Mornin’ (again),

From a distance it looked like a large piece of driftwood washed up on pristine South Beach at Pt. Reyes National Seashore. Another of these enormous pieces of wood that I had photographed just a year ago when I was here still remained in the spot the ocean’s tide had chosen as its resting place. Yet this one’s curved shaped made me curious, and I left my husband, Brian Altman, behind to take pictures of the pounding surf to wander closer and investigate.

Suddenly, the right side of it moved – an inhale and an exhale – it was a living creature. Closer still I ventured and when it heaved its massive head off the sand and opened its enormous and alert eyes in my direction I stopped cold. There was a reddish wound on the middle of its back, sand and fly-encrusted, multiple war scars down its backside and along its tail. This sea creature had survived many wars, but perhaps not this time, I thought, as it seemed to be ill and dying. There was an odd “S” shape down by his tail, a brand…he was a tracked animal.

I walked around it and noticed a swath of mammal track up from water’s edge, suggesting that perhaps it hadn’t been involuntarily deposited upon the beach by the force of the water, but rather had chosen its resting place instead. I walked up to it, inhale, exhale, the head lifting and laying back down again, its huge brown eyes opening and closing, opening and closing, taking me in with every blink.

I couldn’t take a picture of a dying animal, it felt too strange to me. There were only a handful of people on the beach and I turned to see if anyone else had noticed. No one seemed to, or else this was such a common occurrence no one cared. Or perhaps death is more acceptable and normal to more frequent beach goers than I am. I had seen dead beached whales on the Eastern seashore, but I had never seen a not-dead-yet ocean beast of this size so far up from water’s edge.

There was nothing I could do, and I turned away to rejoin my husband. Our simple peaceful morning by ocean’s side had come to a sobering end. As we slowly slogged through the sand toward our car, a park ranger clambered down the rocks onto the beach with a sign. I walked up to him and asked the fate of the wounded animal.

“Will the tide come in and wash him back out to sea?”

“He’ll get back in the water all by himself,” the ranger said. “He’s fine. They do this at this time of year. It’s breeding season. The males engage in aggressive territory and dominance battles, and this one probably hauled himself out of the water to take a break.”

“But he’s bleeding,” I protested.

“That’s normal when these males fight with one another. Don’t kid yourself. He might look like he’s in bad shape, but he’s very dangerous and aggressive and he will charge you. He can run faster than you can. But I’ll go check him out to make sure he’s not seriously injured.”

We stood there as he made a wide circle around the seal, checking him out – for some reason, the seal never lifted its head in the presence of the ranger (perhaps they were old friends?) – who came back to us and said, “He’s fine. Thanks for your concern and enjoy your day on South Beach.”

Then I read the warning not to get closer than 300 feet. I didn’t want to think about what might have happened had my sentimentality and ignorance led me to actually stoop down and have a face-to-face chat with this giant fellow.

Moral of the story:  Boys Will Be Boys!

Alternative Moral of the Story: Sometimes Girls aren’t So Smart When in the Presence of Over-Sexed Boys.

Enjoy your own day, wherever you are, and thanks for reading.

Giselle

Pictures of the seal, courtesy of Brian Altman. I took the picture of the Seal Warning myself.