Episode #5 - The Tops Blow Away

    The Tops Blow Away

    The sun is not as strong as the wind is today, on Padre Island. It is early in the summer, the best time of year to play in shallow water and mock the gulfen waves.  I stand on the loose dry sand of the beachfront. The first row of sand dunes rise behind and the gentle waves roll in from the Gulf and break across sand bars before me. I lose myself in the roll and play of salt water.

    After a while I turn and look to the boys. Number 1 son is waist-deep in the trough between sand bars, where the big fish feed.  A mullet jumps, startling him.  His simple joy in playing with the waves changes instantly.  A moment ago he was happy and now he is truly terrified and he races to me, to his rock and his safety. I hold him in my arms and he lays his head against my shoulder. He is so tall now.

    Those who don’t know my older son always wonder at his childlike emotions, unacceptable in a double-digit boy. They don’t understand the life he lives, the scary world all around him.  Half his life was spent as just another abandoned child, in an orphanage where one small room was his whole world for five years. This half, this life that we share now is defined by his illness, the bipolar nature that drives him to extremes. It drives us as well, to desperate searches for simple pleasures that so many people take for granted. We come here to Padre Island in search of those simple pleasures, stalking childhood memories for our sons.  The island is a perfect place for memories.

    Number 2 son has come to us now and puffs up his little chest. He is sure to take advantage of the scare, to tease his older brother. It is just too good a chance to miss and my older son is the perfect target for childhood malice.

    “Stupid #1 Son, afraid of a little fish! We got goldfish bigger than that!”

    Another moment passes and the fists are flying. I step in to protect them, one from the other. Number 2 is tough, but he only lived several years in the orphanage. He didn’t learn to fight like his older brother did, just to survive, but #2 is no piker. He gives as good as he gets.

    Later, after I have separated the boys and glared away the stares of nearby bathers, I explain to #1. “Little mullet swim with you,”  I say, “chasing littler fish still. It is like a game they play, and sometimes the bigger fish play also. When they do, the mullet jump in fear and fly away.”

    “Like me, Dad?” he asks.

    “Like you.” I say with a grin. “Like you my son.” and he smiles and laughs with me.

    After a while #1 son is ready to go back into the water and #2 is there waiting for him. Number 1 pretends not to be afraid, and #2 pretends to be a mullet, flailing wildly at the surf and screaming in fishy fear. Number 1 picks him up and ploughs the water with his head, calling for sharks to come and get it. It is time to step in, yet again. I am not surprised; the boys fight with all the regularity of waves beating the shore. Their shouts and screams are always there, wearing away at any brief moment of peace of mind that I can find.

    Still, we go on, and day by day our lives unfold, like waves rolling onto shore.

    #

    Three more days have gone by and we have built memories from them. Sooner or later the tops of the memories will fade, but the roots of our time on Padre Island will survive, even if only in the undergrounds of our conscious minds. #2 son will grow up and move on and build a life of his own. Number 1 may never grow emotionally, or become more aceptable even as his body ages. We just don’t know. The doctors cannot tell us what will come. They can only make vague guesses and predict the worst that can be; the HMO’s do not pay for the dispensation of hope. It is up to us to find it, on the island, in our memories or perhaps in the soft pale gleam of a perfect seashell at day’s end.

    On this dark and lonely drive back home I have finally found peace for a few hours. My musings have sustained me and I take comfort in the thought that the islands that bound this gulf will endure in one form or another, that they and my boys have their places in my world. For now, that is enough for me.