Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul Page 6

  I began to back up. They followed. I started swimming toward shore. They were right behind me. I swam faster, splashing and thrashing as nostalgic scenes from my pitifully short life played out in my mind.

  Finally my chest struck bottom. I tried to stand, but my flippers got caught and I fell. Then two large hands grabbed me, and the next thing I knew I was standing face-to-face with a 220-pound Samoan lifeguard.

  “What’re you, nuts?” he asked.

  “Warn everyone,” I shouted. “There’s giant man-eating fish out there.”

  “Oh? You mean like those?” He pointed at two five-year-old girls, petting a school of large striped fish.

  “No. These were much bigger and, ahh, ganglike rogues. Yeah, desperado fish. And they were after this.” I reached for my fanny pack so that I could warn him about the food. When I opened it, though, a little triggerfish jumped out and swam away.

  “That’s the guy,” I heard a woman’s voice say. “He’s the one that talked about fishing.”

  “All right, you’re coming with me.” The lifeguard grabbed my elbow and I was forced to duck-walk quickly along beside him.

  “This is all a mistake,” I told him. “My wife will tell you. I’m really a nice guy.”

  He stopped. “Where’s your wife?”

  I looked around. Everyone was wearing masks and snorkels and breathing funny. It looked like a Star Wars outtake.

  “She’s here. I swear. We came down on the trolley together. Although now I can’t find my return ticket. I think the fish with the teeth ate it.”

  “You fed the fish cardboard?”

  “No. I . . .”

  “Okay. Look. I want you to sit right next to the lifeguard stand and don’t move until your wife comes to claim you. Understand?”

  I sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  It was about thirty minutes later when my wife showed up and the lifeguard reluctantly let me go.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “Taking pictures,” she said. “Did you know that those fish will come right up to you? And they’re so big.”

  “No kidding . . . So what’s next on our to-do list?”

  “Tomorrow we’re off to the big island to explore a live volcano,” she said excitedly.

  I shook my head. “Man, this is definitely the last vacation I’m booking from this tour group.”

  Ernie Witham

  “I don’t want to go in the water—that man said

  the fish were really biting today.”

  Reprinted by permission of Patrick Hardin. © 1995 Patrick Hardin.

  Two Blankets

  The years teach much which the days never knew.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  In our family, going to the beach was always a two-blanket event. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents with two blankets, sometimes more, spread out together “down in front” near the ocean. Mismatched umbrellas dating back ten years, along with mismatched beach chairs with sunken seats, were plopped down here and there, a zigzagged abstract of stripes and aluminum. Piles of towels, clothes, snacks, and brown paper bags filled with pails and shovels loosely anchored all the corners. Finally, coolers in all sizes and shapes were angled tightly under the shade of the umbrellas, and the family compound was ready.

  The toes of new babies were gently touched to the cold ocean water, games of Marco Polo rang out from the sea, and older cousins held younger cousins, wrapped together in big, colorful beach towels, to share a snow cone. Uncles built sand villages and nieces stomped them down with joyful delight. And a Cabbage Patch doll slept, hugged in the arms of a toddler under a tilted umbrella.

  The shortcuts with wet sandy feet to retrieve a snack or a better shovel or to safely store a one-of-kind seashell would eventually obscure the shape of the blankets. The contents of the coolers would all escape, and a bite of food usually came with a bite of sand. The beach chairs hopped around throughout the day, following the sun’s rays, and a trail of pails and shovels would serpentine down to the water’s edge.

  And after the last swim, our “very large party” would proudly wait in line a little longer for the biggest table at the local seafood restaurant, then dine on chowder and fried clams and hot dogs—our laughter soon spreading to all the tables around us.

  As the years passed, the cousins grew up and parents grew old. And soon it was just the two of us. Our umbrella and two chairs were now perfectly matched, and our blanket was always pulled neat and tight, the corners perfectly tucked into the sand. We read quietly in the sunshine, and from time to time glanced longingly at the young families all around us, remembering past beach days.

  This summer our family of little ones came to visit at the beach! Joyously, we welcomed the innocent chaos that filled our house. Each day we busily loaded up the Jeep with umbrellas, chairs, pails, shovels, boogie boards, snacks, and children and headed for the ocean. Once again we spread out the two blankets and happily watched sandy little feet take shortcuts.

  Avis Drucker

  3

  LETTING GO

  We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the life that is waiting for us.

  Joseph Campbell

  A Simple Gesture

  I was excited. The day was fine, and the ocean sparkled in the sun as the engines of the old boat began to turn over. It was March 1992, and only the week before I had acted on impulse and booked this last-minute trip to Club Med. Now I found myself on the exotic eastern Caribbean island of St. Lucia. White sand beaches, black sand beaches, volcanoes, rain forests, and deep turquoise water—the stuff that make up dreams. Born a water baby and beach lover, I loved doing anything by, near, in, or on the water.

  Only six weeks out of a long-term relationship, I was suffering from a badly broken heart. But I was determined to let the universe know that even though it felt like my life was over, I knew it wasn’t, and I was prepared to do my part to move on. Now a single woman of forty, the Club Med option to book as a single and share my trip with another made taking a vacation a little more doable. But I’d never taken a vacation alone before, and I was full of trepidations.

  I was quickly seduced by the tropical air, the white sand beach, the friendly people, the mixture of French and Latin music, the fabulous food, and the laughter and continuous activities. Although there were only a few other singles there that week, the staff, known as “GOs,” were all single. They’re not THAT much younger than me, I rationalized, I’ll make friends in that quarter.

  And so I did. Although my heart was filled with sadness and loss, the week began to shine with a new kind of magic. I anticipated a lot of different things, and I particularly looked forward to doing some snorkeling.

  Twenty years before, I had snorkeled off a gorgeous white sand beach in the Bahamas, and I could hardly wait to do it again. Memories of kicking through warm turquoise water looking for shells filled my mind. I quickly discovered that here, snorkeling right off the beach was not really possible, but every morning at ten, a boat took vacationers out snorkeling. So on the second day, after applying a 40 SPF sunscreen to my winter-white Canadian skin, I arrived at the dock ready to go, along with twelve other eager beavers. My mind danced with visions of lovely, crystal-clear, turquoise water shifting over white sand, where we would explore colorful reefs surrounded by exotic fish.

  Our leader was a young man from the island of Eleuthera. A self-starter, Wesley had learned French from the local tourists, and now he shared his engaging smile and fun-loving personality in two languages. Wesley entertained us all.

  The old boat motored out on enormous deep-blue swells to the bottom of a great black cliff, where only a few yards away the water crashed into the base. The captain cut the engines and dropped the anchor. We would snorkel here, announced Wesley.

  I was aghast! This was not my vision. Where was the beach? My lovely and quiet turquoise water? As the boat rose and fell on huge dark-blue swells, I was filled with anxiety. One by one the oth
ers donned their gear and with little hesitation jumped in. Now I was not only frightened, I was mortified. The water baby—the beach lover—was scared. And I was suddenly the last one on the boat.

  With a gentle kind of patience, Wesley coached me into my gear and waited until I was in the water. The enormous swells surged around me, blocking my view of everything. Although crystal clear, the water was deep, in constant motion and quite cold. I could hear it crashing onto huge, jagged black rocks not far away.

  With my heart pounding I let go of the ladder, put my face in the water and kicked along after Wesley, trying to rise above my fears. I longed for my partner of the past four years. I imagined him there at my side, taking my hand while we shared this experience. I really missed him. But he was not there—and never would be again. I was overcome with sadness and loneliness. I began then to talk to God, asking for courage and help with my fear and loneliness.

  Suddenly I felt Wesley’s hand reach over and gently slip into mine. The gesture was so unexpected, so comforting, that my eyes filled up while a huge lump immediately rose in my throat. Blinking fast, I chided myself, Don’t lose it now, girl! You can’t cry into a face mask!

  For the next few minutes he held my hand reassuringly while we kicked along under the surface. Suddenly I did not feel so alone, and I began to calm right down. He pointed at coral here, a fish over there, smiling at me through his facemask. After a few minutes he turned and looked directly at me. He let go of my hand, asking with his eyes if I was okay now. To my amazement, I was, and I gave him a grinning, thumbs-up nod. Twenty minutes later I climbed back up the ladder, ecstatic at my simple accomplishment, with the memory of that kind and gentle gesture imprinted on my heart forever.

  During the Friday night sports awards ceremony, medals were given out with a lot of hoopla and applause to those who had won events or performed really well. Imagine my amazement when Wesley called my name and presented me with a special award for participation, for simply showing up that week more than anyone else— to go snorkeling.

  Janet Matthews

  Mom’s Smile

  I cannot forget my mother . . . she is my bridge.

  When I needed to get across, she steadied long enough for me to run across safely.

  Renita Weems

  It’s an old photograph with bad composition and lousy color. The edges are curled up and brown. But none of that matters. The photo is laced with poignant memories so vivid that when my gaze slides across it, tears prick at the backs of my eyes. I am immediately transported to a place where only good and beautiful images can be found, a place where life revolves around lazy afternoons spent on the beach. In this magical place mothers share secrets with daughters, and grandchildren glean immeasurable bits of wisdom from the cadence of the waves and the soft tones of the women they love.

  A mere moment of our lives, tucked neatly into a small rectangle and preserved forever—years before anything bad came calling.

  In the photo, the beach spreads out on either side, a fishing dock to the left, one of Calcite’s great limestone boats far out on the horizon, and on the right, miles and miles of undisturbed beach. The photo is alive with children and women: mothers, sisters, sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, grandchildren. The lone man in the photo is my father. His shadow stretches long and lean across the restless blue waters of Lake Huron. With immense patience, he casts his line, again and again. My toddler son, his blond curls bleached white, peers across the endless stretch of sand. Mesmerized by his grandfather, he jets down the wet beach as fast as his chubby legs can carry him. His sisters give chase.

  A million dancing whitecaps become myriad diamonds, straining to outshine one another. The glimmering trail sparkles on the vast and seemingly endless body of water that starts at my feet and disappears into the sky, where seagulls dip and swirl, calling to one another as an anxious mother calls to a wayward child.

  A chaise lounge dominates the photo. In it a woman— my mother—reclines. Mom is spread out in the chair like thick, sweet frosting on a cake. Languid, her arms raised above her head, her legs splayed, pant legs rolled up to expose a goodly length of pale skin. Her arms are bare, the undersides pasty in comparison to the tops. Her smile in repose is tender, sweet, unassuming, and peaceful.

  To my knowledge, Mom never owned a bathing suit. I don’t recall ever seeing her step into the lake, and never before had she sunbathed. That day, however, was different. It was as if all her cares had floated out to deep waters like the unattended beach ball had done just minutes before.

  We are a large family. When my siblings and I were young, Dad was the one who took us to the beach. He sat in the car and watched as we frolicked in the shallows. Mom stayed home to ensure we had a hot meal when we returned. Perhaps Mom was happy for the few moments of alone time at home in the kitchen, as was Dad, alone in the car.

  On this day, their grown children, with children of our own, treat them to dinner on the beach. Dad fishes off the dock, never swaying from his pleasantries. And, for once, Mom forgets about making dinner.

  It is a day of memories, a day never to be forgotten.

  My three children are in the photo, and Dad is in the background, as are two of my sisters and their children, but everyone who gazes at the poorly developed photo is drawn inexplicably to Mom’s smile. In the photo, her face is raised up to the sky. To the sun or to our Creator, she alone knows. Her eyes are closed.

  I remember how warm it was that day and how she had squinted up at me, shielding her eyes with both hands.

  “Are my legs getting red?” she’d asked.

  My eyes brim with unshed tears as I remember the feel of her skin on the palm of my hand. Hot. The scalding tears run down my face. How I wish I could touch her one more time.

  “No, Mom,” I replied. “But better put some sunscreen on before you get a burn.” Reluctantly, she’d sat up, the peaceful smile disappearing, and rolled her pant legs down, again.

  “Save it for the kids,” she said, her eyes scanning the group of children splashing in and out of the water. The whisper of a smile touched her lips as she watched for a long, wistful moment. With a sigh, she rose from the chair and moved toward the car where the coolers awaited.

  “Maybe we should get lunch going,” she said as she opened the first cooler.

  Now it is my turn to smile. Mom was not ready to relinquish dinner duties, after all. On a whim, I turn my face heavenward and close my eyes. I draw a deep breath and search for the special place Mom found that afternoon. It comes to me easily. Without pomp or ceremony, there she is, smiling again. Tears squeeze from beneath my closed lids, and I fervently pray that anyone who might come upon me at this moment will say my smile reminds them of Mom’s smile, that day on the beach so long ago. Tender, sweet, unassuming—and despite our loss it was peaceful.

  Helen Kay Polaski

  My Shining Star

  Barbra Streisand once sang, “Memories, light the corners of my mind.” Many of my happiest memories—as a child, a teenager, an adult—revolve around time spent at the beach. I grew up in North Carolina, home to some of the most beautiful beaches on the Atlantic Ocean.

  I remember vividly the summer of 1969. My daughter, Tracey, was six weeks old, and we joined my parents and siblings at Moorehead City, NC. My daddy was horrified to see me “strutting” down the beach in a bikini, so soon after giving birth to his first grandchild! I often watch the old movies from that vacation—my favorite scene is the one of Daddy leaning up against the pier smoking his Salem cigarette. When I zoomed in on him, he looked right into the camera and, with a half-smile on his face, gave me that special wink—that only my daddy could give. He died four years later, at the incredibly young age of fifty-four. Years later Tracey put music to that old movie, and when Daddy appears on the screen, “Time in a Bottle” is playing. The tears rolling down my face feel like the tide rolling to the shore.

  From then on, my husband and I took Tracey and our son, Stan, to the Outer Banks in
North Carolina every summer. My younger brother, Rick, and his wife, Barbara, would often join us, and he and I would spend countless hours on the beach reliving our happy childhood memories.

  I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1996, and after numerous surgeries, we decided to buy our own home in the Outer Banks.

  I work in a high-powered corporate environment and fight daily rush-hour traffic in the Washington, D.C., area, but when I cross the bridge into the Outer Banks, the stress rolling off my shoulders feels like the tide rolling out to sea.

  Our beach house quickly became the family gathering spot for special occasions. My mom, who just passed away at age eighty-eight, had many precious times there, surrounded by her five children and their families. If laughter, music, and happiness could bring down a house, our beach house would have become a pile of lumber a long time ago! Daddy may not be there in body— but I know that when I look up in the sky at night, there is one very special star looking down on me, and “he” is giving me that same special wink. I am pretty sure that he has a constant smile on his face, particularly because now that I’m fifty-nine, those bikinis are history!

  Susan Allsbrook Darke

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: After nine years of commuting back and forth from work to beach and beach to work, we have put our home in Virginia on the market, and are moving to—guess where?— THE OUTER BANKS, or “OBX” to us locals!

  (Now I will be able to see my own personal “Winking Daddy Star” every night for the rest of my life!)

  Harry and George

  Animals share with us the privilege of having a soul.

  Pythagoras

  The day after Christmas, my sister and I started looking forward to the fifteenth of June. That was the day our parents loaded up the cars and we moved to a ramshackle cottage on the bay for the rest of the summer. It was a child’s idea of heaven on earth: late nights fishing on the wharf, barefoot days in bathing suits and boats, and meals on a big screened porch under lazy ceiling fans. Every summer seemed better than the last—until the summer we lost George.