Jules, A.K.A Jacques Cousteau

One summer, when I was in middle school, I took a trip to an island off the coast of San Diego called San Clemente. The San Diego natives, or anyone who has read any travel brochure for the area, should be familiar with its neighboring island, Catalina. Catalina is to San Clemente what the Hilton is to, let's say, Motel 6—both serve the same function, just with different amenities.

What makes me think back on this trip are some photos I recently unearthed. I had long since parted with the memory of the cool water and sharp barnacles, but stumbling upon these relics brings me back to a time where I felt like a modern day adventurer.  

Directly behind me you can see where the Pacific meets the island. Large boulders that crashed into the ocean bordered this side of the island and it is between these enormous obstacles that we would launch into the cool water. With a snorkel and fins outfitted, I would wait for a small swell to lift me and pull me out. In a dash I would navigate my way around the sharp rocks as the receding water propelled my small body at incredible speeds out and into the crackling bliss of snorkeling nirvana. It should be noted that not every launch went smoothly. More times than not, I would bang against the sharp barnacles clumped to the side of the boulders, or get dragged along the top of one by the sucking water, leaving my stomach or back streaked with stinging cuts. It was worth it though. The waters were a new world to me. I would swim until the shivering got to be too much, return to a warm rock, like in the photo below, and wait until I was warm enough to go again.

One man, whom I had never met before this trip, would take me out where none of the other young Scouts were allowed to go—beyond the kelp barrier that circled the island. His name was Jules.
Side note: The towel in this photo is one that I still own. I stored it in the depths of my closet for years, and use it from time to time when I give my dog a bath. He cannot understand the poetry of it, but using it to dry him off makes me smile.

Jules was a kind man. He had a New Zealand accent and was put in charge as Life Guard for the younger boys. He witnessed the endless parade of my attempts, and deserves credit for capturing these moments. I believe Jules saw how the water transformed me. As I would warm up on a rock and go through all that I had just seen in my head, reliving the sounds of the ocean, he would smile and tell me a new bit of information on the local flora and fauna. The orange fish were called Garibaldis he would say. Every chance he could catch me warming up on a rock he would teach me something new.

It was a few days into the trip that he assigned one of the elder Scouts with Lifeguard duty and took me out to the edge. I had never experienced anything quite like it, and still to this day have not had the same opportunity to literally crawl, on my hands and knees almost, over such thick kelp. There were brief moments of panic when my hand would push through as I made my way. The world turned a little dark as the slimy kelp swallowed me, but Jules was always right there to fight back the tentacles. Once we pushed through and swam freely on the other side, he would point to something under the water. We would both surface take off our snorkels and Jules would explain what it was. We would tread water, talk about it, and then move on. It was like having Jacques Cousteau there as a teacher in an oceanic classroom, with just me as his student.

While we were on the island we got to eat dinner every night at a mess hall. The hall was used by the Military. What the Military does best is make chocolate pudding! To fuel my tiny body, I would load up on this pudding. Two, three, sometimes four servings of the chocolate goodness. Oh my goodness was it delicious. I cannot remember why the Military owned the island, or how the Scout Troop I was in got permission to stay in one of the barracks, but at the time I did not care. So long as I could eat pudding I was happy.

The trip wasn't all about snorkeling though. On one afternoon we took a trip to the other side of the island in a white passenger van. The roads on the island were paved for the most part. The landscape was a beautiful tawny flow of shrubbery that moved with the wind, and as we drove along, the van would bob over the uneven surface. We rounded a corner and that magnificent azure water went on for infinity. The shoreline was very different on this side of the island. It was gradually slopped down to the water's edge, and even the ocean was gentle. It blanketed the cove like a comfortable shirt.

I cannot recall the lesson we were taught that afternoon about the Abalone but I do remember the beautiful colors. I was enamored with how a creature could decorate the inside of its home with such amazing pearlescent colors. This, as a child, was mind blowing. It rang inside my head like church bells. My mind would drift away from the colors, and like clockwork, the bells would chime inside my head, and how it looked when I held it in my hand would come back to me.

There is one last thing I remember about the island worth mentioning. A large part of my childhood was spent outdoors, and a favorite thing of mine to do while outdoors was fish. The island had a pier that went far out into the ocean, about 15 minutes away from the snorkeling spot. I would walk there with my fishing pole and cast bare hooks into the water. Sometimes I would get nothing, and other times get lucky and snag one of the thousands of bait fish that used the dock as a safe haven from larger fish. Jules was also a fisherman and I found him at the pier that day casting out a line. He told me about the "flying fish" and asked if I had ever seen one. I laughed and said he was a funny person. In his Kiwi accent he replied with a serious answer that he was not pulling my leg. Flying fish were real!

To hear him explain that these fish used flight as a way to avoid ending up as food for a larger fish was impressive to me. He explained to me that they were not good eating, but were fun to observe. No way! I kept repeating. He nodded his head and said "Mhmm!" We laughed and that's how I learned some fish can fly.

Those days spent on that island, free and able to swim as much as I wanted, hold a special place in my memory box. If I could find Jules and tell him that I remember the trip and all that he said to me, I would tell him thank you.