Ken McAlpine's Blog: The Hesitant Blogger - Posts Tagged "ocean"
Try
As parents, we all walk the often gray line between “yes” and “no”. I wrote this essay with those “yes” and “no” decisions in mind…
Try
He looks at the jetty, his hand in mine.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“You can do it,” I say, though the truth is I don’t know. The boulder-size rocks must look like the side of a building to a four-year-old. Very carefully he climbs up the side of the jetty. I climb just below him, one hand out to catch him if he slips, though I’m not sure if I can grab him before he hurts himself. When he reaches the top his smile tells me I made the right decision.
He stands at the water’s edge, peering out to the wood platform anchored seventy yards off the beach. Older kids are jumping off it, laying on their backs in the sun.
“I don’t know if I can make it,” he says.
Seventy yards must look like the horizon to a six-year-old.
“I’ll swim with you,” I say.
We stop three times on the way out. I tread water. His small hands press down on my shoulder. But he is smiling wide again.
He balances the surfboard on his head; eight-year-old arms are too short to tuck the board under an arm. The waves are small; they crumble softly without a sound, but I know they look small to me because I am grown.
He has been asking me to teach him how to surf for weeks, but here at the water’s edge he has his doubts.
“You’ll stay close to me?”
“Right beside you.”
I swim out with him. He stands on the first wave, wobbling, feet planted wide. He falls just short of the beach. I swim in as fast as I can. By the time I reach him he is already paddling awkwardly toward me. The smile is beyond words.
They are the biggest waves of the winter. They march toward shore, lumbering giants. The handful of surfers in the water bob far out to sea, farther out than we have ever seen them. When the waves break they throw forward with sledgehammer force and the sound is like not-very-distant thunder. Mist wafts through the parking lot, the aftermath of the thunder. More than a few surfers stay in the parking lot, leaning against their cars.
We change into our wetsuits. My mouth is dry and there is a lump in my throat.
He changes faster. These days he does everything faster. He fastens his zipper and turns to go. He is fifteen. He will not ask me to stay close to him. I think about telling him to be careful, but he is already running for the water. I am a little frightened, for him and for me, but the way he runs tells me I have, on occasion, done the right thing.
Try
He looks at the jetty, his hand in mine.
“I don’t know,” he says.
“You can do it,” I say, though the truth is I don’t know. The boulder-size rocks must look like the side of a building to a four-year-old. Very carefully he climbs up the side of the jetty. I climb just below him, one hand out to catch him if he slips, though I’m not sure if I can grab him before he hurts himself. When he reaches the top his smile tells me I made the right decision.
He stands at the water’s edge, peering out to the wood platform anchored seventy yards off the beach. Older kids are jumping off it, laying on their backs in the sun.
“I don’t know if I can make it,” he says.
Seventy yards must look like the horizon to a six-year-old.
“I’ll swim with you,” I say.
We stop three times on the way out. I tread water. His small hands press down on my shoulder. But he is smiling wide again.
He balances the surfboard on his head; eight-year-old arms are too short to tuck the board under an arm. The waves are small; they crumble softly without a sound, but I know they look small to me because I am grown.
He has been asking me to teach him how to surf for weeks, but here at the water’s edge he has his doubts.
“You’ll stay close to me?”
“Right beside you.”
I swim out with him. He stands on the first wave, wobbling, feet planted wide. He falls just short of the beach. I swim in as fast as I can. By the time I reach him he is already paddling awkwardly toward me. The smile is beyond words.
They are the biggest waves of the winter. They march toward shore, lumbering giants. The handful of surfers in the water bob far out to sea, farther out than we have ever seen them. When the waves break they throw forward with sledgehammer force and the sound is like not-very-distant thunder. Mist wafts through the parking lot, the aftermath of the thunder. More than a few surfers stay in the parking lot, leaning against their cars.
We change into our wetsuits. My mouth is dry and there is a lump in my throat.
He changes faster. These days he does everything faster. He fastens his zipper and turns to go. He is fifteen. He will not ask me to stay close to him. I think about telling him to be careful, but he is already running for the water. I am a little frightened, for him and for me, but the way he runs tells me I have, on occasion, done the right thing.
