
sound waves travelled four times faster in the water than their airborne
counterparts. It started as a low resonance in his solar plexus, increasing in
intensity, until the surfboard beneath him began to vibrate.

The previously calm surface became choppy, forming small
peaks, which buffeted him from side to side as they rose and fell. He started
to paddle towards the horizon, anxious to meet his opponent on his own terms.
His hands powered through the surf, feeling the tension on his palms as he
pulled back, driving the board forward.

He was into a steady rhythm and making good speed when,
suddenly, the water resistance increased and it felt like he was pushing through
treacle. The force of the current was so strong that his biceps burnt after
just a couple of strokes and he decided to conserve his energy for the main
event. But, instead of slowing down, he seemed to be going faster. He looked
behind him to see the coastline receding in the distance –
the drawback.

Bring it on!
His fear had morphed into anxiety driven
by a determination to succeed. He recognised the feeling from the way he felt
before every major competition – the fear of failure. Anybody who said they
didn’t get nervous were either supremely confident (and were often the ones the
condolences were for) or they were liars.

He gripped the sides of his board firmly and raised himself
to his knees to get a better view. It was almost imperceptible at first; but,
as he stared, he could just make out a thin white line on the horizon. And then
he heard it. If he hadn’t known any better he would have mistaken it for the
boom of distant thunder. The blue space above the sea narrowed as the wave
started to rear up in the distance. The reverberations increased, enveloping
him in a wall of sound as it echoed off the beach.

His momentum had picked up; he must have been doing at least
thirty knots, equivalent to the speeds he’d reach surfing in a big wave
competition. The sea continued to rise in front of him and he could now clearly
distinguish the frothing, destructive water as it barrelled towards him at over
five hundred miles per hour. He felt his heart beat rapidly against his ribcage
as adrenalin coursed through his veins. He tried to calm himself by taking in a
deep breath and exhaling slowly; it seemed to work. His mind focussed on what
he had to do.
Timing
he reminded himself. Too soon and he may not be
able to wait long enough for the turbulent water to pass overhead; too late,
and he would be caught up in it. He tried to anticipate how long it would take
to reach him, but it was travelling at such a pace it was impossible to judge.

The sound now was almost deafening. The skyline was totally
obliterated by the towering wall of water that stretched the full length of the
horizon. At the last moment he decided on the lesser of the two evils. He would
dive early – at least he would have a chance then. He knew his lungs were in
peak condition; he had never smoked in his life – apart from the odd obligatory
spliff, of course. He felt the spray off the advancing wave on his face and
decided to go for it. He inhaled, held his breath and then put all of his
weight on the front of the board, which dutifully sank below the surface. He
instantly shifted his weight to his right leg to push the back of the board
down before going under himself.

The whole procedure had taken less than two seconds to
complete but, at the speed the wave was travelling, it was still probably a split
second too late. As he sank towards the seabed, he was hit by the force of the
surge which tumbled him over and over like a rag doll. He managed to hold onto
his board and kicked out, hoping to release himself from its grip. He was so
disoriented he didn’t know if he was surfacing or going deeper.

The spinning stopped abruptly as the front of the board
struck something solid; only his physical fitness prevented him from being
catapulted forward, his biceps taking the brunt of the jolt. He peered into the
murky water to see what had happened, but visibility was down to zero. He
dragged himself along the length of the board and felt for the tip. It was
buried in the silt of the seabed. He gripped the sides and pulled, but it
didn’t budge – the force of the impact had driven it deep. He tried to get a purchase
on the silky floor with his legs, but it was too slippery.
Should he leave
it and risk surfacing without it?
No – he would be a sitting duck. His
board wasn’t just a floatation device; it was his ticket to ride.

He tried again, conscious he was using up precious seconds
of air. His bare feet slid along the bottom as he heaved to dislodge it. His
left foot brushed against something hard. He adjusted his position, his toes
searching out the object and felt it again – a smooth rock. Whether the tsunami
had deposited it there or it was a natural part of the underwater topography,
he didn’t care. He tested his weight against it – it was stable. With both
heals dug into the sand and the balls of his feet leveraging off the boulder,
he tugged with all his might.

He felt the board give slightly and strained harder.
Suddenly, he was back-peddling. It was so unexpected that his brain switched to
self-preservation mode, automatically releasing his grip on the board, freeing
up his hands to break his fall. But, instead of crashing to the ground, his
buoyancy forced him towards the surface. He made a mental note to have a word
with his brain, if he survived, that that instinctive reaction wasn’t necessary
in water.

He twisted his body around and swam back to retrieve his
board, feeling along the bottom to where he thought it should be. All his
exertions were taking its toll on his oxygen reserves. His muscles ached and he
had a burning sensation in his chest. If he didn’t head for the surface soon he
would definitely run out of air. His hands searched the bed whilst his legs
kicked to keep him down –
nothing
. Then he felt the rock. In his mind’s
eye, he pictured the location; the board couldn’t be more than two feet away
from it. He did a quick sweep of the area, but drew a blank.
Perhaps it was
a different rock?

It didn’t matter. His time was up. His lungs were telling
him that he needed to take a breath. He had to fight against the reflex; the
pain in his chest was almost unbearable. He did a quick mental calculation. If
the depth of the sea was a hundred feet before the wave arrived and the height
of the wave was a hundred feet, that meant he had to swim up two hundred feet
before he broke the surface. He wasn’t worried about the bends, as that didn’t
affect free divers; it was the nitrogen absorption from the tanks that caused
the problems for scuba divers. What he was worried about was how long it would
take him – a minute and a half, maybe two minutes.
On second thoughts
–
he
didn’t have time to worry.
Whatever fate awaited him up there without his
surf board was put to the back of his mind.

He pushed off the seabed with as much force as his legs
could muster, keeping his arms by his side to make himself more streamline. He
counted the seconds off to take his mind away from wanting to gulp in a lungful
of sea water. Ten seconds… he had read somewhere that the frog kick was the
most efficient way to propel yourself under water – more forward thrust with
less effort. He wasn’t in a position to argue and gave it a go.

Thirty seconds… he looked up to see if he could see the
surface, but the visibility was still as bad. He could feel the force of the
wave carrying him along with it. Forty-five seconds… his lungs were screaming
for him to take a breath and the pain was excruciating. He prayed he’d make it
before he blacked out. One minute… abandoning the streamline approach, he used
his arms to push the water past him, hoping it would increase his speed, more
through desperation than any kind of logic. One minute twenty seconds… it
seemed to be getting lighter – either daylight was filtering through or he was
suffering from the effects of hypoxia. He remembered something about how people
hallucinate when their brains get starved of oxygen.

One minute forty seconds… he couldn’t fight against the urge
to breathe any longer. His whole body was racked with severe shooting pains as
his muscles demanded a fresh supply of oxygen. His willpower was losing the
battle to prevent his body from doing what it did naturally. He inhaled, feeling
the cool, salty water enter his larynx. But there was no relief from the pain.
His bronchi, unable to recognise the fluid as something it could process,
rejected it, making him cough. But, as he spluttered, he breathed in more
water.
So this is what it feels like to drown
, the thought flashed
through his mind.

One minute forty-five seconds… his cognitive function was
unimpaired; he knew exactly what was happening to him, but was unable to
control the convulsions. He gasped one last time and felt a rush of air enter
his respiratory tract. He thrashed around, trying desperately to keep his head
above the waterline, frantically gulping in the life-saving sustenance
in-between retches. After a few more breaths, his lungs resumed their normal
rhythm and the spasms subsided, but he was exhausted.

He looked around to get his bearings. He was being carried
along by the wave; it took all his effort to stay afloat by treading water. He
had surfaced a good distance behind the leading edge and was elevated enough to
see that it had already made landfall; the beach and the line of cars beyond
were totally submerged. He knew his chances of surviving were slim unless he
could find a buoyancy aid. He craned his neck to see over the tons of seaweed
that lay in a carpet of green around him and spotted something white bobbing up
and down a hundred yards away to his left. He summoned the last reserves of his
energy and swam over to it.