UPDATE: watch the video here.

They say that those who fail to learn history are doomed to repeat it. “They” are morons, because the same could be said for chemistry, math, or French.

Yet learning something is no guarantee that one won’t make the same stupid mistakes later. I, for one, know the legend of King Canute, and I still tried to stop the sea from washing away my hot tub.

A little background:

On the east cost of the lovely Coromandel peninsula, just east of Auckland, there’s a bed of underground rocks still red-hot from volcanic activity centuries ago. They’re right below the beach, and if you dig in the sand in the right place, hot water emerges to form a natural spa.

They call it, of all unlikely names, Hot Water Beach.

We arrived two hours before low tide, the best time to find hot water. The tourists were trickling in, many armed with shovels, which surely they must have rented, or New Zealand has the most over-equipped travelers anywhere.

We pushed through the crowd and happened on a surf shop. It was closed, but through the window I saw dozens of them, neatly standing in a box, NZ$5 for a one-day rental.

We were unarmed. Completely impotent. Until, that is, I went around and saw an outhouse labeled “Changing Room”. It was closed with a sliding lock, but no padlock. I peered in and saw it, the howitzer of shovels, one fit for a gravedigger or a skyscraper builder, not those wimpy tree-planting spoons others were holding.

I would have the greatest hot water hole in all of Hot Water Beach.

People were digging. Holes swelled with water, but none of them were hot. Maybe they weren’t deep enough. We found two friendly Kiwi girls busy with their own excavation and asked to join them. Teamwork and artillery, the winning recipe for any offensive campaign.

Our hole was impressive, but the water wasn’t. Every 10 seconds someone would ask, “It it hot?” When we thought we were getting close, the surf would rush in and fill the opening with the soft sand.

We dug five similar holes, each one of them canceled by the sea.

If I’m smiling it’s because the futility of it all hasn’t sunk in.

A murmur: it’s hot here, someone said. So hot you can’t stand in it. We followed the whispers. A few people were milling just a few meters away. I attacked the sand with my massive spade of glory and sure enough, scalding hot water appeared. The Kiwi girls pitched in. The surf came and wiped it away.

Barrier. We need a barrier. Two boys were watching and I told them to make a wall around the hole with the sand that I dug up. They were good. Patted it down nice and firm. A wave crashed ashore and the water crept inland. It reached the barrier. It held! Keep digging, keep patting!

People started to crowd around us. We seemed to be on the only spot with hot water. Some helped the dig, others took pictures. Just as we were closing the barrier around the sides, the sea ripped in. It was a tsunami, deeper than the barrier was tall. I got on my knees and buttressed the barrier with the shovel. The wave washed over it. When the water receded, our grand barrier was a sorry little mound, the remains of a lazy sand castle long ago crumbled.

About King Canute: he was some Danish king whose name was originally spelled Cnut, but changed it to avoid becoming a half-clever T-shirt worn by frat boys. He thought he had so much power that he could stop the tides from coming in. He tried, and the end of the story is obvious.

I know this story. I knew the sea would keep coming in. My hands were starting to bleed and blister.

I took a step back to rethink my strategy. Everyone was digging and getting sea-wiped. Half hour to low tide. The sea can’t possible recede more than this.

A successful hole. Cold, but successful.

A trio – two dudes and a chick – quickly took the spot I vacated and firmly planted their feet in the sand. One of the guys eyed the people around him, half defiant, half scared. He was just standing, his feet maybe warm, with no shovel, and no intention of digging. But dammit, he claimed his spot and no one would take it away.

He saw me with my shovel and looked like Czechoslovakia after Hitler invaded Poland. It was an open invitation.

“Watch your feet, I’m about to dig again,” I said, and started attacking, with all my might, at a spot just left of his foot. My hole grew quickly, faster than any hole on the beach, and again, others joined the dig or helped form a barrier. I looked at my new adversary. “You guys feel free to pitch in any time.”

He looked like was was lobbed an unexpected question at customs, perhaps something about his prostate. “If we all dig in, we can all enjoy a big hot tub later,” I said. He stepped back but looked no more resolved. “Or you can just stand there, that’s cool,” I offered and went back to work.

What a lovely hole we had. Six people could fit in comfortably. Even my adversary was helping. The water was unbearably hot but we left an opening in the barrier for the cold sea to tame it. Just a little water would get through, we thought.

But it was another tsunami. We were outgunned. Barbarians at the gates. I jumped on the barrier to protect it. The barrier was Obama in Mississippi, I was the Secret Service. The water calmly shoved me inland along with the wall, which I felt dissolving like Jell-O powder beneath me. POTUS was dead.

I couldn’t open my hands. They were cramped in a shovel-gripping claw. It was past low tide and few people were digging anymore. My adversary was standing ankle-deep in the sand, looking around nervously.

Rome fell two thousand years ago and people still think they can build lasting empires. Greek myths have done little to curb vanity, curiosity, or foolish ambition. I walked away from Hot Sandy Beach, my shovel dragging behind me, and King Canute sighing with each wave that splashed on the sand.