Last week our crew rescued a California sea lion that weighed, as we later discovered, 118 kg, a new record for me. It started with the morning crew taking a truck to Spanish Bay in Pebble Beach, a place I might never see without this gig. Short of having friends who live there, there are only two hard-to-justify ways to visit Spanish Bay: by paying for access to the 17-mile drive, which is flanked by fee-free world-class coast on either side, including the northern end of Big Sur; or by staying at the The Inn at Spanish Bay, which starts at just over $1000 per night and is less than an hour’s drive from our house.

We observed the CSL for about an hour, while also hiking along the shore and checking out one of many golf courses in the area, a series of putting green islands surrounded by swamps. Is that what Scotland is like? The animal seemed down, a term that means just what you would think, though at one point it shimmied about 20 yards closer to the water, the wrong direction from a rescue POV. Gulls were patiently waiting on the sand nearby, and a flock of turkey vultures flew over every twenty minutes or so to check progress.

The day was gorgeous, and though we were on a sobering mission, and the temperature was brisk enough to eventually induce us to stay in the truck, it was both relaxing and exhilarating to watch the waves continuously break. We discussed how sad it would be to rescue this animal and have it die in captivity, rather than expiring gently in this idyllic setting, although if it could be healed, we would prefer that. The decision would be made by our crew leader in any case; we were observing and reporting.

Eventually another truck and finally a van arrived, bringing us to eight crew members and an enclosure we call a large metal because it is made of metal and can hold a larger animal than the crates that are standard in the truck beds. It weighs about 45 kg. We used beach wheels, a contraption with four inflatable wheels supporting a metal frame, to get the large metal to the beach, along with seven boards, wooden rectangles about 4′ by 2′ with handles on one side, and a large net with a long handle. One crew member wields the net, while the others each crouch behind a board and sort of herd the animal into the enclosure.

Theoretically.

From our first approach, our down animal became very up. Entangled and encircled, it fought boldly, slamming its shoulder against the boards repeatedly, looking for an opening. When my board was taking a pummeling, I was honestly not sure I could maintain my position in the circle. Earlier we had had a conversation about being bitten, a fate I wished to avoid, and running seemed like a good option, but that might have resulted in someone else being bitten. We were so focused on the battle that when a freezing wave unexpectedly washed over our feet and ankles, we didn’t even cry out.

Inside the large metal, the CSL kept lunging, and apparently kept the van driver alert by continuing to leap about during the drive back. Meanwhile, the rest of us were stowing the equipment and interacting with the public, several of whom filmed the event. I suddenly found my limbs rubbery, and my hands not able to grip. Perhaps this was my body’s reaction after the adrenaline surge of, well, fighting a wild animal for my life.

The CSL was relatively easy to get into the outdoor pen at the center: we lined up the enclosure, slid the door up, and it jumped right out. It did calm down enough to drink some water, and when I left it was upright, gazing into the distance in the direction of the ocean, a few miles away.

It looked so peaceful I thought it would make it, but two days later it was found dead in its pen at the vet station in Sausalito. Should we have left it? Our leader says that in such a public place that would not be viable, as people would continuously call to demand a rescue, or removal of a carcass. Even the most well-intentioned volunteer work can benefit humans more than (the rest of) nature.