The Killing Ocean

(Wed, Mar 22, 2000)
by Bob Wunner

Mid March 2000. Vesta takes me to the Burre Center in Eureka just before 8 on a Tuesday morning. I walk down the sidewalk with my backpack against traffic. I liked the feeling. I was a free at last. I wondered if the motorists saw more than another sad case of homelessness?

In 15 minutes I reached Joan's house. I repacked there to show her what I had and so I would be ready to go at the trailhead. We reviewed our plan: drive to Ferndale then take the Wildcat Road to Petrolia then walk the Windy Pt. Jeep Road down to 4 mile Creek and the Lost Coast trail. Our camp would be somewhere near Punta Gorda Lighthouse.

Crossing the Eel I had a thought for breakfast in Ferndale. Maybe the Blue Room Cafe at Arlynda Corners would work. But not today, the building was empty. Likewise not finding a spot in Ferndale for breakfast we kept going. Large breakers rolled in on the Davis Creek stretch. Even "Home Cooking" at the Hideaway in Petrolia couldn't stop us. We were ready to get out of the car at the Windy Point access gate. The jeep road was locked until April 1, according to a sign.

The approximately two mile trail down to the beach is relatively flat for the first mile, then a gradual downslope, then steep. Today at the end of the flat part when we hit the Fourmile Creek divide, I had the idea of following it rather than the road--after all a road is for motor vehicles. It seemed a good idea and this way we had stunning views in both directions.

As we came to the steep nose of the bluff I turned off to the Fourmile side to a cow trail. The ground got very steep. In addition red fingers of poison oak leaves were pushing out all over the ground. It wasn't until we hit the path along the water line to the cabins at Fourmile that the crisis was lessened. At Fourmile Cr. a log crossing required gymnastic talents. It would be a lot safer to wade across.

The cabin where Vesta and I had stayed was gone. It had been an important shelter. I guess now, with increased use, abandoned cabins are liabilities.

Passed the Punta Gorda Lighthouse without even going up to look at it. and looked for places to unpack our stuff. After searching up and down the beach we chose a log 'shelter' and set up our tent in it. The place came equipped with a full box of 16 gauge shotgun shells. Willow Creek was right beside the camp. The wind was up and the tent flapped even after we had gone around tying it down a couple of times.

We spent the rest of the day exploring an abundance of sea shells and objects discarded at sea, often plastic. The next tributary south had 2 waterfalls. The tide was low in the afternoon. Many clear shallow tidepools filled with critters were revealed. Near sunset we went up to look at the Punta Gorda Lighthouse.

Waves rolled in with tremendous force. Joan brought a variety of snacks and basic foods that made my last minute grabs of dried curried lentils and potatoes, and teabags seem less than survival rations.

At night it was not cold but sleeping was difficult, as the flapping of the tent against the logs of the enclosure was annoying. I imagined waking up in the wash of a wave and not being able to get out as the logs around the tent became buoyant. It was a relief some time early in the morning when the wind died down.

In the morning scanning south we could see another party near the ruins of the cabin a couple of miles away. We packed food for the day, a couple of mats, the alcohol stove and headed south.

There was no hurry and stops were made at every overlook to take in the views and look for future camps. Near the upper end of the Sea Lion Gulch bluff by the stream we drank tea while considering the ocean. Then we heard what sounded like someone yelling for help from the ocean; it puzzled us for a few minutes until we isolated the noise: sea lions. One was on top of a large sea stack, others were trying to haul out on it too, but they kept getting washed off by the swell and waves breaking over the rock. There was a lot of barking going on.

Resuming the walk we followed the trail down into the mini canyon of the gulch. Crossing the small stream that ran through it took careful walking. We came out at the ocean.

Waves pounded all the way to the cliffs which we had to pass by. The next half a mile would challenge the walking we had done. For a minute I wondered if it was a good idea to risk crossing at this tidal stage. However as we had light packs and judging from a snowshoe trip we had made to Horse Mt. last week, I thought we could manage boulder hopping and swift moving. On several promontorys we rested and watched waves serge inundating the way. We closely observed how long a stretch was free of water and how fast we had to move. Nevertheless halfway through one cliff a wave caught us with no place to go. Mostly me, white froth all around, my shirt wet to my heart. I clung to the rock like a limpet. It left me with sand all over. Baptized and with our weather eye's fully open we moved faster with wet feet, at the same time somewhat surer, to an exit near a tributary alluvial fan. A large landslide visible in its headwaters was supplying all the sediment it could handle.

The wind was up now. Climbing to a citadel-like place with rock walls we looked down the rocky stretch we had covered with some pride and great respect. With binoculars I noticed a pack by a flat spot in the trees up the creek. A good place to camp sometime.

The landmark barn Bill and I had stayed in, the place where I had waited for Areay in the fog, flattened mostly, blown down. Someone had told me that a few years ago, but now I could see for myself. Being in that thing when the wind blew was scary. I'm glad it was empty when it went down. A couple of long boards precariously held up a last corner of roof--still dangerous to be around. Joan found a sheath knife.

At the cabin I told Joan that this was my inheritance; it wasn't much but it was a fixer upper and had plenty of good features: it was already wired, had the window and door openings cut out and there was plenty of space for animals. She wanted to move in, but it was too high class. We moved down to the ravine and out of the wind.

What a surprise! Smoke rising from smoldering logs in a firepit welcomed us. Joan quickly built it to a crackling fire; soon our wet clothes were drying, and curried lentils and potatoes, spinach and beans were cooking. In addition she brought homemade granola bars. It was a great place to watch the ocean. We practiced using the compass to take bearings off the topographic map. Flocks of gulls kept flying over. It seemed like the same group going back and forth. I kept imagining a Mattole encampment here. And I also remembered the time Eli and I stayed here, each of us holding down a tent pole much of the night. Today a couple of hours went by fast. I looked down the coast to Cooskie Creek, and imagined the fine walk to Spanish Flat, but it was time to head back North on this trip.

On the beach a large sea lion with grey fur lay rotting, flies buzzed around it; where the fur was abraded the skin was a bright orange red. Joan thought gulls had plucked out its eyes. The way back was fast. The tide was out and sandy beach was exposed in many places where we rock hopped before. We kept to the beach even beneath Sea Lion Bluff. Coming off the beach shingle to the coastal bluff trail we met two men and a woman headed south. They asked us how it was ahead and how far to the next camp? They were in a hurry as they wanted to keep ahead of a large party behind them.

I wondered about what these people had said as I didn't see anyone for awhile. But as our camp came into view we met 3 hikers without packs. They asked us about camping places ahead. We pointed to the cabin site that we had just come from--which looked a long ways away now--and told them there was not much in between. Also in the morning the tide was going to be pretty high. One person said they had 9 days to make the trip; they were going to Black Sands Beach.

Continuing towards our camp we came to the rest of their party about 15 people conferring. Most were high school age and it seemed that the number of men and women was fairly equal; and they had pretty good equipment: treking poles, good packs. Their dress was a la mode, including a range of hair styles. One person had parts of a U.S. Forest Service outfit, as if he had traded stuff while fighting a fire somewhere. They were deciding on what to do. I showed the people who had asked us about the trail ahead my tidal book guide that plotted the tides in an hourly wave, with moonrise and moonset thrown in. One person asked me where I got it. I said, in Arcata. My impression was that the person didn't know where Arcata was. They decided to camp at Punta Gorda right below the lighthouse in a large windy flat.

Back at our camp the first thing we did was to move the tent. The wind was up and it was tricky getting it tied down while flapping. Fortunately Joan knew how to handle her end and we got it up. The anchors were much better and I added two more guy lines on each side. Now it was pleasant to be inside without the constant flapping. We built a campfire and sat around and cooked up the last of our food. Turning in I put out a small oil lantern. It was surprising when the light went out the tent got brighter. The full moon lit it up. During the night I went out to see the sea appear shellacked in the moonlight.

Up at dawn, we collapsed the tent, and after tea we were off. The sun was shining at the lighthouse and the people were out of their tents cooking breakfast. A short distance before Fourmile Creek I noticed a trail marker, new to me, labeled 'Cooskie Creek' trail; it headed up a road to the coastal bluff and looked like it would have good views. Fourmile Creek was still high and the crossing was still tricky. A man who lived in the cabin was on a firewood run as we came along and hurriedly scurried inside the cabin to avoid making contact. I noticed similar behavior when we passed coming in a couple of days ago.

The road up from the beach was steep, a very good test of endurance; if I did it everyday....The only way to keep going was to tell stories--in between breaths. The first plateau of the coastal bluff provided a spectacular view of the ocean and north up the coast. We both thought we saw, at different times, whale spouts but couldn't be positive. At the car we congratulated each other on a fine trip.


Times Standard Sunday 26 Mar. 2000. On Saturday 25 March a group of hikers from Calgary, Alberta had been hiking along Black Sands Beach about 2 miles from Shelter Cove when around 12:35 pm waves estimated at 10 feet high sent a woman into the choppy surf, according to the Coast Guard. Evidently 2 people went in trying to save the woman, and as it developed 2 others then went in to rescue the others. Eventually all 5 were sucked out to sea by a powerful undertow. The Coast Guard and a local fishing boat rescued 3 of the people by about 2 pm. Of these a woman in her 40's was declared dead, and a man believed to be 37 was unconscious, the second survivor was believed to be a 17 year old boy.

Times Standard 28 Mar. 2000 David Elton and Brodie MacDonald both 17 jumped into the icy Pacific to rescue Barbara Clement, 45. A rogue wave had swept away the woman. The waves typically roll out of sequence with other smaller breakers and often rush much higher on the beach without warning. Barbara Clement's daughter, Cynthia, 17, watched as her mother was swept away.The bodies of the two boys remained missing Monday.

The three were part of a group of 18 Canadian students and six adults who had traveled from Aberhart High School in Calgary to hike along the isolated coast. Ron Byram of Calgary, uncle of MacDonald, watching the surf crash on the steep beach Monday afternoon with his daughter Amy, said perhaps his nephew and the others should not have been hiking in the area at all. "They put these kids in a beautiful spot that's dangerous as hell, and now their little boy is dead."

A Coast Guard motor boat from Noyo River joined in the search. Sheriffs deputies at the scene had problems relaying information back to the main station because of radio dead spots. The first Coast Guard helicopter dispatched from Mckinleyville had to break off the search because of a warning "chip light" for a gear box. Also a Coast Guard boat from Eureka had to return early because of mechanical problems.

The tragedy is further documented in the Independent of Southern Humboldt March 27, 2000. Forty-five minutes passed from the time Clement had been taken by the wave when Winkler Johnson and his wife Marie arrived on the scene in an 18 foot fiberglass skiff in response to the Coast Guard's call for help. They saw two bodies one of which may have still had a backpack on floating face down in the water just beyond the surf line. They moved on in search of survivors. The found Nixon barely alive with his nose still above water, about 100 yards offshore in about 15 feet of water just beyond the surf line. Ten to 20 foot swells threatened to capsize the boat. The pulled the boy aboard. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, had sand in his ears and stones in his one remaining shoe. "I don't think he would have made it another five minutes," Winkler said, "He was in pretty tough shape.

A commercial fisherman, Don Sack also in an 18 foot-long fiber glass skiff reached the scene from 7 miles north and found the surf beaten body of Clement. He was unable to bring the body into the boat so he pulled her to the Blackhawk, a fishing vessel owned by Ft. Bragg crabber Jim Ponto. Sack returned to the breaking surf where he spotted Poirier, described as a large man 250 pounds or more who was fighting the current about 25 feet offshore. Screaming at the top of his lungs he got Poirier's attention. Freak swells came up every 10 to 15 minutes. Sack threw Poirier a rope which he grabbed, "with his last ounce of strength." Sack had to keep repositioning his boat into the waves to keep from capsizing.. He pulled Poirier out beyond the breaking surf. There another fisherman boarded his vessel and helped him pull the large man out of the 48 degree water. Sack put his rain gear on Poirier who was hypothermic and incoherent. By the time they reached shore Poirier was able to stand up in the boat and get out.

Sack said, "It's an absolute miracle that Poirier survived. He must've been in the water for about an hour. He'd swallowed a lot of water and he was bloody from his knees down to his toes from being beaten by the surf. I'll never forget the look on his face. It was like I was his guardian angel."

Sack said, "We just did what any other fisherman would do. It's the code of the sea that when someone's in danger, you respond. Luckily I'm an old crabber and knew the surf."

Tidal level at Shelter Cove at 12:35 on 25 March is predicted at about 2.2 feet--about half way between the day's low (0.8) and high tide (4.2).