Our second sunny day in Laguna, California, felt like nothing less frantic than a fire drill. Every morning that trip, my parents woke early to drink a cup of jo and scavenge the sky for a chance of sun. The moment the sun did manage to burn its way through the clouds that morning, my brother and I were promptly awoken, and our entire family racked the hotel room in a free-for-all search for for swimsuits, sunscreen, glasses, umbrella, sheet, a deck of cards, henna kit, water bottles, and the complimentary oranges we had received from room service the night before. And in five minutes or so we were wading out the door like zombies with a need for speed. When we reached the water we set up camp on a sand slope and then ran for the waves.
My family has a strange relationship with the ocean. After the five second initial skin shock of being in water that cold, we become a clan of children no older than 8. All inherited behavioral patterns we've accumulated since elementary school seem to be shaken off with the waves and the water becomes our war zone of fun. I looked over and saw my brother get straight up giddy as he stared out into the distance stating "I can read the waves Jus!!". In front of me stood my dad my dad, leaning into the water with a runners stance...and ten seconds later he was laying on top of a wave, riding it to the shore. I watched as he stood up, turned to me with the air of a champion and hollered "Whoa!", as he dripped from every angle with sand. Behind me swam my mother, with her hair tousled into her face in a bright salmon pink one piece. Her name should have been Sophie (a name I correlate with a fictional freckle faced, five-year-old ). She was litter ally toddling around, grinning from ear to ear. And as for me. I couldn't stop jumping. I felt like I was in a rave with the forces of nature, and the only thing to do was dance, and laugh, and yell back at my dad "How do I do it?"
If there was sun, we were there at that beach. Spending the whole day picnicking, body surfing, playing cards, reading, and hiking our way around the surrounding coast.
When my dad got back from his last walk on the beach, I was laying on our sheet with a towel over my head, taking a cat nap. He scratched my head. "Pick a hand." he said. I chose one, he rearranged. "Pick a hand." he said, smiling. I picked the same one. I the palm of his hand lay a shell fragment weathered into the shape of a heart. He does this a lot. Over the years since I was about 8, he has always gifted me with heart shaped rocks and shells. It's a constant. I've treasured them, boxed them, displayed them, pocketed them, scattered them about, and lost them. And he never stopped giving them.
This time, I lost my heart. I lay it in the sand and left it. But two days ago, back at home in the kitchen, dad came to me again... "I have your heart", he said. "I picked it up since you didn't bother to take care of it." And I winced and laughed it off. But today, I've thought a lot about those hearts, and my dad has earned just another reason for me to love him. These gifts are the most sincerely genuine little trinkets I have ever received. He always picks them when he is all alone with the world, with no one to dictate his attention On a day like this. He did it in a time with no demands or obligations, when he was happy and at peace... in this quiet time he scavenged through thousands for a heart shaped stone... for his daughter.
Maybe this was a long winded way of recognizing this small series of lovings acts, but I think it's pretty neat :)
(yesss, that is a clown nose around his neck...)
