The other day I watched a small boy go to his father for protection when a small house cat entered the room. The father was squatting down, tying the shoe of his five year-old son, and when the two year-old spotted the cat, he side-stepped over to the crouching father, eyes on the cat while one hand reached out to his father for support. He didn't hide behind his father's back, just kept one hand on him to reassure himself, for protection should he need it. So casual was the whole thing, it didn't seem as if the father even noticed.
Chuckling to myself, because really what was there to be afraid of with this tiny housecat, the older child looked up at me and said that his brother was scared of the cat. I smiled again. Then the small boy looked at me, one hand still perched on his father's back, and formed his words slowly and carefully. He's at the age where sentences are still a big deal, where they take effort to compose. "I'm scared of him because he scratches." Deadly serious. "Fair enough," I said, "that's a pretty good reason to be afraid of something." And I looked at the cat again, and thought, well, yes, relative to the size of the boy, the cat was huge. To him, it was as if a lion had come into the room. I was a bit overcome by the moment, the casual safety the boy sought out in his father, the gesture of protection offered by the Dad just by virtue of his very existence.
It made me think of the ocean, when we were kids, and standing in the salty waves with you, tall and strong, my protector. The regular beach was the beach near our house, which was Long Island Sound, where we'd go nearly every day in the summer with Mom and loll about on round plastic tubes in the calm, flat water. Scratch our feet on the rocky sand. But the ocean, the ocean was a grand treat which we would sometimes drive to on weekends with you and Mom together. Going to the ocean was a very, very big deal, and the waves were massive, and the sand was free from rocks, and the water was so salty it stung your eyes, and there was always ice cream and hot pretzels.
You'd take us out into the rough water and we'd stand up to our waists and let the waves come at us, breaking just before they got to us and sweeping us up in their frothy white aftermath. You'd hold on tight to our hands so we couldn't be swept too far away, and I had no fear when my hand was in your hand. Occasionally, the force of the wave would be so strong that I'd lose my grip on your hand and get thrown about under the water, not knowing which way was up or down, being pounded into the sand, sand in my bathing suit and mouth. But your searching hand would always scoop me back up and I'd be safe again. Sometimes you and Megan would walk out farther than I could stand and I would beg to come with you. Sometimes you would let me come and would hold me up the whole time. How glorious it was, to be in those waves with you. Waves and adrenaline rising and falling and all the while knowing I was safe because one hand was on you.
About eight or ten years ago, you and me and Mom went out to visit a friend of yours who was renting a house in the Hamptons for the summer. It was one of those houses that had direct beach access, sitting right there on the ocean sand. We went out back and everyone sat around eating and drinking on the beach. Except me, I made a beeline for the water. Be careful! Mom urged. Yeah, yeah. I jumped in and started swimming. The waves were big, the water was rough and salty. Because it was a private beach, there were no lifeguards. No one else was swimming. I went out farther than I meant to, and when I decided it was time to go back in, I realized that no matter how hard I swam, I wasn't moving any closer to shore. In fact, I had drifted off quite far from where you all were sitting at the picnic blanket on the beach. I tried to wave in your direction, but no one noticed. I kept trying to swim in, but nothing was happening. I've never been a strong swimmer, more of a doggy paddler, and this was my first time caught in a rip current. Of course, I didn't know it was a rip current at the time, I just felt confused and frightened.
The harder I fought to get back in, the farther I seemed to get off shore, and the farther I seemed to drift down away from you guys. Of course, every thing I now know about rip currents says don't fight against them, but I didn't know it at the time. I just desperately wanted to get back to safety, and it seemed like I was fighting an imaginary foe, running up a down escalator. By the time I reached full-fledged panic (another absolute "no" when dealing with a rip current), I saw you. There you were, walking down towards me on the shore. And immediately, I calmed. You were there, it was as if you had grabbed my hand, or I had side-stepped toward you and crouched ever so slightly behind you in the face of a lion. The panic subsided, I managed to ride out the current and eventually made it back into shore, at least half a mile down the beach from where I had started. You were there the whole time, watching me, waiting for me. I had been too far out to yell to, and so we hadn't spoken, but just knowing you were there, knowing someone was watching me, that was all I needed.
I love you, Dad, thank you for protecting me all of these years, because even if it was a move so subtle you didn't even know it was happening, you've always been the one I run to when the lions come.
a
Chuckling to myself, because really what was there to be afraid of with this tiny housecat, the older child looked up at me and said that his brother was scared of the cat. I smiled again. Then the small boy looked at me, one hand still perched on his father's back, and formed his words slowly and carefully. He's at the age where sentences are still a big deal, where they take effort to compose. "I'm scared of him because he scratches." Deadly serious. "Fair enough," I said, "that's a pretty good reason to be afraid of something." And I looked at the cat again, and thought, well, yes, relative to the size of the boy, the cat was huge. To him, it was as if a lion had come into the room. I was a bit overcome by the moment, the casual safety the boy sought out in his father, the gesture of protection offered by the Dad just by virtue of his very existence.
It made me think of the ocean, when we were kids, and standing in the salty waves with you, tall and strong, my protector. The regular beach was the beach near our house, which was Long Island Sound, where we'd go nearly every day in the summer with Mom and loll about on round plastic tubes in the calm, flat water. Scratch our feet on the rocky sand. But the ocean, the ocean was a grand treat which we would sometimes drive to on weekends with you and Mom together. Going to the ocean was a very, very big deal, and the waves were massive, and the sand was free from rocks, and the water was so salty it stung your eyes, and there was always ice cream and hot pretzels.
You'd take us out into the rough water and we'd stand up to our waists and let the waves come at us, breaking just before they got to us and sweeping us up in their frothy white aftermath. You'd hold on tight to our hands so we couldn't be swept too far away, and I had no fear when my hand was in your hand. Occasionally, the force of the wave would be so strong that I'd lose my grip on your hand and get thrown about under the water, not knowing which way was up or down, being pounded into the sand, sand in my bathing suit and mouth. But your searching hand would always scoop me back up and I'd be safe again. Sometimes you and Megan would walk out farther than I could stand and I would beg to come with you. Sometimes you would let me come and would hold me up the whole time. How glorious it was, to be in those waves with you. Waves and adrenaline rising and falling and all the while knowing I was safe because one hand was on you.
About eight or ten years ago, you and me and Mom went out to visit a friend of yours who was renting a house in the Hamptons for the summer. It was one of those houses that had direct beach access, sitting right there on the ocean sand. We went out back and everyone sat around eating and drinking on the beach. Except me, I made a beeline for the water. Be careful! Mom urged. Yeah, yeah. I jumped in and started swimming. The waves were big, the water was rough and salty. Because it was a private beach, there were no lifeguards. No one else was swimming. I went out farther than I meant to, and when I decided it was time to go back in, I realized that no matter how hard I swam, I wasn't moving any closer to shore. In fact, I had drifted off quite far from where you all were sitting at the picnic blanket on the beach. I tried to wave in your direction, but no one noticed. I kept trying to swim in, but nothing was happening. I've never been a strong swimmer, more of a doggy paddler, and this was my first time caught in a rip current. Of course, I didn't know it was a rip current at the time, I just felt confused and frightened.
The harder I fought to get back in, the farther I seemed to get off shore, and the farther I seemed to drift down away from you guys. Of course, every thing I now know about rip currents says don't fight against them, but I didn't know it at the time. I just desperately wanted to get back to safety, and it seemed like I was fighting an imaginary foe, running up a down escalator. By the time I reached full-fledged panic (another absolute "no" when dealing with a rip current), I saw you. There you were, walking down towards me on the shore. And immediately, I calmed. You were there, it was as if you had grabbed my hand, or I had side-stepped toward you and crouched ever so slightly behind you in the face of a lion. The panic subsided, I managed to ride out the current and eventually made it back into shore, at least half a mile down the beach from where I had started. You were there the whole time, watching me, waiting for me. I had been too far out to yell to, and so we hadn't spoken, but just knowing you were there, knowing someone was watching me, that was all I needed.
I love you, Dad, thank you for protecting me all of these years, because even if it was a move so subtle you didn't even know it was happening, you've always been the one I run to when the lions come.
a
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