Beach Stories
There
is something about the beach that brings out the best in everyone. We smile at
one another more. We wave and wish good will towards strangers, their toes in
the sand and surf. We are a fellowship. We all connect.
I
take in the view. The beach washes away all my concerns. Nagging thoughts drift
out with the tide. Carpe Diem. The beach frees me from the pressing concerns of
everyday life, if only for a few hours or a few days. We are all on vacation.
Recently,
on a still-cool April morning Tim and I walked along the shore. We are
collectors. We bring home cat’s paws, coquinas, scallop shells, and stories. It
was a glorious day. Our ankles were tickled by the 60 degree water, the waves
glistened in the sun. As we walked and talked we noticed a family consisting of
an older man, "PopPop”, his son and two granddaughters. PopPop had cast
their two fishing lines beyond the breakers, the poles anchored on shore with
PVC pipes. He was teaching surf fishing to his two granddaughters. He groused
and grunted, but it was obvious he was loving every moment. His son stood
patiently by. Smiling, he watched his father, most likely remembering this
ritual he had been part of years ago as his dad taught him surf fishing.
The girls, about seven and nine, scampered about until suddenly one line jerked, once, then twice. PopPop jumped into action and reeled in his prize, a large Sail Cat.
The
older daughter danced around the landed fish, amazed by its glistening gray,
shiny pulsating body and large dorsal fin. The younger daughter was repelled.
She hid behind her PopPop, adamantly refusing to go anywhere near that fish. No
amount of begging by PopPop and her dad encouraged her to approach the flopping
Sail Cat.
Her
sister was more brave and was thrilled with PopPops’ catch. She gently touched
its glistening skin. She ran her fingers along the Sail Cat's length to its
tail.
Her
dad unhooked their prize and returned the Sail Cat to its home, the Gulf. His
older daughter watched intently as the Sail Cat swam quickly into the surf. Her
younger sister retreated and scrubbed her toes in the sand. Clearly, she wanted
nothing to do with fishing, or fish. Ever.
We continued our walk down the beach, laughing over the family and their different personalities. We imagined what their world would be in the future. It was a beach story to savor. A story beautiful with its generations and the girls' unawareness of this very special moment. I hoped that their memory would be embedded in their hearts and souls forever, as my earliest family beach memories are embedded in my heart and soul.
Further
down the shell-encrusted sands Tim took a selfie of us, with the background of
incoming waves glistening in sunbeams and beach rainbows.
“Would
you like me to take a picture of you together?” An elderly man, deeply tanned
with a slightly rotund tummy, asked, smiling at us. He was clearly a gentleman,
with graying hair and a well-trimmed mustache. His smile lit up his entire
face, from his eyebrows to his chin. He is a very happy man, I thought. After
taking our photo we thanked him. As we began to depart we heard his voice
again,
“Today
is the tenth anniversary of my rebirth.” Immediately Tim and I were suspicious.
Was this guy a beach-roaming evangelist?
He
continued. “Yup. Ten years ago today. The day I almost died of a brain aneurysm.
If it hadn’t been that I was with my buddies who knew what to do, I wouldn’t be
here today.”
Tim
and I stopped in our tracks, curious. I found my voice, “What?” I said.
He
smiled with all-encompassing joy. “Yup. Doctors gave me a 6% chance of survival.
If it weren’t for me helping out doing plumbing at my buddy's place, with a
bunch of our friends, I never would’ve made it. Ya know, I have a lot of great
buddies. Been friends forever. So, when one of us asks for help we all show
up.” His voice dwindled to a faraway look in his eyes. “Uh, sir,” I asked,
gently nudging him back to his story.
“Oh,
yeah. So I had this god-awful headache. Wouldn’t go away, and you know I never
get headaches.” He pondered a moment, examined his hands, then looked up and said,
“I
was on the third floor, waiting for someone to bring me an aspirin. The last
thing I remember, like it was a slow-motion movie, was watching my hand reach
out, turn the doorknob to go downstairs and watching the door open.”
Tim
and I were transfixed, captured like the Sail Cat. The man smiled happily at
the remembrance. His eyes raised to the clouds drifting in the blue sky, the
horizon, and the bright blue water. He gestured towards the beauty of the
beach, looked at his toes in the glistening white sand, and continued, “Well,
if one of my buddies hadn’t been a firefighter and paramedic, hadn’t known how
to give me CPR, hadn’t had his firemen buddies transport me to the best ER and
treatment center for aneurysms, right close by at New York’s Saratoga
Hospital…” His voice drifted off again, then he recovered the memory, “Yup, one
of the best aneurysm units in the country, and that’s where they took me. If my
buddies hadn’t known all that, then I surely wouldn't be here right now.”
Tim
and I stood on either side of him. I touched his arm and shook his hand. He
smiled his enormous smile and shook his head, as though thanking us
for listening to his story. We wished him a happy tenth rebirth-day. I said,
“Well, I’m a writer and I promise you I will share your story.” He smiled and
turned, waving as he departed. Suddenly, he stopped, faced us again, gave us a
long look, a final smile, and was off. His was another episode of life we
collected with our shells, all the more treasured for its spontaneity from
someone brave enough to share with a stranger.
On
Thursday evening I looked around the Oxford Exchange Book Fair where I was
selling and signing my first book, Writing in Wet Cement. The rooms were
crowded with readers and writers. Voices were lifted in excitement and
laughter, heads were nodding in understanding, hands were touching, reaching
out to express the pertinence of a thought. There were military and war
stories, words of crime and passion, romance, history, sci-fi and adventure.
Discoveries made, love and loss, achievement and regret. And, no doubt, beach
stories. Every aspect of life was exhibited in this room.
None
of us would have been at the Oxford Exchange were it not for the stories
humankind has been compelled to share since the beginning of time. It all began
with spoken family tales and legends passed from generation to generation.
Then, from cave drawings and handprints outlined in red ochre and plant dyes to
crude pictographs, exquisite hieroglyphics, to ancient stories launched forward
to become the written word, to this moment at the Oxford Exchange.
Our
imaginations, lives and memories propel us into the future. They are the
engines that move us forward, the drive behind our secret moments shared with a
stranger who may become a friend.
These
are the gifts we offer to one another from the earliest cave drawings to this
Thursday evening in April at the Oxford Exchange. Words become engraved in our
hearts and on paper. Stories preserve our lives, and create pathways to our
future. Like shells collected on the beach or a story told by a stranger, may
it always be so.
We
bring it all home, shells and stories, to gently place in an old blue canning
jar on a windowsill or onto the bookshelves of our lives.
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