“I’m not doing the surgery,” Dave says. “You heard the doctor, I’m not a good candidate.”
“Dad!”
I look between them. I feel like a ghost, like I’m from the future or the past and they can’t see me. Here I am, trying to change the course of history, with theabilityto do it, but they can’t hear my shouts. All they feel is a cool, unusual presence.
“What are you guys talking about?” I say. “Didn’t you hear me?”
When I was little—seven or eight—I remember getting lost in the ocean. We were out at Point Dume and a big set came in, bigger than we were anticipating. Dad would always make me wear the surf leash. In the early years—before six, maybe—we’d share a board. But as I got older we’d take two out. Mine wasn’t long—I still wouldn’t have been able to carry it—but it was a real board. Dad always taught me the importance of the ankle leash.
“For one thing, your board can never go missing,” he said. “And for another, neither can you.”
Stray boards could knock a surfer unconscious, but a leash prevented a lot of foreseeable accidents. We always strapped in.
I wiped out farther in—I had caught the last wave of the set and rode it high. I turned back to Dad, hoping to see him cheering, or maybe falling off in the water near me, but he was nowhere in sight.
I paddled back out. The waves were choppy. I kept trying to ride over them at the right time, but it was hard. I had to duck under as I swam farther out.
“Dad?” I called.
No one was out there. It had been a late morning; maybe I was off from school, I don’t remember. Everyone else had turned in hours ago.
I scanned the horizon—nothing. Another wave came, and as I inhaled I saw a small patch of color about five yards to my left.
The wave passed; I sputtered to the surface and started swimming hard.
Paddle, don’t scream; paddle, don’t scream.
I found him, knocked nearly unconscious, his board gone, getting jostled in the waves like a piece of stray clothing.
“Dad!”
I wasn’t a small kid, but I wasn’t a big one, either, and I couldn’t lift him. I was too young. I put his arms over my board, and I held his side as I tried to swim us in.
“Come on, Dad,” I said. “Hold on.”
I brought him to shore that way. It was the most herculean act of strength I’d ever mustered, and have mustered since. I saved his life.
When we finally got to the sand, he was coming to. We collapsed down, side by side, the water still at our feet, licking up our legs.
I tried to catch my breath—big, heaving inhales and exhales.I knew I had to go get Mom. I knew we had to call a doctor. But I couldn’t move. All the strength I’d had I used to bring him in. I was clear out.
And then Marcella came down the beach. We were farther from our house than I’d realized—she ran at a clip. She reached us breathless. Somehow, she had known. Or, more probably: She was always watching.
“What happened?”
“Dad got knocked out,” I said. I sat up. I saw that blood was running down his face from his temple. He blinked at us. Slowly. We held our breath.
And then he smiled. And I remember that smile righting the whole world. I remember that smile setting us back on our feet, back in the world.
“What’s all the fuss about?” he asked. “Something happen?”
My mom shoved him. We walked back to the house—Dad limping, my arms shaking, carrying the board tucked to my side.
“You didn’t wear a leash,” I told him as we climbed the stairs.
“And now you see why we should,” he said.
From the hospital bed Dad looks almost himself. His color is faded and he looks tired, hair flat on top. But his weight is good, his shoulders broad. It’s impossible to think that something is happening inside of him that we can stop and won’t. I say it to him the only way I know he’ll understand, the way he has to.
