Back in the days when the Sand Island Light had a house, a boat landing dock and access, we would secretly visit on rare occasions when sea conditions allowed. We inspected for trash, vandalism and damage as unofficials gaurdians when the magic prism lens was still in place. The famous lighthouse off Dauphin Island was and remains a treasure of maritime history and engineering. It marked a sweeping current and shoal channel at the mouth of Mobile Bay known for Dr. Brown’s secret monster bull redfish spot, miles of sand island sanctuary that included a real ship wreck, giant sand and tiger sharks, and damn the torpedos full steam ahead. Every fishing family has a story of jumping sailfish and tarpon off the rocks, goats on the rocks or the memory of the light when it shone in the night. We still have the Formwalt lighthouse painting. Today Capt. Hal Pierce and Jim Hall and Thompson Engineering are trying to save it. But one day our visit became a story of survival at sea.
Three of use wound up the amazing wrought iron spiral staircase inside the cool airconditioned feeling brick cocoon. Bricks stacked tiny in the hundreds of thousands. Bricks like inlaid marble square designs in Government Street mansions. Confederate bricks and wrought iron rusty spiral stairs miles up toward the light, the sparkling jewel, the prisim, the sky, the sun.
The breathtaking view and wind is next to spiritual, the rush of a fast beating heart from the exhausting climb, the sun burn, the excitement, the secret… Tiny below was our small boat, anchored off the rocks where we swam in. As soon as we looked down our tiny boat began skipping its anchors over the rocks on the bottom as the rapid swift outgoing current sent the boat out to sea!
Like the teenage kids we were we went screaming down the spiral, like down a spiraling drain, down the stairs, before the boat vanished and we were trapped. Stay here! we bravely told the girl in the bathing suit, as we dove in the water to swin after the boat with the current and easily within reach of our experienced fit swimmer bodies. In the two boys dove, with nothing but our bathing suits. We started swimming and quickly were catching up with the boat, until the anchor caught bottom again. Suddenly, 5 seconds later, we were swept wide past the boat, looked at each other, and whispered, oh shit. I looked back at the boat, now anchored, leaving us behind, as we were swept out to sea. Stay here, I’ll swim back to the boat, the star athlete of the two said and he bolted toward the boat. Swimming like on a treadmill against the current, after 10 seconds he looked up, further from the boat despite the effort. He stopped and in seconds was back on the rushing train track, with me, out to sea. Further back was the girl, tan and still, holding just our last three beers, still in the plastic 6 pack. What do I do she screamed! Just stay there we motioned. No sense in you drowning too.
We now call the story bouy swimming, sort of an unofficial title and joke at how stupid young brave men can be. We were headed due South out into the vast Gulf of Mexico. The ship channel bouys became distant one by one. We surveyed the horizon 360 degrees and on the summer weekday late afternoon there were no boats. Zero. No gas wells. No life jackets. Nothing. How do you spell tread water. How long can you three beers down, tread water?
We were good swimmers so treading water 15 minutes was no problem. Our highschool math began to kick in with clarity that far surpassed our grades. The current was the vortex headed this way with us, the lighthouse became a cigar on the horizon. The clock and miles were ticking a consistent beat that matched our swift heart beat. We were leaving and losing fast. Time was not on our science. Math, geometry, algebra was not on our side. Nor was science, biology, or chemistry. All we could do was point at the next bouy near us and start swimming. After less than 60 seconds, our direction or vortex toward the bouy against the vortex against the current at an angle defeated us, the bouy was behing us, fast as in a blink. We had missed that instant course calculation by a mile. I should have paid attention in class.
So we got together and dreaded water to save our last bit of strength. We had a calm frank short discussion. F**k. What the f**k are we going to do now. The last bouy off in the distant was a half mile away. We looked again 360 degrees, swimming straight up in the air briefly like trick porpise rasing our head to see above the waves. No boats. No nothing. A lighthouse now the size of a used pencil, a sea bouy, called farewell bouy by the merchant ship captains, the size of a toy, and a sun, a golden ball, thinking of setting into the water. Ok the mind calculates with clear, calm and quick precision, our last hope is to swim away from the last bouy in a direction that may land us on a collion course with the future patch of the current. One vortex, the sea moving south 2.5 miles per hour. Two very sober boys swimming at 3 miles per hour away from the bouy but in line where their course, at an angle against the sea current vortex, could somehow collide the two vortex courses in a rae moment of getting the math right. We agreed, the athlete took off, with the little brother following behind.
After swimming for several minutes fatigue began to set in. The sun began to bounce unsteady back and forth a top the horizon like a bouncing ball. The surreal bobbing ball like our two bobbing heads was not comforting. Were we dreaming? I looked after my brother and he is swimming out to sea, alone, lost, ahead of me, but in ther wrong direction. I saw in the newspaper a tiny article on page 3 metro “two boys drown in gulf”, we couldnt even rate a big headline. Stop, I awoke and yelled to him, you are going the wrong way. He looked back, a little confused, and very concerned. We were facing death, up close and personal.
(to be continued)