Bat Ray Man

 Waning Crescent Moon

As a child, probably like most folks, I had several nicknames or pet names bestowed by different family members. I was Jim, Jimmy, and Jimbo, or Ray (short for my middle name Raymond), Rayman, and Rayme, depending on the whimsy or mood of the addresser. There were a few others, but these are the common ones that I can easily recall. 

The only one that I kind of relate to in this day and age is Rayman. The first thing I do every morning when I awake is to stretch my arms and hands and fingers into the air, as well as my feet and toes, and say to myself, "Shine like the Sun, Rayman. Be kind." The stretch makes me feel good and the words reinforce my positive intention to try to be a good person. I don't know if the rest of my family does that or something similar, but I will  bet that they do, here or up in the stars.

All day yesterday the sky was orange. The Sun could not poke through all the smoke from the two and a half million acres of California that are on fire. It was dark and eerie and sad. 

I needed a pick me up and some exercise, so I drove to the beach twenty miles from my camp, hoping the air there would be safer to breathe. I walked and walked and walked for three hours in the weird orange light. It was high tide. There were pretty good wave sets rolling in on a steady basis. The sea otters were playing like it was a normal day.

Pelicans put on a pretty good air show, skimming the waves for breakfast. I love it when that happens.

On my return trip along the beach, walking on the firm, wet sand next to the surf, I saw a Bat Ray washed up on the edge of the water alongside a pile of beached kelp. At first I thought it was dead. There was some blood along its fins and tail, but not a lot. Maybe it was just knocked out or exhausted from a fight. Not counting the tail, the Bat Ray was about as big as home plate on a baseball diamond. 

As I got a little closer, I was staring at its face and all of a sudden, he or she inhaled, tried to take a breath. I could see the sides of its body behind its eyes, draw slowly in and out. I decided mostly out of ignorance that I was going to call it Mr. Bat Ray, regardless of gender. I talked to him, asking if I should risk moving him into the water, which was ebbing and surging about fifteen feet away. I gently touched his fin and he twitched his long tail from one side to the other and back. That appeared to require a lot of effort. Was it voluntary or just instinct? Did the tail twitch mean yes, help me, or did it mean if you touch me again, mother-----, I will sting you and inject the last of my venom in your weak-ass hand? I didn't know, really, but when I saw the tail movement combined with his effort to breathe, I knew I couldn't just walk away. 

Toward the dunes about thirty feet up the beach, I could see the remains of somebody's illegal campfire. I said, "Hold on, Mr. Bat Ray, I'll be right back." Geez, I can't move very fast any more, especially in sand, but I managed to find a stick of driftwood about a foot long and I returned fairly quickly. Mr. Bat Ray was still trying to breathe. I told him I was going to help him get back in the water.

Well, Mr. Bay Ray was much heavier than he looked. I was pretty sure if I touched him with my hand again he would freak out and attempt to deploy that stinger, even if the effort killed him. My little one-foot stick, though, was not up to the task. I pushed it underneath his body and shoved him toward the water, but nothing happened. "You have to try," I said to him. "I'll do everything I can, but you have to try." 

Clearly, I needed a better tool. So off I went down the beach. Past tons of kelp, kelp, soggy, floppy, no-help kelp. I had to go a quarter mile or so to find a piece of driftwood big enough to act like a shovel. Then I dragged it back, half expecting Mr. Bat Ray to be goners. 

But no, he showed me he was still kicking, sucking in moist, sandy beach air, which was not doing much good. I did some more talking, saying I hope this doesn't hurt you, but I am going to use this big stick to push and shove and shovel you back into the ocean. "You have to try," I kept saying, "you can't freaking quit." 

It took about twenty minutes to get him to the foamy wet edge of the water. I could see him straining to get it into his lungs. I could see him trying. So the next time the surf retreated, I went all out to scoot him as far down the sand as I could before the next wave broke. I pushed one last time and oh crap, I clumsily flipped him over onto his back just as the water washed over him and I scrambled back in retreat. I felt like an idiot. 

Then the surf sucked backwards, leaving Mr. Bat Ray beached upside down in the wet sand, revealing his mouth desperately opening and closing, searching for water. Yes he had to try, but so did I, so back out I went to dig and push and shovel under him one more time, flipping that unwieldy home plate pancake mostly upright as another wave crashed. This one was pretty big and as it receded it carried Mr. Bat Ray ocean-ward a few more feet, keeping him covered as I watched. I could see one bat flipper flopping out of the water for a few seconds, then another surge came and Mr. Bat Ray righted himself and whoosh, he was gone. 

Did he live to tell the tale to Mrs. Bat Ray? Dunno.

Shine like the Sun, Bat Ray Man. Be kind.

Peace, Love, and You Have to Try,

Jim