He’s old and hunched over, worn down by time, toil and gravity. His skin’s as thin and crinkly as crepe paper, almost translucent, same as his bald head. He locks arms with a sibling, one on each side, escorting the old man into the surf, steadying him as he shuffles into the sea so he can feel it wash over his feet and incrementally creep up over his ankles then over his knees.
He sinks his toes into the sand and feels the undertow pulling at him, as its done for decades, but now stronger, more menacing, with more serious intent. He loves the beach, the initial rush of the cold water, its ebb and flow, the swirling foam, the sound of the waves pounding on the sand. He’s been standing in that sand every summer since he was a child, riding the waves, chasing the crabs, collecting the shells, he and his siblings sharing the time and space, and now the memories. They plow further into the water, arm in arm, until a big wave crashes over them and they lose their grip.
The old man gets pulled underwater, his siblings knocked off guard and floundering about, the old man rolling in the sand, his bald head bobbing in and out of the surf, his skinny legs and feet poking out of the water like driftwood. The wave recedes back into the sea, leaving the old man flat on his back, wiping foam from his face and spitting seawater through his shriveled lips. He blinks rapidly, his eyelids popping open, revealing sparkling blue eyes full of life, along with an ear-to-ear grin, then he screams: ‘Let’s do it again!’
I wish my dad would ask his brothers to do this with him!
So so good, and true. I brought my daughted (2 yo) for a swim in the atlantic the other day. She was fearless but shivering. She kept wanting to go back in despite it all. Loved the rush of it!