Grand Prize Writing
The Morning I’ll Never Forget
by AM Zamp
If you ever find yourself swimming near the pier in Hermosa Beach—on one of those early spring mornings when the fog is lifting and the ocean holds its breath—you might just catch a glimpse of something that changes you.
I did.
It was April, just after sunrise. The water was glassy, cold enough to remind you you’re alive. I was about 50 yards out, letting the tide rock me gently, when something shifted in the blue beneath me. Slow. Massive. And strangely calm.
At first I thought it was a shadow from the pier. But then it rose.
A sea turtle. And not a small one. This thing was huge—easily the size of a rowboat. Its shell shimmered in the light like old bronze, and the pattern on its back looked like a map: ridges and rivers, shapes that resembled coastlines. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
It passed right beneath me, silent and steady. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Its eye met mine—just for a second—and in that second, I felt something I still don’t have words for. It was like looking into something ancient and endlessly patient.
I’d never heard of sea turtles coming this far north. But there it was. Real. Undeniable.
Some surfers have seen it too, I’ve learned. They won’t talk about it, not really. They just smile and paddle out like it’s something they’re protecting. And there are kids—little ones, still running barefoot through the tide—who say they’ve seen “the big shadow” near the rocks. They stop talking when adults ask. Not because they’re scared. But because they know no one would believe them.
I watched it drift toward the horizon, slow as the earth turning. Not even the gulls made a sound.
If you’re ever down by Hermosa—walking the sand after rain, or floating just past the break—keep your eyes open. The ocean holds more than we understand.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it lets you see.
