His Old Man and the Sea
by
Jeff Stimpson © 2006
I can still see that beach in Maine. An old high
school friend sat with Ned on the sand while Jill and I took turns
with Alex in the surf. Alex would dash in and out, splashing up to
his knees. I'd whirl him high above the foam, milky stuff, frothy
and warm. He loves the ocean, we knew then. The following summer, we
went to Coney Island, and without stopping Alex ran into the ocean
with his clothes on.
Alex has seen a lot of surf: Coney Island, Jones
Beach, Maine. Cape Cod, though, is probably where he's gotten the
saltiest. Much of the surf is just plain big, green and white walls
charging the shore and towering over my little boy. His first time
on the Cape, even as the sea erupted and staggered him, Alex ran
deeper. And deeper. A green-and-white dashed him head to toe, and
then he retreated to the sand and looked for a minute at the great
sea, and thought things. Then he ran back in. I always thought all
beaches were the same, but Cape Cod beaches vary as much as each
breaker. Most fun is the shallow beach, Skaket, with its inch-high
whitecaps and where even at high tide Alex can run out a hundred
yards and still not have the water reach his chest.
Loving beaches is new to me. I'm pale and thin and
professionally spastic, and I've always felt that beaches were for
the rippled, tan lay-abouts. I also grew up in Maine, where much of
the coastline is red granite. Junior-year summer in high school, I
think it was, I stood on one of those red boulders and looked up to
see a Poseidon-class breaker coming down on me. "DO YOUR
WORST!" I bellowed, and for the next three hours had the unusual
experience of being wet to the skin, in sopping clothes, on a
cloudless day. I don't know whatever happened to that wave, but I
hope it's happy.
My new beach attitude comes from adding kids to
sand and surf. My boys are also distinct at the beach. Ned is scared
of seaweed, for starters (after he told me that, I took my first
real look at seaweed, and I see his point). His beach persona is
summed up in two snapshots we have of Alex in a towel on Cape Cod.
The pictures were snapped seconds apart, and in the background of
the first Ned has a little football and is fading back to pass. In
the next picture, all you can see is Ned's feet and legs pointing
skyward, and a little spray of sand.
Last year, on the last day of our time on Cape
Cod, we stopped at a beach on the way out of town. It was a cold
day, in the 50s. Ned huddled on shore, sensibly. First thing Alex
did was strip off his sweatshirt and pants -- that's what you do at
the beach, isn't it, at least after the first two times you dash in
with all your clothes on? -- and the sea chill slapped his body. He
collected himself, and together we waded into the surf. Big surf,
too, surfer's surf, Atlantic side, still cold from winter, the black
heads of seals bobbing far out and laughing at us.
Here came the green walls to explode around our
thighs. I looked at Alex, and I roared like a Klingon (DO YOUR
WORST!). Alex laughed and laughed, and tightened his arms and
neck into a fierce grin. Fierce!
Alex and I are on the same page in the sea. I know
it. I know Alex likes things, such as saltines, Goldfish crackers,
Go Dog Go and Green Eggs and Ham, and still an
occasional hot dog. Yes, he dashes into the sea. But the meanings of
the sea can vary in each of us like waves, and I wish Alex could
tell me what he likes about it. His words would be as distinct as
each green and white wall.
Copyright 2006 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
