A Return to the Familiar: Celebrating Laguna's Marine Protected Area

On calm, glassy days in Laguna Beach, I enjoy paddling offshore, diving off my board, and snorkeling around the offshore reefs. These are nearshore formations, still within sight of land, which can be reached on a paddleboard in a matter of minutes. The minor effort of paddling out with my gear in tow can often reap a substantial reward. The reefs, which nearly kiss the surface at low tide, rise from a seabed some 30-40 feet below, and are curtained by thick leafy kelp strands. Often, I find myself alone in these waters, coursing along the tops of the reefs, bobbing and weaving through the sway of the kelp, spying on calico bass, bulbous sheepshead, garibaldi, and busy schools of bait fish. Skimming close to the rock surfaces one finds a variety of reef fish which lie in wait in the crevices, channels, and sea grass. There’s much to see, and the experience -being out on the open water and then plunging beneath the surface to a completely different world, with its own sights, sounds and sensations, is simply mesmerizing. I relish the opportunity to encounter marine life, and, fortunately, I live near a coastline with a thriving marine ecosystem.

In 2015, the Fish and Game Commission in cooperation with the city of Laguna Beach established a Marine Protected Area (MPA) along more than four miles of the city’s shoreline. The no-take zone protects more than six square miles of habitat, including sandy shoreline, rocky intertidal zones, and an offshore zone reaching out to depths of 1,200 feet. The measure, of course, raised the ire of local anglers and commercial fisherman. Local beaches have long hosted a variety of recreational fishing. From the time of my childhood, I remember the figures of our resident fisherman, wading into the surf on cool foggy mornings. It was also a rite of passage for many teenagers to wield a Hawaiian sling and spear a corbina or surfperch in the shallow waters. Not discounting the loss to anglers, the existence and persistence of the MPA has been a gift. Within a few years of its establishment, the abundance and variety of sea life blossomed. The MPA, along with a project to re-establish kelp forests, produced a healthy habitat, and a haven for species to mature and reproduce. The transformation has been astounding, within a few years the numbers and size of the fish exceeded anything I had previously witnessed in our local waters - healthy schools of barred surfperch, large mature kelp bass and sheepshead, as well as numerous sargo, salema porgy, spiny lobsters, white sea bass, leopard sharks and many others.  It’s a good time to be in the water, to submerge in another world: to observe, to interact and to learn.

One of the burdens of our “terrestrial” existence is navigating the constant stream of distractions. The world around us is often too busy and too stimulating to process. However, the ocean may be the world’s largest sensory deprivation chamber. Slipping under the ocean’s surface, there is a confinement of space. What we can see is limited the clarity of the water and the availability of light. Movement is bound not only by sea life and the underwater formations, but also by water pressure and buoyancy. The experience is all encompassing, and, for me, being in the water fosters a certain tranquility, particularly when holding my breath. Under water, I am always in the moment, consumed by what is around me. Upon surfacing and pulling my head out to breath, at least for a fleeting moment, I feel like I am experiencing the world (my world) anew - the brightness of the light, the space between me and the land, as well the quiet and the isolation.

All these factors allow for a moment of reflection, learning, seeing.

Last summer I went snorkeling with a friend’s six-year-old son. Not far from the shoreline, I dove down to course behind a small leopard shark. Within a few seconds, I felt something hit my foot, and looked back behind me. My friend’s son was close behind me, following me through the scattering of eel grass. The amazing thing was the look on his face - it was one of amazement - wide eyed, mouth agape, face frozen in the moment. I thought, somewhere inside of me, I still have the wonderment of my friend’s son. It’s what keeps me going back into the water. The corollary to wonder is commitment. You can’t give up what frequently amazes you.

Most of us know of or have experienced the rite of passage of jumping off a cliff or pier. The experience is liberating - a rush of adrenaline that begins when we let go, fall fleetingly and then impact and push through the water. If you have done this you probably have distinct memories of the rush of the wind, the sound of the splash and the feeling of the water as it pulses over your skin and jets up your nostrils. Contained in these memories is a realization that ever so slightly (or maybe more so depending on the height of the jump) that you were cheating death. You were willing to take a risk on something new, an unknown, and face danger.

It does not feel dangerous every time I go in the water. In fact, it rarely does. But there is always an element of the unknown. And there are always specific feelings - sights and sounds which I seek out and relish. Somehow, the space beneath the water is so otherworldly, it always feels like experiencing something anew. After many dives, swims, paddles, as well as surfing, windsurfing, and bodysurfing, the ocean may be familiar- a friend, an ally, even a life source, but is still not my native world.

Entering the ocean is entering a world without gravity - both literally and figuratively. A world where we can both float and sink. Immersion offers an escape, as well as a return to the familiar. We all arrived from a liquidy beginning. We pushed out of that amniotic sac, venturing to take on the outside world, and carve out our existence on terra firma. Journeying back into the water, we invite ourselves to become weightless, and, hopefully, to clear our mental slate and find new perspectives on the world around us. I recommend following the path of my friend’s young son. Commit to diving down into the ocean with eyes wide open, ready to experience what this nearly fantastical world will offer.

David Womack is the author of Mountain Bike! Orange County and The Stand-Up Paddler’s Guide to Southern California. He lives and works in Laguna Beach.