LOST TO SEA

(Original Image by Derek Thomson)

My son, Alex, will be three years old in two days. Mandi and I plan to take him to the ocean for the first time on Saturday.

Some of my first memories were formed about the same age at the same place. From what I can recall, I had this plush ball with a monster face, and I was playing with it along the tide, dropping it in the water and watching it roll back towards the ocean. There was one time, though, that the tide carried it out into deep water. I ran after it as far as I could, but once the waves got a hold of it, it was flung far out of reach.

I don't remember if I cried. It seems like the type of thing a three year-old would cry about. But, I remember my father diving in after it, this stupid little ball — probably cost a dollar — sailing atop these mighty waves. He swam strong against the current as the waves broke against his back. I swear he even rode a couple of ‘em. And when he returned to shore, he handed me back my little monster face. I was happier than I had ever been in my little life, not just because I had my ball back, but the fact that my father had conquered the ocean with strength and bravery. He had become a god that day in my wet, reverent eyes.

Flash-forward 35 years later, and the two of us haven't spoken in eight years. He hasn’t looked his grandson in the eye. He thinks I am the cause of his suffering, not the early retirement nor the daily bottle of tequila that keeps his bloated belly anchored to the far end of the couch. They often say, time heals all wounds. That’s one possibility. The other is that time destroys all you once held dear. But, I digress…

I’m a terrible swimmer, and if Alex loses his ball to the ocean it'll be Mandi out there grappling with Poseidon. She’d be the one he remembers, his glistening goddess mother who had overpowered the waves and saved his ball from certain destruction. Hell, I’d remember the same thing. Hahaha. She fits the hero role better than I. She has saved me far more times than I have saved her, but I’m doing my best to catch up. I know that I’m incapable of being the perfect father, the perfect husband, but if I'm there for the important moments, and if I’m not a complete tool, I think I have a shot of being remembered in a positive light. It’s true, I’ll still drink my drink. I’ll still write my words, whether the devil or angel moves me. But taking my family to the beach, taking them camping, hiking, exploring the world together ought to cancel out a lot of the riff-raff.

The trouble my father had was that he never realized booze, movies, and video games can only take a man so far. Whether spoken or not, there are meaningful moments that every son wishes to share with his father. Frankly, I’d love to sit with him in his backyard, sip wine to a slow drunk as Alex played with Scamp, his Border Collie, while listening to music and laughing about how much time we had wasted. But, you and I know that will never happen… another opportunity lost to sea forever.