Ahrens close call

Context: Carl has been commissioned by an American author to paint illustrations for a book on the
California missions. While he is still not free to marry Madonna, she has joined him on the trip out west, and is now several months pregnant. At this point in the book they are traveling from Ventura to Santa Barbara by the coast road. A fisherman warned them about one harrowing stretch of road where they could easily be caught by an incoming tide and have no escape route. He told the best time to cross the bay, and they are attempting to follow his directions.

Carl and Madonna set out for Santa Barbara at three in the morning, which allowed an extra hour to reach their destination. Navigating in the impenetrable darkness of a cold, California night proved treacherous. Their lantern illuminated Billy’s rump and little else. Following the shoreline of the ocean was like chasing an elusive lover while blindfolded. The sound of the waves should always come from their left, yet at times it came from everywhere, echoing off the cliffs, and nowhere at all, when they rounded calmer bays. Still other times it seemed the sea roared beneath them. Carl tried not to imagine how far they might fall.

They arrived at seven in the morning. The tide washed in and out of the bay, but appeared to recede, the road clearly visible. Rugged bluffs banked by boulders the size of motor cars rose vertically from the sea floor in imposing shades of green, gray and black. Behind them, the landscape reminded him of crumpled paper with its random patterns of mountains and valleys, all blanketed with chaparral. Millions of parched scrub oaks screaming for a hint of moisture – at least that’s how he would paint them. The cool breeze tasted of sunshine and salt. The sea appeared a mosaic of a thousand blues, some of which touched a nerve so deep he nearly forgot to breathe. Madonna dozed beside him, seated upright. He ached at the thought of how tired she must be, and chose a careful path down to the shore so as not to wake her.

Once inside the bowl of the bay, he discovered the distance across would be much further than it had appeared from above. Instinct told him to encourage a quicker gait, but the wagon’s wheels sunk into the sand. Billy strained against the added friction. Carl feared tiring him long before they reached the other side; he let Billy pick the pace. The road followed the curve of the shoreline, and within moments high cliffs flanked them on three sides. Claustrophobia threatened when he noticed a shattered wagon wheel trapped between two boulders, a silent memorial to the man drowned here last week, or perhaps one of the many others lost in a string of tragedies that stretched back at least a century. Perhaps their spirits congregated on the top of the cliff in front of them.

In the distance, the roar of an engine ceased. Madonna stirred, rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Why are those people waving at us?”

Not ghosts then. She saw them, too. Carl cleared his throat to dislodge his panic, and wrapped the reins around his wrists in preparation of what was sure to come. They had been gravely misled.
Billy squealed and leapt sideways to avoid the first wave that crossed their path. Carl made no attempt to slow the bolting horse. He focused instead on keeping Billy’s head aimed at the place where the road climbed out of the bay. A second wave came. A third. Each time they receded less until the road remained submerged.

Billy charged closer to the boulders. If he rammed them a wheel would shatter. A pregnant woman and a crippled man stood no chance of survival. Their only hope depended on Carl’s ability to persuade Billy to walk through the water.

“Take the reins.” Carl enfolded her fingers around them with his own before she could protest.
“Keep the pressure steady on the left one.”

He eased himself from the driver’s seat down onto the wagon shaft. He sat astride it for balance and inched his way toward the horse, constantly speaking to Billy so he would not be startled by Carl’s hand on his rump. Icy water rose to his knees. The current threatened to drag him from his perch.

“He’s too strong, Carl. We’re going to hit—”

A wheel on the opposite side of the wagon bumped into a boulder. Carl had intended to chance a leap onto Billy’s back, but he had no time now. He latched onto the harness and plunged into the rising tide. Relieved to find the water rose only to mid thigh, he thought he could withstand the pull long enough to reach Billy’s head. A breaking wave dragged him under, rained a punishing blow to his back, and spat him back out. When he emerged, he found himself several feet from the wagon. Another wave approached.

“Keep driving, Madonna,” he shouted just before it knocked him under.