written By
Within minutes a wind has kicked up off the Gulf of Mexico, and the sky to the southwest darkens. Palm-sized raindrops begin pattering the chop, the chop already turning to low swells. The whipping gusts notch up to a steady gale. Lightning strikes a half-mile away, the air smelling like a blown fuse.
The man and his son had just pushed their kayaks off of the sandbar island moments earlier. A little dot just to the south of Dauphin Island. A good spot for birding or sunbathing or meditation. The two of them had shared peanut butter sandwiches and fig newtons and colas and had spent the afternoon goofing off and talking and scanning the skies for frigate birds. Sometimes a frigate would stray north from Cuba or the Yucatan this time of year. Their massive wingspan, rarely flapping at all, gave them away. No frigates to be seen today, though. Just the usual: brown pelicans and laughing gulls and terns. An osprey circling back near the state pier.
But it had been a beautiful afternoon nonetheless, before the sky darkened. The man thrilled to have one-on-one time with his son. A mid-June afternoon, mild and pleasant. Just a 10 percent chance of thunderstorms. Folks around Mobile Bay not even batting an eye to anything under 50 percent. As 50 percent always means – yes it will storm. But what kind of storm? the man always thinks. That’s the real concern. Who pays attention to percentages? It storms down here all the time. But a dry summer spell can fool a person. Can lull a person into being inattentive. That false sense of security people have in other, quieter parts of the country.
Another lightning strike, much closer this time. The man, still fit in his late forties, now pumps his oars furiously in the chop. The boy, thin arms sinewy and muscled from junior high wrestling practice, watches his father closely and does the same. The rumble of thunder all-encompassing, magnificently loud. The man feels his skull rattle like an old windowpane. Too late to turn back to the sand bar, he thinks, as it’ll probably be overtaken by the swells anyway. And never mind the lightning strikes out there. He yells at his son. “C’mon! Move it!”
The pattering raindrops turn into a heavy downpour. As if suddenly the man and his son are underneath some giant waterfall. Lightning popping again to the south. The rolling boom of thunder almost now continuous. The man puts his head down, facing the kayak’s front, and starts a manic pace pumping his oars. “C’mon,” he yells again, his voice all but lost in the roar of the rain and the rumbling thunder. The boy, right behind him, falls in line with the pace.
The man glances up for a moment. He can just barely make out Dauphin Island. The beach, the state pier. It’s all almost blotted from view by the sheets of rain. His own vision blurred from the water pouring upon him and the salt-spray stinging his eyes. Oh Lord, he prays, get us safely to that beach. He sees, or thinks he sees, a lone person out on the far end of the pier, waving a red flag at them. A lifeguard? A concerned bystander? Someone giving them something to steer towards? What lunatic would be out in this? What lunatic would have his kid out in this?
The wind is whipping in all directions now, the rain coming down even harder. The swells higher. Man and boy rowing harder on the back end of each wave and being surfed forward on the front ends. The man looks back and spies his son keeping pace. Why did I drag him out here today? he wonders. Because of the holiday? I know he really wanted to go with his mom and sister to the mall in Mobile instead. I knew that at the time, and it ticked me off. I dragged him out here into nature, into the elements, because I know what’s best for him? Ha! What a joke. What an ugly cruel joke. He should be safe and dry in the mall, playing one of those Xbox games with his sister. And me out here by myself, in nature and in the elements, about to be drowned or killed by a lightning strike.
For the moment, the man cannot see Dauphin Island. It’s gone. The pier. That person waving the red flag on the pier. All blotted out, all gone. Nothing but the torrential rain and the Gulf swells morphed into one gray throbbing enveloping mass. He stops rowing. He realizes that he’s crying. Sobbing now. His tears mixing in with the salt-spray and the rainwater dousing his cheeks and beard. Oh my wife, my daughter, he thinks. What were they wearing this morning? I can’t even remember. I can’t even see them. They’ve been blotted out as well.
Lord, he prays again, thy will be done? Is this thy will? Are you kidding? A man and his boy murdered by You out upon the sea? Like in Old Testament times? Lord, I cannot see that as Your will. As Your justice. As Your love. I cannot see the island and the pier and I cannot see my daughter and my wife and I can’t see all my days passed and I can’t see this moment and I can’t see making it back to shore with my son and I cannot see tomorrow or the next day back in the office to work on whatever it was I was working on that I cannot recall now because I can’t see anything anymore except water. Sea water. I see water. I see sea water by the seashore but I cannot see the seashore for the sea water…
“C’mon!” It’s the boy yelling, a piercing high-pitched voice, cracking and changing between child and man. The boy has now moved ahead of his father, and is now yelling back to him over a thin sunburned shoulder. “C’mon! Move it!” The man blinks out of his dazed stupor. Water is sloshing over the front of his kayak as he sits, still not rowing. He sees the boy pumping his oars like a madman up and over the swells.
The man begins rowing, and soon he catches up to his son. Thunder is still booming, but now it’s off to the east. The swells are lower, and the downpour has slackened just a bit. He can see that fellow at the end of the pier, still waving a red flag and jumping up and down. They are close enough now that he can see it is a lifeguard. His neon yellow vest. His red flag waving. Just a boy himself, really, a teenager. The wind has died down, the rain softer. The man sees his son still ahead of him, rowing like some Olympic athlete toward the shore. The lifeguard is even closer now. He’s jumping up and down on the pier, waving his red flag and laughing.
