I used to take the kids, my own and my nieces and nephews
out in the water every year to watch the July 4th fireworks. The town of Ogunquit ME used to shoot them
off right over the beach from the Main Beach parking lot. Thousands of people would line the Marginal
Way and dozens more would anchor their motor and sailboats just offshore. But we figured we had the best spot in the
house, sitting on our surfboards, directly under the exploding lights. If we were lucky enough to have some actual
surf, we’d try to catch a wave while the rockets’ red glare were bursting
overhead. The experience was pretty awesome
and the kids thought we were the coolest family ever for being out there where
nobody else had the imagination to be.
One time I even dove under water and opened my eyes to look up as a
firework burst into color and streamers lit up the sky. It was like looking into a kaleidoscope, only
way, way, cooler. I told the kids to try
it and I’ll never forget their squeals and cries of how it was the coolest
thing ever.
Surfing is
usually a solitary pursuit. Self-absorbed and single-minded, surfers will
hyper-focus on the incoming sets and jockey for the best position with
sometimes cut throat tactics to catch the best one at the same time they are
out maneuvering their fellow surfers in the water. You could be out there with your best friend,
but you’re not gonna give them your wave.
But
something happens to a surfer when they have children of their own. Suddenly they want to share. Not just waves, but the whole experience of
being a surfer. Look at any surfer Mom’s
or Dad’s photo album and there will invariably be a shot or two of their infant
child, perched on the deck of a longboard on the living room carpet. There’ll be another shot of the toddler, on
the same longboard, only now out in the water.
And of course there’s the requisite shot of little Timmy or Sally,
stinkbug stanced on a board as they glide straight in on broken whitewater, on
their first wave.
Moms and
Dads, whether they surf or not, will spend countless hours, standing knee deep
in the shorebreak, lifeguarding as Timmy or Sally paddle out on their own to
ride mushy closeouts. Neither of my
parents surfed but I will forever remember two visions of their participation
in my early budding passion:
The first is of Dad, the time he grabbed my little brother’s board and
stood with me in thigh deep water, as I tried to work up the courage to paddle
out into overhead hurricane surf for the first time. I don’t know how long we both stood there,
but Dad never said a word as he waited.
Waited for me to decide what I was going to do. He didn’t even say anything when I ultimately
turned away and walked back up the beach, too humbled and scared to go
out. I always wondered what would have
happened to Dad if I had decided to
go. Though he was a former lifeguard (in
Walden Pond in Massachusetts) he had no experience in big surf, and certainly
not while paddling a skinny 6’8” swallow tail.
But he stood with me, ready to go if that’s what I’d decided. Because Dad loved me and was going to stand
by me no matter what.
Then there
was Mom. Good old Mom. Mom had a passion for photography, well, for
snap shotting just about everything she could that pertained to us kids and her
family. She was a terrible photographer
and usually leaned towards posed pictures and phony, “say cheese!” smiles. She was a master of bad lighting, usually
having us positioned in group family shots, squinting into harsh, front-lit,
noonday sun, taking multiple snaps until she either finished the roll or we
were blubbering for her to stop and my dad said, “Enough already, Helen!” But when my brother and I started surfing,
good old Mom was there to record the action.
Her camera was usually a cheap plastic, Kodak Instamatic. It was a piece of junk with a cheap, fixed and
fuzzy plastic lens, cartridge film, and no controls other than a shutter button.
Mom loved it for its simplicity. She
used to put it in a plastic baggie to protect it from the salt-water, then wade
out to snap shots of us surfing. Later,
after she’d had the photos developed at the drug store, she put the prints in
the photo album and we’d pore over them.
Only they looked nothing like the glossy Kodachrome images we drooled
over in the surf mags. No, in Mom’s
shots, all you saw was sky, water, and some indistinct black dot that was
allegedly one of us. And to assist us in
better identifying which of us she’d captured in action, she would draw a big
arrow with a pen that pointed to the black dot, with the name of which one of
us she was certain it was. I know for a
fact that Mom captured a few black dots that later turned out to be neither
myself nor my brother…but we appreciated her effort. Good old Mom. She loved us too.
Last night,
and again this afternoon, I watched two of my surfing buddies, mentoring their
kids’ in the water. I sat on a rock
eating Chinese food, while I watched Brian watching his two girls paddle out
into the closed out but glassy surf.
Then this afternoon on my way to work I swung by the Rivermouth and saw
Rachael paddling out with her kid into sideshore and mushy little waves. It brought the memories back of when I’d
taken my own kids into the surf, so many years ago. I had to smile. It was good to see another generation being
introduced to the surfing lifestyle. I
smiled even wider when I remembered what another of my surfing friends used to
say each time he saw me bring one of my boys out for their first surf: “Well,
there’s another kid that’ll never grow up to be President!” I don’t know if Brian two daughters, or
Rachael’s girl will ever be president, but it was nice to see that the concept
of Ohana, family, was alive and well with these surfers, here in Maine. Because
Ohana is really what it’s all about…
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