SOUNDING OFF:Revelations at low tide in Laguna

Tuesday, Dec. 5, will forever be etched in my mind as the most remarkable day I’ve experienced in Laguna. I’ve been kayaking these waters both professionally and recreationally for 7 years, and I’ve never seen a day like this.

One thing that gets me out there time and again is that no two days are alike. I delight in measuring the subtle differences in light, texture, wind and color. But this day was imperial indeed.

It’s ironic that the same weather pattern that creates horrific fires to the east of us has such a gentle, caressing effect on us.

From the minute the sun rose, the ocean was different. It had a velvety sheen, smooth, and glassy. It beckoned boaters, swimmers, divers, paddlers. They were all there — the ocean’s gravity pulling them away from their normal routines.

By the time I paddled out of Fisherman’s Cove it was late afternoon. The tide was -1.4, so shallow I had to drag my boat across a reef to get it into deep enough waters for flotation.

A half-dozen spear fishers were standing knee deep in the water, holding their spears aloft and looking straight down. Really no sport at all. Kinda like clubbing baby seals. I couldn’t quite understand until I began paddling.

The water was absolutely translucent — the clearest I have ever seen. I paddled toward splash rock — normally where the foam boarders line up to catch the waves as they crash over the reef — and for the first time I could see straight to the bottom. It was placid, an inviting turquoise contour of sand.

Caribbeanesque. I made my way through the reef. With the extremely low tide, what normally appeared to be one big rock was now divided into three different sections that I could paddle through.

I headed south toward Main Beach. As I crossed Divers Cove into Rockpile, I found myself looking straight down instead of around me. The show was right below.

Schools of fish, hundreds strong, were dancing and darting everywhere. Where one could usually see only murk, there were clear sight lines to the bottom — perhaps 20 to 30 feet. Every reef, rock, strand of kelp was exposed. The Pacific felt alive like never before.

Crossing the reef near the Heisler time capsule I could actually paddle though a rock arch, ducking under, like entry to the Blue Grotto in Capri. In fact, I discovered all kinds of new contours in the reef sections to paddle through.

I made my turn at Bird Rock, slicing through the narrow channel that at this tide looked as steep as the White Cliffs of Dover.

It was hard to maneuver out because the reef now extended from Main Beach all the way to the rock. Now I headed north to Seal Rock. I got a police escort from a rogue band of sea lions, who seemed just as amazed at the conditions.

Maybe it was me, but the cormorants, pelicans and gulls all seemed to be reveling in the calm, caressing, warm December day. They were out in force; swooping, lazing, lollygagging.

Seal Rock was it’s usual delight; swarms of sea lions doing what they do best, nothing, and allowing me to get closer than ever before. But now I could see their playground straight to the bottom. And as they swam under my boat I felt as though I were in an aquarium.

On my final turn I headed for my favorite low tide spot — the narrow cut in the reef between Crescent Bay and Shaw’s Cove — my own personal Suez Canal.

The channel is now thick with kelp. As the surge recedes you have to propel yourself forward.

But the narrow eddies provide a welcome place to hover.

Here you can drink in the aural, spectral, and olfactory pleasures of the sea: the briny smell, the glistening, golden kelp, the purple urchins, grayish green anemones, orange starfish.

It’s all here, plus the gentle lapping of water cascading in a hypnotic rhythm over the rocks.

I am a political activist who worries daily about the declining state of the planet. I follow the travails of our local political scene, with all the squabbling and infighting about zoning, parking, view corridors, and public safety.

But on this day, it all washed away by an amazing spectacle of nature firing on all cylinders.

And a reminder that all can be good. Lucky we live here? You bet.