Mountain Man's Global News Archive Death of a Sandbar Foondoggy (alt.surfing)
Web Publication by Mountain Man Graphics, Australia

Death of a Sandbar

Date: Tue Jun 09 07:06:25 1998
From: Foondoggy (wfover@nist.gov)
Newsgroups: alt.surfing
Subject: Death of a Sandbar

I didn't know it very long, but I knew it well. After 4 nice sessions in
middlin to good surf and a walkabout on a super lowtide afternoon, I'd
pretty much mapped the luscious wide, and smooth strip of sand that
fronted the Foonbunker. I was jonesing for a good swell to try out it's
left hander that dumped into the deep and dangerous ripcurrent that
lurked nearby.

Friday night, after staying too long at party I didn't want to be at
(though the food was superb) I declared to MrsFoon and an out of town
guest, I had oceanlust and had to drive to the beach. We all clammered
into the truck and spent 3 hours listening to 60s RnR during the ride.
The traffic was very light and the long dark roads sped under the wheels
making me somewhat introspective.  I had an ominous feeling after
hearing the Doors, "This is the End."

I knew the surf forecast was bleak, but the weekend weather report had
promised a cool and refreshing two days. I thought maybe we'd get lucky.
Arriving at 2:00 am, I was totally unprepared for the shock that struck
me as I motored up the hurricane shutters at the bunker. Spread out
before me was a nightmare of sound and motion as a giant ant farm of
workers from the Beach Replenishment Project toiled nonstop through the
night to murder my beloved sandbar.

The beach was lit up like daylight from giant kliegs and the headlights
from 4 huge Catapiller tractors that move ceaselessly back and forth up
and down the beach in front. The roar of powerful diesels, the clanking
of tractor tracks grating and screeching in the sand, the incessant
beeping of the backup signals from the tractors (I'm talkin loud and
irritating BEEP BEEP BEEEP BEEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEEEEP!!!!) and
the stench of diesel exhaust guaranteed there would be no sleep at the
bunker that night. I apologized to my guest, put her in a bedroom at the
other side of the building from the noise, and fixed her a nightcap with
the kick of a mule (151 Rum and OJ) hoping it would put her out of her
misery. I whipped up a mug of Irish Coffee, grabbed a bag of doublestuff
Oreos, put on some latenight, high volume, heavy metal station and
settled down on the balcony to watch the end of a dream.

In fact, the process of Beach Replenisment is amazing. From a sweep
barge and pumping platform a few miles out in the ocean, a huge pipe
connects them to a system of 36 inch steel pipes along the beach. It is
a miracle of modern technology. Running two legs of these giant pipes on
the beach, the force of the sand and water being pumped to beach creates
a huge fountain of spewage about 15 feet high. The water conveys the
sand onto the beach and runs off, the remaining new sand is moved and
sculpted by the goddamn tractors into a nice new w  i  d  e beach. Twice
as wide as the old one, and there in lies the problem.  The noise is
deafening and the crew works round the clock. The sand piles up, the
tractors go back and forth and back and forth. The surveyors move around
with their little poles and lasers checking the height of the sand. I
cry silently into my coffee.

By glorious dawn, the nightmare is almost over. The pipes are extended
down the beach, the noise is still there, the spewing fountain of sand
and water can still be seen, and the tractors and fuel trucks can still
be heard. But I am now looking at a massive expanse of newly groomed
sand that seems to stretch to the horizon. It is perfect, except for the
zillion tractor tracks that give it a nice textured appearance. Without
any sleep, I grab a straight cup of coffee and trudge down to look at my
new beach.

As I walk along the water's edge, even though it's almost high tide, I
am amazed at the precision with which the crew have doubled the size of
the beach. Poles with pink flags are arranged in ever decreasing heights
along the beach to create a precise surface that is exactly 16 feet
below the line of the dune that the crew has also created. Thousands of
newly dredged sea mussels gasp in the air on the surface, wondering what
kind of drug induced Disney nightmare ride they've taken, sucked from
their breeding beds in the middle of the night to be jettisoned along a
4 mile tunnel of pipe, only to be flung in air and then crushed by a 10
ton tractor.

I know the reason for this replenishment, all the arguments have been
hashed and rehashed in the local papers. The town is the beach and
without it, it would cease to exist. Long live the beach. And it will.
The state and county are already budgeting for future and necessary
replenishment, scheduled at 3-5 year intervals. They know it's a
Sisyphean task (look it up you meatheads) that will and must be done,
until someday Huey says, "Enough!!!" and sends a storm that will wipe
the slate clean and destroy the island. (I hope I'm not around when that
happens).

As I stand at the water's edge, the sun just barely peeking up over the
horizon, I look at the new and beautiful beach. A young couple has
brought down their early rising children who are already squealing in
delight and playing in the new fluffy sand. In the distance I hear the
cacaphony of sound as the tireless machines perform their duty. I look
back at the Foonbunker and stare. Slowly, through the fatigue and
disgust of the night's events my senses tell me the real truth. At that
very spot, I am standing on what was yesterday the outer edge of my
favorite sandbar. It now exists somewhere about 10 feet below me,
dormant, buried, and I hope, Pissed as shit. My only hope is that an
early season storm comes and takes back about a third of the precious
sand that was snatched away from the ocean. Otherwise this season will
be spent logging a lot of hours in the truck, looking for waves and
visiting friends in other places.

I spit what was left of my tepid coffee out and trudge off the beach
with a really bad taste in my mouth.

Save your flames about property owners like me and all that shit. I've
heard it all before and I'm not in the mood right now.


-Frustrated Foon  wfover@nist.gov

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