Day at the Beach

"I'm wild! I'm crazy! I'm out of control!" I say to my father. But what I mean is that I want to be wild and crazy and out of control, only I'm not. I'm the same me I've always been, only sadder.

We're discussing my newest tattoo. He wants to know why I would have pictures drawn permanently on my skin. And my only response is to avoid the question. Instead, I joke and laugh, say that all people who are young and fun-loving have tattoos.

But he shakes his head and rolls his eyes and I realize that he will never understand me. He never hears the real me screaming behind my quiet words.

I follow my Dad out the front door and down the steps of my house. Once he is on the ground, he turns around and looks at me.

He says, "Why aren't you going to California?"

And I hear, "Why aren't you following your dreams? Why are you settling? I always expected more..."

"It's a money thing," I say.

I expect him to nod his head and turn around and keep walking to the car, but he nods and stands there looking at me, as though the conversation is going to continue, as though he has something else he wants to say or something else he wants to hear. Hope wells within me that we're going to have an actual conversation.

Until I realize he is only waiting for me to move so he can sit down on the steps to put on his shoes.

A year ago, my father moved in with a new girlfriend. He's has been so wrapped up in this woman and her teen-aged daughter that my sister and I have started referring to them as his"new family." The three of them are supposedly here to visit me for the weekend, but they have so many things they want to do that I feel like an excuse for taking a trip to the beach. When he called to tell me he was bringing them for a visit, I realized that it was the first time in my life he’s ever called me. I remembered that it had always been my stepmother who called and, after our conversation was finished, she'd ask if I wanted to talk to my dad.

His new family is excited. The daughter has never seen the ocean before. She jokes easily with my father and I remember our relationship, what it was like with him when I was her age and we still knew each other, when he was still married to his second wife, my stepmother. I wonder if the daughter knows what it will be like in ten years when he's left her mother, too. I want to warn her about the torment of love/hate relationships and the sense of loss when one you learned to love changes beyond imagination. But they're all anxious to leave and head to the beach.

I never go to the beach on a summer day. That's just about the worst time to go. For one thing, it's hot and the sand sticks to you and for another thing, it's when everyone else goes. I don't bring my swimsuit. I lie and tell them it's packed away and I couldn't possibly find it in time, all the while I know it's neatly folded on top of the clothes of my third dresser drawer. The truth is that I can't get saltwater or sunlight on my new tattoo. I don't feel much like swimming anyway.

I almost feel lost at the beach in daylight. Everything is so different. I watch my dad swim in the water with his new family. There are people everywhere. Little kids run at the water shrieking until they're hoarse.

I walk to the edge of the water and look out across the ocean. I close my eyes and try to ignore the people and the noise and try to remember what the beach is like on a warm night in early spring or late fall, when there's a full moon and you can be alone in the world. When you are the only person there and the only sound is the relentless repetition of the waves, you can look out across the water and see the stars just above the ocean’s surface. You can put yourself and your problems, your hopes, and your fears in proper perspective with the universe.

But there are too many distractions, and after awhile, I give up and walk back to their towels and sandals and sit. I draw pictures in the sand with my finger and listen to the band play on the deck of a nearby restaurant. The lead singer has a great voice - he sings Jimmy Buffett and James Taylor and finally a Chris Isaak song. I imagine he's handsome and sexy like Chris. I imagine him a couple years older than me with sandy hair, ocean eyes and surfer clothes. I think I about going up and getting a margarita, sipping on it, flirting with him while he sings.

But I look out at the water and my dad and his family are walking toward me. They're done swimming. I wait while they dry their hair and pull street clothes on over their wet bathing suits and try to brush all the sand off their damp skin. I stare into the mirror of the daughter and see myself on my first trip to the beach, sneaking sly glances at the lithe teenage boys and rolling my eyes at the stupid jokes of the adults. The three of them are already discussing what they want to buy in the touristy gift shops and talking about what to eat for dinner. They want to know where they can buy some saltwater taffy.

Finally, they're ready to go. We all turn toward the boardwalk as though we were a single unit. I think about how we must look like a happy mom and dad with their two daughters, just taking a weekend vacation at the beach. I search the boardwalk for the singer and my heart sinks as I spot a short and unattractive middle-aged man with thinning dark hair singing into the microphone.

Good thing he has a great voice.