By Gary Baney
Sean pounded the three-foot metal stakes into the sand. The triple flute design was meant to stay in place under movement from the waves, at least for as long as it would take him to defeat his competitor. He then zip-tied all four legs of his beach chair to the stakes. This would ensure a non-movement status during the high water waves that upended and disqualified many contestants. “Anchoring” was an accepted part of the rules: if you moved your chair at any time, you lost. Nothing could be done about the wave impacts, that's why contestants wired or zip-tied their chair to the stakes. Judges on the banks above watched for it.
He sat down on his chair's new nylon webbing – a minimal weave to reduce drag. It was something he replaced every year. Ultraviolet light was death to nylon. No one wanted to “fall through the webbing” at such a crucial time. He wasn't “strapped in.” Nobody was. That was the point; you freely got up when you gave up.
The waves of the on-coming high tide were quickly approaching now, making wet advances on the sand, sometimes by a yard or more. It was July, and his feet were anticipating the cold waters of the Northwest's Pacific Ocean to not only cool them, but would probably make them numb soon. He'd start shivering, too. No matter, he wouldn't have to be here that long anyway. He should be able to overcome his competitor within the first “head bath,” as he called it. No one liked that. Visions of sharks, crabs, and any number of meat-eating and stinging things swam in the breakers as the tide came in, all looking for food. He depended on the head bath. It was part of his repertoire of convincing his challengers to give up while they could still breathe.
As he sat in his anchored beach chair, he would tell stories about past competitors that were chewed on from wave-driven crabs and other aquatic carnivores bite by bite . . . nibble by painful nibble. It was a gruesome rendition and he glowed in the telling of every fictitious tale. Two years ago he'd yelled, “Something bit my leg!” and the challenger quickly stood up and scrambled to shore. He made it all up, of course. It was easy. The competitors were already nervous with the fear of drowning and it was easy to feed that fear. Stoking that fear was his specialty. After all, he was number one for the last five years for a reason.
This year his competitor was a female. That's a first. She went by “Guinna.” Normally it was some guy named “Macho-Marvin” or “Barry Basalt” or some other ego-boosting title. She wore a wet-suit. Rules didn't cover apparel. No matter, it wouldn't save her when the waves went over her head. After all, it was a competition for who could stay in their chair the longest, not how much cold, foamy salt water you could tolerate.
Guinna wired down her chair to the anchor stakes, sat down and waited for the first wave.
The first wave to reach Sean hit his bare feet. It was indeed cold. He looked over to see Guinna's reaction. She didn't get that wave lap he did and she only smiled, and said, “Looks like the ocean is going to take you first, dweeb!”
“Name is Sean,” he replied.
Another wave hit, this time covering both of their legs up to their calves.
“Damned, that's cold!” he yelled, hoping to instill the first of several salvos to unseat the challenger.
“Hell, that ain't nothing, dweeb. You ever scuba dived in Anchorage?” she asked.
“Some kind of Polar Bear Club?” he asked.
“Naw,” came her reply, “Just looking for dinner.”
“So why do you want to —”
Another wave came, this time much larger. The Oregon Coast natives say that every seventh wave is “the big one to look out for.” It's the one that moves logs and grabs you and your flip-flops out to meet Davy Jones. Tourists never pay attention to that old wives’ tale but on average, it isn't that far off.
This wave splashed around his chest and he saw that it did the same to Guinna.
Sean dramatically gasped for air between saltwater breaths of spray and sea-foam and continued, “Why do you want to do this?”
Her reply came between gasping breaths of cold water on parts she wished were closer to an open fireplace. A cabin in the hills of Otis, Oregon would be a nice place, she thought. “Because I know I can beat you, and the $500 prize, of course.”
“Do you have any idea what lurks in these waters?” he asked.
“Yeah, cold. That's it. It's cold as Seward's idea of bringing icebergs to the lower 48.”
“Some of those icebergs are still out there, you know?” he jabbed.
“Do you smoke something before you do this? That doesn't make any sense now because that was over a hundred years ago, at least!”
“I'm serious. Sure, they're not solid ice now, but the cold water they displaced as they melted is still there. You can feel it. When you're swimming out there, drop your legs down. Tread water upright. You can feel it with your feet. That and the shark fins.”
“What? What sharks?” she yelled. “The rules never mentioned any sharks in these waters!”
He knew he had her then. He prodded, “Sharks and other dangers are a given in any ocean environment and you should have realized that when you signed the waiver ‘ ...and any environmental dangers pursuant to the contest,’ I believe that disclaimer reads.”
Silence.
“Must have been in the fine print of the competition rules,” she gasped as yet another wave assaulted them to their waists.
As it receded and exposed the sand around her chair's footing, he saw that Guinna had installed large, metal “foot pads” under the u-shaped bottom railings to keep her chair weighted and the legs from sinking into the sand.
That was illegal. You can't modify the accepted chair standard. He saved that observation and didn't mention it at the time, hoping the three judges on the cliff above had already taken note of it. It would be a penalty of at least two minutes.
“There's the jellyfish, too,” he added.
“So what's the threat from a frickin' jellyfish?”
“They sting. And don't let them sting you on the nose or throat or it will swell up and you won't be able to breathe.”
Again, silence. She stared out into the ocean for a moment, then asked, “Have you ever been swimming in the ocean as you watch a Habu snake go by?” she asked.
“What the heck is a —”
Another wave hits and splashes them on the face. Both spit out foamy, sandy, water as their faces turn red.
“—a Habu?” he finishes.
“A saltwater snake usually found in warmer waters, such as Japan or Okinawa,” she replied.
“Is it poisonous?”
“Naw, just chews the heck out of your nearest appendage. For males, it's a primal terror. Ahem.” She sneered in a way only females can do with such a remark.
“Cute. You made that up, huh?”
“No. Ask any local in Okinawa,” she added.
“Good thing we only have to fear sharks, crabs, and jellyfish here, eh?”
He saw her cringe a bit as they braced for the next wave. This time, it covered their necks. The tide was coming in quick. It was supposed to be an 8.2 today. A smaller wave came and went, barely reaching their ankles.
Guinna looked over, hair displaying bits of seaweed and sand, then commented, “I hear your last challenger was some guy named “RockRod” or some such crap and that he later crawled to shore as soon as the first wave hit his belly.”
Sean could see a big wave coming, and replied, “Well, you better get ready for one that's going to go over your head cause here it comes...”
The salt water slammed into them both, tipping their chairs under the pressure of the wave, but as it receded, both chairs just sank a little lower in the sand but basically held their position. Sean figured his anchoring was better since the stakes went down almost three feet. Guinna's illegal foot pads on her chair base wouldn't really help that much.
In answer to her earlier question, he replied, “Yes, “RockRod” was a twirp from some university in the Willamette Valley that thought his experience in scuba diving would prepare him for this.”
He lied. “RockRod” was a computer programmer with only basic swimming skills. The scuba part he made up to undermine her previous comment about her Anchorage diving.
“He must have been a be—-” she started to say but another wall of water struck them both and rocked them back. Both chairs held fast but rocked in a way that indicated they wouldn't hold out much longer.
“—-been a beginner.” She finished. “Was he wearing water-wings?” she joked.
The water raced back out from the wave and tipped the back legs of Sean's chair and he sank about six inches. He saw that the same had happened to Guinna's illegal chair.
“No, but the seaweed wrapped around his neck and I think that's what did him in.”
Both were sitting in salt water now that covered the legs and u-shaped bottom rails of their chairs. Basalt rocks a little off-shore they saw earlier were now under water continuously.
“Ready to give up, swim in and take a warm shower?” Sean asked.
“No way, dweeb.” She tightened her grip on the arms of her aluminum chair.
“There's no dishonor in recognizing a superior competitor. You gained a lot of prestige in just challenging me.”
“You do smoke something, don't you?” she jabbed.
“As the rules state, ‘nothing but adhering to the seated position in the chair as long as possible and lack of additional breathing apparatus applies’.”
“Yeah, that's what I thought. You're baked.”
“I can assure you that I —”
A wave hit that pelted them with dead crab parts and clusters of whole muscle shells the wave had torn loose from their footings. They were both underwater for about ten seconds. A bullhorn sounded from the judge's cliff above. It signaled a request for both contestants to raise an arm to signal they were still okay.
Neither one of them could hear it under the turbulent noise of the rolling wave.
The horn sounded again. Two lifeguards in wet suits appeared on the sand above them getting ready for a rescue, boards in hand.
As the wave receded and their heads appeared again, a final third horn blast had both of them raise their arms in response.
They gasped for air, but Sean replied, “I only drink coffee. What about you? You floating on anything?”
“On the idea that I'm going to take your title away, dweeb.” She tried adjusting her chair's footing. The stakes were moving. Another foul. You can't move the chair once anchored.
The water quickly receded and fell to below their ankles.
Guinna's hair was filled with ocean foam and she was visibly upset, shaking her head to free the remains of sand and foam.
“Oh, oh. Here comes the big one,” Sean warned.
Guinna looked out to the horizon and saw the stacked, triple-wave rapidly approaching. This could indeed be the seventh one. As it approached, both took in deep breaths to hold until it passed, or until the other competitor shot up out of their chair with the wave motion and swam to shore. The first one to surface would lose. Timing was critical at such a point. The rules were pretty simple; you leave your chair first and surface, you lose.
The tremendous pressure of the wave tore Sean's chair from its fluted stakes. As the water rushed over his head, he tried his best to remain on the aluminum frame but the moving waters prevented him from getting a full seat. After ten seconds underwater, his need for air was quickly becoming critical.
Guinna was in no better shape. Her chair stakes had since been torn loose and the chair was rolling into shore. She, too, was now totally underwater, swimming against the onshore movement of the rolling wave and the flotsam it brought. She knew she had to remain underwater for as long as possible. She knew the rules.
Sean could no longer see his competitor and assumed she had given up as the wave washed her ashore. He surfaced.
A bullhorn sounded: “End of competition!” It was over.
He lost.
Guinna surfaced seconds later and gasped for air, then yelled out, “DWEEB! I got you!”
“You left your chair before I did, bit—”
“Hey, easy on that, Dweeb!” she replied.
“You cheated on your chair's footing and didn't remain in it!” Sean accused. “And, you moved the chair earlier!” he said.
“‘First to surface, first to lose,’ I think the basic rule states,” she countered and continued her side-stroke to shore.
Gary Baney attended college focusing on "Scientific-Technical Communication" but found it incredibly boring. Creative fiction is his preference. He has been published in Funny in 500 and Witcraft among others. He has also written operations manuals for Dollar Rent-A-Car and Budget Rent-A-Car which has inspired him to later write humorous fiction.
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