A Morning At Sea

My father stared out in the distance, at nothing in particular. He seemed—not happy, but—content. He had the same stocky build of a bear that my grandfather did in his prime, with thick arms and broad shoulders, but he still radiated a friendly demeanor. His skin was red from the beating rays of the sun, a common occurrence. As his hard gaze focused on the horizon, mine fell from the silver hairs on his head to the salt and pepper beard he had grown a bit less than a year ago. It looked like the beard of a sailor, and I couldn’t help but feel it was a fitting look for him—but nothing like his corporate wife, my mother, sitting on a foldout chair next to him in the shade. She was smiling too, of course. I mean, who doesn’t like a nice boat ride? But she certainly didn’t look at home the way my father did.

“Did you ever have a desire to own a boat? Or learn to sail?” I asked.

“No, not really. It never really appealed to me,” he replied.

“Oh. Cause you look like a pirate,” I said.

“Arrrrrr.” He made a ‘hook’ gesture with a curled finger and a subtle wink. My mom laughed, always amused by his antics and bits.

“How far out are we going?” I asked.

“Probably not too much further. Why?” he asked.

“Just curious,” I said.

We had been sailing out on a research boat, the Shana Rae, belonging to my dad’s cousin Jimmy. Right out of the Santa Cruz small craft harbor. The boat was littered with ropes and 2x4’s, and a small platter of apple-tart pastries was displayed on the cover of the fish-hold, alongside a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a package of cupcakes. I had eaten about three or four of those apple tarts as a substitute for lunch, before deciding that I should probably leave some for the rest of the relatives on the boat with us, of which I could hardly keep track of. I only see them every few years, as those in my immediate family are the only ones who have opted for a life on the East Coast. So every time we do visit, it’s a lot of “Oh, do you remember them? They held you when you were a baby!” At least now I’m at an age when I can start to remember our previous encounters.

“Do you remember me?” someone asked.

I turned around to see one of my older cousins—I guess, my cousin once removed? Second cousin? I could never remember what the proper title was, but it didn’t matter. We had the same separation of relationship as two strangers who just happened to look alike.

“Of course!” I lied.

“Last time I saw you, you were only like this tall!” she said, bending down with her palm about 3 or 4 feet above the ground. “And now you’re taller than I am!”

I chuckle politely, more focused on trying to remember her name.

“Where’s your sister?” she asked. “I still need to say hi to her as well.”

“I think she’s below deck,” I said. “She gets seasick at times.”

As she walked off, I turned back to face the railing I had been leaning on. I looked down at the water lapping against the hull of the boat as we carved through the navy crystal, refracting the light into tiny rainbows that danced at the edges of my vision.

I always wanted to be a sailor.

Suddenly, the boat’s engine clicked off as it slowed to a halt, about 2 miles from the shoreline.

“Alright everybody,” said Jimmy. “We’re here.”

He stepped out of the upper helm, carefully climbing down each rung of the ladder. Like my dad, he was also built like a bear—but at 72, he had slowed down quite a bit—at least physically. In spirit, he still roared.

“Now, we all know why we’re here,” he started. “We’re here to celebrate Henry Christmann—or Hank, as he likes to be called…”

Everyone looked over with a smile.

“... or Nibby, as he hates to be called,” Jimmy said. A few let out a soft giggle.

“Now, John,” he continued, “as Hank’s son I think you ought to share a good story.”

My dad stood up.

“Um,” my dad starts, “I have a zillion different stories I could share about my dad, but I’ll just tell you my favorite one, much to his embarrassment I’m sure. Shortly after he moved to Santa Cruz, from Chicago, in this big station wagon he had, Hank bought a sailboat. He liked to sail, since he was in the navy, and he took this boat down to the harbor quite often.”

I watched my dad as he recounted the story—unable to tell if he was nervous or not. He had always been a great public speaker, but he always hated it too.

“So one day he brought the boat in, and had it hitched up to the station wagon, and rolled it down into the harbor, put on the parking brakes, and stepped out of the car. But a big swell came up,” he smiled softly.

I looked to the water as the boat began to rock heavily back and forth.

“And, parking brakes are usually attached to the back of a car. So this big swell comes up, and lifts up the boat, and lifts up the back wheels, and the car rolls right into the harbor!”

He grins. A short bout of laughter glides across the boat. He continues.

“Fortunately for him, there was a photographer right there, to capture the moment. So we got this great shot of his car going into the sea. I think he got rid of the boat shortly after that. My dad was an engineer, very practical, but even smart people can make dumb mistakes.”

I turned back to the railing, staring into the bay. I could almost see the car, covered in rust and coral, sitting on the seabed—its history washed away by the currents, just a heap of scrap metal littering the ocean floor.

“I just want to thank everyone for being here,” my dad continues. “I’m really happy you’re all here to celebrate Hank. My dad’s best friend since the 7th grade, Bob White, is also here. And you know how special it is to have a friend like that.”

I looked over to Bob, who was hunched over in a folding chair, his deep wrinkles making his forehead look like a stack of moldy pancakes. He was dressed up in a baggy suit plopped over an equally baggy Hawaiian shirt. He carried with him a wooden cane with an elegant silver handle sculpted into the head of a snake, as well as a camera bag containing a small trumpet—dubbed the—well, I can’t quite remember the name—Afghani-somthing-or-other. I couldn’t tell you the story behind it either—but he was even older than Hank, a spry 94 years old.

“He’s here with us today, and he’s gonna play something for us.”

Bob stood up—although he looked to be the same height after standing—and pulled the old trumpet up to his lips. He drew in a shaky breath, and let out a soft rendition of Taps while my dad picked up the urn.

“Goodbye, Hank. We love you,” he said. And with a turn of the wrist, my grandfather’s ashes slid out of the container and overboard into the water below, swirling with the water and the sand and the salt.

A chilling breeze ran through my body, as if a medley of spirits had come to guide my grandfather away. My aunt Gail approached the water, tossing rose petals into the sea. Her face was just as red as my father’s, but mostly because she had been crying. I wanted to look away, but found myself attached. My father placed his hand on her back and gave her a gleeful grin, always the optimist—but I could see his eyes watering, too. I scanned each face, from every uncle, aunt, cousin, friend, a random assortment of cheerful frowns and solemn smiles. I reached over to grab another apple tart, stuffing it into my face so I had an excuse not to do either.

Soon, the engine clicked back to life as Jimmy manned the boat. Several rose petals were sucked under the water and shredded by the propeller, and the rest were pushed away by the wake. I looked to my father, and then to the sea, and stared out into the distance, at nothing in particular. I looked down to see a small bit of ash clinging to my sleeve. I was—not happy, but—content.