Salty Lung

I’m four and a half years old. I hold up 4 pudgy fingers to tell you so. I make sure to add the half. With voice. The half is important. It means I’m gaining on 5. It means I’ll be a sister soon. It means those 4 and 1/2 years will always be between myself and my brother. It means I’ll be his elder. It means I’ve been preparing to show him a world I’ve already scoped.

I’m under the surface swallowing sea water. Through foam and disturbed sand, I see my father’s hands breaking through that crest of ocean above. Strong hands. Backlit by panic. And California sun. And me. I’ve never met drowning. I don’t know it’s name. It’s quiet. Here. Time stands. I’m calm.

Like many mornings, I’ve been sitting on my father’s surfboard, thumping over tender waves. He does the paddling. I sit on the front. Tiny captain of a tiny ship. He holds my hands. Helps me stand.

"Bend your knees, Jenny."

I have his feet.

Solid.

Balance.

"Ready? Hold your breath. Don’t breathe until we come up."

Utter trust.

Big hand. Taking mine. Pulling me beneath a wave that tumbles over head.

The force. Water with a pulse. The rumble of it rushing past my ears. The inside of a dishwashing machine.

Little feat. Kick Kick Kick. Like in swim class. My mother cheering at me from the side of the pool. I’d been the smallest one. But there I was. I wanted to be a fish like my father. I was thoroughly captivated. His confidence. His sun-kissed back as he went diving into walls of foam. That flick of his wrist as he’d toss his sunglasses and baseball cap to the sand. Run headlong into that sparkling blue.

The ocean is my father’s church. Every wave, a prayer.He knows its tempers, its tides, its creatures, its miracles. He also knows its mystery. He marvels at how much he doesn’t know. His powerlessness.He is his father’s son. The sea, his temple. My grandfather had been a sailor, driven ships in the navy in World War II.

My father hadn’t seen this swell coming. One wave and I was gone. Swept under. Lost. Little me. What influence could I have against that force. It flicked me from my father’s board and pulled me into it’s salty arms.

Somersaults. A ballet that washed me present. I am at the ocean’s mercy. Then, the crack of sound. I’m spitting water. Back in the safety of my father’s arms. My pregnant mother running toward us in a bikini. A kind of terror I’d never seen on her face. I had sand in my teeth. I was breathing. I was back on the shore.

Salty lung. I drank two apple juices from the cooler to wash down all that sea water. It felt good. Squinting in sun. Being alive.

Hello nature. Hello lungs. Hello Breath.

It was only the first time I would swim out of my depth with my father. It would not be the last. His hand would pull me under and through waves for decades more. He’d watch with confidence as I took on the sea at his behest and challenged myself in bigger surf. He taught me about rip tides. Never to fight them. He assured me that yes, the sharks were always there, but rarely would they bother anyone. He taught me to spit in my face mask before snorkeling. Where coral was and where not to body surf. He told me about the massive break where everyone used to surf before it became a harbor. He taught me how to kick and swim and hold my breath. He smiled when he saw me walking toward the surf.

But in New York City, when I moved away from my father’s ocean, he wept as he watched me climb into the cab that would take me from his hotel back to my dorm room. The city is what frightens my father. He tapped the taxi driver on the shoulder, saying, “take good care of this girl. This is precious cargo.”

I’d held his hand that night, pulling him through crowds of people in Times Square. Snowflakes had begun to fall as we rushed to make it to our broadway show, bellies full of pasta. At intermission when I saw that two front row seats were still vacant — the ticket holders hadn’t shown up, I pulled his hand and led him out of the nose bleeds and we tucked ourselves into the two vacant front row seats. I tugged him onto the subway where he marveled at the dancers who entered and twirled from the subway poles then exited at the next stop.

We’d sat big-eyed at Central Park, dangling our legs off a little cement stage and watching a Rollerskater skate with a kind of olympic passion that made us giggle. It was sunset. We shivered in the cold, both of us lacking a proper winter coat. We were like two california kids. But now this was my home. I’d gotten to bring him to my church. I got to take his hand and lead.