Hold against the drag; move with the push. Sometimes, that push may be a shove or a smash; even so, when it hits, move with it. (Push with the rush? Rush with the push?) The standard phrasing is "go with the flow," but I liked the sense of personal action and responsibility that "move" held for me. When that pressure of the water let up, it was time for ME to MOVE. Besides, you are going to "go with the flow" whenever wherever that flow is strong enough.
Here are some images (photos of photos, photos of parts of photos) of a free diver making his landing at a cove on the Sonoma Coast. I'm guessing Salt Point, but I'd like to check the rocks in person soon against this shot just to be sure; a good excuse for a jaunt up north, don't you think? Here, what I would like to emphasize is the exit strategy for this rocky landing. Also, I hope you can see the signs of what we used to call "an energetic day": all the foam amidst the rocks, the chop, and the diver's body language.
In the photo above, you can see that the diver is prone on the rocks, though head held high, gripping one boulder, legs flat and extended against the drag of the outgoing wave. If you dive or surf or play in the waves, you know the drill. Hold against the drag; move with the push. When the next wave comes in, the diver will release the rock, rise up, and kick hard with the water over the rocks in front of him, making as much forward progress as possible before grabbing and gripping the next rock. Move like a commando.
Of course, that description of the process seems so controlled, so lacking in force, so lacking in bruises. In reality, most often the next wave arrives as a bit of a surprise, despite that the diver keeps listening for, looking over the shoulder for, and noting the lessening of the drag for that next wave. The wave swallows the diver, often yanking him effortlessly from the rocky hold, and hurtles him shoreward. As for the diver careening forward: arms out to plane and legs kicking to lift the body above as many and as much of those rocks ahead as possible. Hurrah for neoprene padding. At some point, the diver shifts sideways, yanks off one or both fins, and stands, better able to handle the wave's shoving as he makes his way the final few steps. If you take your fins off too early, you may get caught up and dragged back out, essentially powerless without the fins' broader surfaces to hold you to the course you'd prefer. (Say, more fumble-rough-and-tumble than merely a double-rinse cycle.
The pictures capture that prone approach. In the best situations, even when rough, the diver rides a wave shoreward, curls his feet beneath him as the wave drops him, stands up, and then sidesteps in against the drag: one eye on the waves, still. Bonus points for riding the wave right to the boundary between wet and dry. Here, in the shots above and below, this diver is either rather tired or exiting cautiously. Or both. Caution is to be recommended, however, as there are plenty of crevices to catch a foot, leg, or even an arm, if a wave catches you in a bad moment or at a bad angle.
The other exit strategy would be, what? Fight every step of the way? Push against the drag, hold against the flow? Some divers seem to try that. In my experience, that's either far too much work or I've simply been rag-dolled. Pulled off my stance, plucked from my rocks, pulled into a hole, and twisted, twirled, swirled, sucked down and around, and spat out. I've been beaten against rocks like laundry, and so forth. I've had all that happen while using the proper commando approach too. The waves win, though sometimes they let you win too.
I date the images to the spring of 1979 or 1980, I believe. I think that's my buddy Keith making his exit from the free dive. (I don't see any abalone in the photos, so perhaps that's not Keith. Keith always came back with abalone; and, in fact, the abalone bag may be underneath that surfmat in the final picture. In this next shot you can see the gripping and positioning despite the blurring.)
