It was the kind of April day that made you glad you were alive. I had just dropped off some friends who were going fishing. Having no fishing license or canoe, I was shore-bound.

As I pulled into the parking lot, my friend, whom I’ll call “Steve,” pulled in right behind me. Steve recently purchased a 1996 Ford Explorer 4x4 Eddie Bauer Edition. It had a nice-looking green and black two-tone exterior with a beige interior. Steve invited me to go off-roading with him at a local beach. So far, so good, I thought, a trip to the beach with a friend on a nice day and I didn’t even have to burn any of my own gas.

When we got to Clam Beach, the truck demonstrated that its four-wheel drive did engage fully and function properly. It made short work of all the sand we could throw at it, which wasn’t much by hardcore off-road standards, but we were having fun. Steve took pictures of the truck with his digital camera, the productive excuse for this little excursion. Whoops, I mean exploration. Steve decided that the shots he was getting were a little trite, so he enlisted my help in taking some “action shots.”

What started as a photography excursion...

The plan was this: I was going to stand on the sand and take pictures as Steve drove the Explorer through the waves, generating splashes and brilliant photographs. Seemed solid enough to me.

Steve got in the truck, circled around, and went down the beach as I got my bearings straight on the digital camera. He turned back around once he was 200 yards from me, then got up a good head of steam before he hit the waves. I would guesstimate that he was doing 25 to 30 mph. It started off swimmingly, pun intended, but as I waited for him to cross in front of me, a rogue wave blasted him. Right after that happened, I could tell something was really wrong. He was slowing down.

By the time he came to a complete stop, he was probably 40 yards away from me. I ran towards the truck. The closer I got, the louder the grinding of the starting motor became in my ears. It was not a good sound.

	...quickly turned into disaster...

The waves were coming up strong. Neither of us had tide tables or the skills necessary to make heads or tails out of one, but the Explorer was now a fixed point relative to the waves, which made it obvious that the tide was coming in.

Steve stayed in the car, and I, through the waves, ran up to him, holding the digital camera high. I asked him what was going on, and he told me it had just died. I grabbed his cell phone out of the car and ran back to dry sand to call AAA.

We were off-road about a mile from the parking lot, and after calling three towing companies in the area, AAA told me I was SOL. By this time, the waves had really started to pound the Explorer. Steve took the cell phone to call a friend who had a truck. He asked me to walk down the beach and see if I could find anyone with a truck.

...as our Ford Explorer got bogged down and stuck in the soft sand at Clam Beach.

I started to walk down the beach. I kept looking back at the silhouette of the Explorer, not sticking up nearly as much as it should from the water. The waves began to eat away the sand under the tires, and the water level reached the bottom of the doors. When a really strong wave hit, it rocked violently.

It was hard to look at, and I kept my attention forward, where I could see no trucks. But it was a misty day, and I could hear something down the beach in front of me, rattling toward me. It was the sound of diesel engine. I was hoping whoever was on the other end of the moisture hanging in the air had a winch on their truck, because it looked like that was what it was going to take to get us out of there. Any other truck venturing near ours ran the risk of also being overtaken by the waves.

The sound of that diesel engine came from the Powerstroke motor under the hood of a mid-’90s Ford F-250. A 4x4, of course. This guy was running his dogs down the beach at about 15 mph. He had one on either side of the truck and he was making a straight line down the sand. He had no winch, though, and I wasn?t going to ask him right off the bat to risk his beautiful truck to pull us out of the drink. He told me there was a café down at the other end of the beach, where he was going, and he’d drop me off there to look for help. I got into the back of the truck and off we went.

He stopped when he came to Steve, and Steve asked him to pull him out. The guy said he had no tow strap or chain, and neither did we. Steve had contacted his buddy and the guy was bringing his truck down, although it would be a while before he got there. So I ended up staying with Steve and the guy in the Powerstroke drove off. It was probably 45 seconds before he circled back around and pulled up to us again. He informed us that he had some old climbing ropes he’d be willing to sacrifice if we’d reimburse the cost of getting new ones. A tow truck would have run us somewhere around $1,000, according to the AAA people, so $30 in climbing ropes was nothing.

I think Glen was the man’s name. He was an experienced climber and knew how to tie strong knots. He tied one rope to the back of his truck, and then we had to get one through the tow hole on the bumper of the Explorer. This was complicated by the fact that at any given time, the tow hole was under 6 inches to 1½ feet of salt water. But we got it done. A third rope was then tied in between the two trucks. I was the sap in front of the Explorer pushing it when it came time to go.

The torque of the Powerstroke Diesel, as well as Glen’s skill and my mighty pushing, freed the truck from its watery grave incredibly easily. A new problem quickly reared its head though, because nobody was behind the wheel of the Explorer. The way that Steve had stopped required Glen to be in the waves when he pulled us out and he needed to turn pretty quickly after he started moving forward. I recognized this and sprinted forward through the water, up to the driver’s door and hoisted my sizable frame into the driver’s seat, ripping the crotch out of my pants. I righted the position of the steering wheel and Glen pulled the truck up the beach, where the high tide couldn’t get it. We were out of the drink.

Glen went on down the beach to continue entertaining his dogs, who had been obediently staying close, but out of our way. He told us if we were still there when he came back, he’d tow us to the parking lot. The Explorer wasn’t going anywhere on its own, and Steve’s friend hadn’t shown up by the time he got back, so once again we hitched up to the mighty Powerstroke.

Glen had no problem pulling us a mile down the beach on hard packed sand, but the very last section was through soft sand and a small river. He got his speed—and ours—up to about 30 mph before we hit the soft sand, and the momentum carried us about halfway through. At that point, the albatross around the F-250’s back bumper brought it to a stop, and he started spinning his wheels. We all got out to assess the situation. At that moment, two guys in Toyotas pulled up to us.

These guys announced confidently that they could get us into the parking lot.

The guy with the older Toyota—obviously a dedicated rock crawler—got in front of us and went back and forth a bunch of times to pack down the sand. Then he hooked his back chain to us. The newer Tacoma—with off-road tires—got in front of him and hooked the rock crawler’s front chain to the back of the Tacoma. Then we made our way slowly and easily through the rest of the sand, the river and into the parking lot. We were now officially off the beach, and AAA could send us a tow truck without a problem. We also weren’t violating the law about being off the beach by 8 p.m., or any laws about leaving your car parked in the ocean. I’m sure they exist.

	The sun sets over the gate to Clam Beach as the day ends.

While we were waiting for the tow truck, the sun went down. Steve’s friend finally showed up as the Toyotas were ready to roll, but we appreciated his concern. Once he realized everything was in order, he bailed and that left us sitting in the disabled Explorer.

We had all figured that what happened was the splash created by that rogue wave hit something electrical in the engine compartment and shorted out the motor. The fix-it shop had a different conclusion. They pulled off the valve covers and the insides were awash with sand. Somehow, the motor sucked it up. Ouch.

It was even worse than we thought. The Explorer was a total loss; there will be no attempt to fix it. Any attempt would be more costly then buying another one.

Often, when I am at the beach, I think to myself, or say out loud: “The ocean has killed before and it will kill again.” Many people are quick to laugh at Steve’s predicament and judge him to be of low intelligence because of it. Steve did not exhibit the best judgment that day on the beach. That much is clear. But it is not our place to judge him for that. I myself have done many stupid things in automobiles and would fear karmic retribution for any ill words or thoughts I threw Steve’s way. It is our place to learn from his mistakes, and remember that the ocean is not a thing to be toyed with. Enjoy this story, but make sure you take a lesson with you as well, or else that Explorer died for nothing.