Time and Tide

He was afraid of the water. Even though it was over 90 degrees outside and stiflingly hot in the family’s small Brooklyn apartment, Joey would rather stay home than go to the beach. He and his family had gone there on the Fourth of July. His father told him then that it was a holiday, and it would be lots of fun. But for a five-year-old, the sand was hot on his feet, it was crowded, and people yelled at him when he stepped on their blankets. The waves knocked him down when he tried to walk into the water and water got in his nose and made him choke until his father pulled him up by the arms. After that, he spent most of the day shuffling backwards in the shallow water of the receding waves, making believe he was a ferry leaving a wake.

This time the beach looked even more crowded. They didn’t have a beach umbrella, so his mother set up their blanket under the boardwalk where the sand was cool and grey instead of yellow and hot.

Joey’s father and older brother turned toward the surf. “Come on, Joey,” said his dad, but Joey just sat down on the sand and began shoveling it into his toy bucket instead.

“Leave him alone, Dear,” said Joey’s mom. “I’ll bring him down later.”

Later they all had snacks and drinks in the cool shade of the boardwalk and Joey’s dad and brother stretched out on towels in the sun to dry off and get a tan. Joey fell asleep.

It was getting late, the crowd was thinning out, and Joey’s mom moved the blanket to be closer to the water. The tide was going out and the waves were smaller than before, and beyond the breakers the ocean was smooth, with just a gentle swell.

“I’m taking a dip, Joey,” said his father. “Wanna come?” Joey just shook his head.

Joey’s father stood up, brushed the sand from his bathing suit and then took off down the sloping sand toward the water. He ran right through the small waves at the water line and plowed through the next round of larger ones until he finally reached one cresting about waist high. He dove under the wave, came up the other side, and immediately began swimming out to sea, his face in the water, his arms arching up and plunging down, his feet churning the water behind him and the water rushing over his shoulders and rolling down his back, glistening in the afternoon sun.

To Joey, it looked so easy.

His father stopped swimming, turned toward the shore, wiped his face and smoothed his hair with both hands and began slowing swimming back to shore, the waves pushing him along. But when reaching the shore, he didn’t go to the blanket but instead rushed to Joey, picked him up and carried him toward the water, Joey pushing against his father’s chest and wailing. He brought his son to water just a little deep. “Down you go,” he said, lowered him in the water, and let him go.

Joey splashed and thrashed the water, kicking and screaming. He thought he would go under, but his father grabbed him under the arms so he wouldn’t sink. He smiled at his son, Joey’s face wet with water and tears, and said “Down again?” He stretched his arms out so that Joey was a bit further away and let him down. Joey splashed and kicked again but didn’t wail as he worked himself closer to his father. “Once more,” said dad, and dropped Joey into the water, stepping back a step so that the space between father and son was a little longer. Joey splashed and kicked and covered the distance. His father picked him up and Joey wrapped his arms around his father’s neck. “Attaboy,” said dad.

That was 40 years ago.

Joe’s sister called him at the office. “Are you sitting down?” she said. It was just a minor procedure, but something happened—the doctor thought it was a stroke—and it was over. The family was allowed to see him in the hospital room, and Joe was the last to arrive there.

Joe’s father was lying in the bed turned slightly to one side, a fresh sheet covering him up to his neck but leaving one arm outside. Since his childhood, Joe had often thought about this day, knew it would come, and now here it was. Joe reached down to hold his father’s hand. The palm was cold but the sunlight from the window warmed his father’s forearm just a bit. Joe thought he should say some kind of prayer, so he bowed his head and tried to think of some words. But with his eyes closed all he could see was his father coming out beyond the waves, swimming strongly out to sea, his feet churning the water like a ferryboat’s wake, water rushing over his shoulders and rolling down his back, glistening in the afternoon sun.