Untrustworthy Intuitions

There’s a beach somewhere, a sunny beach. The waves roll consistently, leisurely, into the shore caressing the already wet sand when they get there, they drag themselves backwards, sneaking, slithering, as if they had stolen a touch and must get back to where they’d been hiding before the next voyeur receives its turn, each one stretching its furthest, each winner leaving its mark. A bird soars in the sky immeasurably graceful, higher and higher flying, as if flying were its only purpose, its only love. In the distance, past the painted blue sky and cutting the horizon in half, there are rocky crags where squirrels compete with eagles for the nuts of the day, where shadows roll back like the waves only slower but just as steady. The sun has peaked for the day. It burns bright in the sky shooting beams of yellow that heat the sand where the crabs hide, just beyond the reach of the waves. Meters off the beach, out past the sand bar, a shark glides its way through the water knowing food will present itself soon or soon enough. A sea turtle floats just above it, propelling forward, slowly, with oven-mitt fins, smiling, almost, it’s happy to be swimming. Jellyfish float further out in the world's largest lazy river, their only desire to bask in the current, trusting the direction it takes them. On the outskirts of the beach, before the sand starts, grass stretches its shoulders as high as it possibly could, bends its heads in reverence to shade where the fire ants choose to reside. Palm trees sit stoically amongst it, waiting for the next storm to test their trunks, some shade coconut-shells, split open chaotically, sitting in remembrance of the wind which blows gently today but has not always been so, some split themselves, the trees, as if in proof, a gruesome tombstone for those as yet still standing. The salt of the sea crusts the air causing all who breathe it to thirst quicker, and even though she is thirsty, Sarah is grateful to be here with her dad.

‘I’m going to miss this beach,’ her dad says. 

Each are sitting in the sand with surfboards still attached to their ankles, her dad is wearing sunglasses and a surf shirt that says ‘Kowabunga, Baby’. Sand grips both of their legs promising to do all it can to stay there. His legs are bent and he hugs his knees to stay upright. Sarah is leaned back, her arms support her torso and her legs are outstretched. Neither is looking at one another but rather the sea. Sarah does not respond. Her head is behind where her father can see and she sneaks a look at him, stays that way. 

There is something especially precious about moments with a loved one who you know is going to die soon. She notices that now. After moments of silence that only the creeping waves interrupted, her Dad returns her look, smiles. A few of his hair strands blow in the soft wind, his sunglasses cover his eyes.

‘How do you know you will miss anything?’ Sarah asks, looking away almost immediately. She loves her father more than anyone else but moments of intimacy with anyone, but most especially with those she loved, were never possible for her. She always felt incomplete. The way her father sat in them, lounged even, stretched fully in these moments, it baffled her. It was as if he loved deeply the entire world, able to rest and appreciate the beauty, the love, more than any trained eastern monk. 

He laughed and said he didn’t. 

Sarah could feel her father’s gaze. She wanted to look back into his eyes, sit in his stare, rest in the tender stream of connection that shoots from one loving face to the other, hold the moment without squirming, remember the feeling forever and know, when he left, that he loved her, in this moment, here and now, as she loved him— but she couldn’t, she didn’t, she watched the waves crawl in and out, and as if he heard her yearning somewhere in that river of connection that never ceased flowing between them, he stretched back and laid right next to her, elbow in the sand and hand propping up his head. 

‘Are you afraid?’ he asked.

‘Me? I should be asking you that.’

He smiled and said maybe and rolled back up, scooting backwards so he could be even with her. She was though, afraid. She was terrified. But how could she tell him that? He was the one who was dying not her. He was the one facing that horrible blackness, that infinite stretch of vacancy in human knowledge, that place where no one, nowhere, not ever, comes back from. But if you looked at him you couldn’t tell. No part of his face looked worried, no tics, no tears.

‘You know,’ he started, ‘ever since the diagnosis you and I have spent a lot more time together.’

She knew that wasn’t supposed to be an accusation but it felt like it.

‘Want to go for round two?’ he said quickly as if he grasped his mistake. Then, he pointed to the waves, ‘looks like a big set is rolling in.’ He didn’t wait for her. He got up, took his glasses off, grabbed his board, and jogged to the water. He knew she would follow but she wasn’t going to, not yet. She watched him run in and jump, swim through the break, sit on his board, flip around, and stare back at her. He motioned her to come in, smiling, like a peanut or a lightbulb in that dark, vast blue, that unknown frontier, and for a second, she felt like this wouldn’t be the last time he’d be welcoming her into a deep expanse of the unknown, but it left, that feeling, and she couldn’t trust it anyway, so she picked up her board and followed him in, wanting to savor whatever had just come across her, knowing she likely wouldn’t.