Sun, Sand, and Sea

I was baking in the long-awaited heat of the tropical sun, one arm draped over my eyes and glorious drops of sweat trickling down the backs of my legs, when he tossed the book onto my bare belly. He was always doing things like that: provoking.

“What the…,” I swiped at it, brushing the paperback aside onto the white sand. “SAM! You’ll ruin my tan,” I grumbled.

“C’mon, we’ve got to practice our pirate lingo before we set sail,” Sam smiled.

“Fineeeee,” I whined, but only half-heartedly, sitting up and putting on my wide-brimmed sun hat from the dollar store. It had made more sense to crush a cheap hat into my carry-on bag than to waste money on an expensive one. And the year of saving for our trip meant every penny counted: pennies that went toward all-inclusive buffets, fresh lime margaritas served poolside by waiters in white, and giant Catamaran cruises out to some tiny island off shore for a romantic dinner in our bathing suits and bare feet. The game was afoot. We were playing pirates for the afternoon, and knowing how much Sam wanted this, I was willing to throw caution to the wind and play along.

“I’ll read the phrase or word and you tell me what it means.” Sam’s excitement was palpable as he wildly shook the fine sand from the pages of his glossary and plunked himself down onto our woven blanket; a splurge we allowed ourselves, convinced by the friendly peddler who had sold it to us the day before.

“Go easy on me,” I said, “I’m a rookie…wait…what do they call a new pirate?”

“Scallywag Lulu.” He leaned over, kissed the tip of my nose, and flipped through the book, “I’m a swashbuckler or a seadog,” he smiled. “Savvy?”

“Why do I feel like I’m in a Hollywood movie, and where’s me rum?” I asked, making gestures of drunkenness like those Pirates from the Caribbean. We spent the better part of an hour reading the nautical glossary, waving down white waiters for more margaritas, and basking in the sun while ignoring the odd cloud and occasional bursts of wind that lifted sand into our laps. We had waited so long for this trip; nothing was going to ruin it.

When I heard the alarm beep from deep inside my seagrass bag, we knew it was cruise time, and his excitement was only slightly marred as we stood up and he stumbled over.

“Ahoy matey,” he joked, “I’m at the bottom of the barrel, Lou.”

“Are you okay?” all jokes aside, I supported him. Sam righted himself and nodded.

“Good to go, I just felt my sea legs kick in,” he laughed and grabbed my hand. We ran, whooping and hollering like lunatics down the beach, seeing the shape of the boat on the horizon and, getting closer, feeling dwarfed by its enormity. I had never seen a Catamaran up close let alone sailed on one.

The captain was about four feet tall yet muscular and charming like a miniature Popeye. His English was broken, but good enough to give instructions, “Lady, men, boat is ready and stable, very stable,” he waved his hands in front of him like an ocean to mimic smooth waters, “Come aboard and you see, we go to Isla Maria and we eat and drink on Isla for 2 hours. My name Captain Jack…”

Sam and I cracked up laughing, interrupting our Captain. “I’m so sorry,” I said, elbowing Sam in the ribcage, “I’m Louise. We’re sorry, sir.” Captain Jack. What were the chances?

“You Canadians?” Captain Jack asked.

“How did you know,” the now serene Sam asked politely.

“You people say ‘sorry’ lots.” Jack smiled and shook our hands, welcoming everyone to climb up Jacob’s Ladder to get on board before his team of assistants pushed us out to deeper water.

We clearly had no idea what was to come. We, in our first-timer innocence, blinded by the day, blunted by the tequila, had ignored all the signs. There were no rules in vacationland, none of the stuff you’d find at home like, “Keep your hands and feet inside at all times, buckle up your life vest, stay seated.” On Captain Jack’s boat it appeared there were no rules that could not be broken. Half of the passengers were up dancing to the loud music, and the other half dangled their feet freely over the side, perched precariously, clad only in swimsuits and sunscreen.

“Do they even have life vests,” I whispered to Sam.

“Aw Lou, it’s fine, don’t worry. The guy’s an old salt who can likely pluck us out with one hand if we fall into the brink,” Sam leaned over, far, too far, and made me nervous. I was the cautious one: the worrywart who had trouble loosening up. Sam was the spirit of adventure: the one who tipped the scales, pushed boundaries, and beguiled.

The cloud cover, by then, was a welcome change from the day’s bright heat. The wind was fresh and cooling until it started to feel too cold, and I began to wonder why I hadn’t brought a sweater? Sam was swaying, bumping into my shoulder, back and forth but not to the music, and not to the natural sway of the ship. I didn’t pick it up at first, as my senses seemed drowned by the music and the moment, but when I glanced at him sideways, he looked sickly.

“One too many claps o’ thunder m’love?” I aimed to be jovial, to lighten him back up and revive his mood that seemed to be quickly sinking. It was me who usually felt green in motion, me who hesitated to join any reckless or crazy fun, me who backed out and stayed-put when others were all-in for adventure, so the irony of sitting perched on the edge of a giant Catamaran en route to a tiny tropical island off the coast of our vacation port, and having Sam be the one under the weather, was not lost on me. What happened then is still a blur. My shrink says it is natural, that shock causes memory loss, or memory-tainting at the very least.

Sam retched, of that I am sure, and as I scrambled to steady him, to look hopelessly around at the cruising revelers all dancing and partying and enjoying the day, I knew he needed help. My instincts screamed loud and clear. I had never seen him sick in our three years together. Not once.

I recall touching his arm and saying, “Wait here. Don’t move. Sit still.” Or something like that, before jumping up from my spot beside him, feet dangling over the edge, and thinking that Captain Jack would know what to do, or he’d have something on board to help; like medication, water, something…What I don’t recall, what my Shrink says is a protective mechanism of some a sort, and is likely an erasure of the details lost through the experience of trauma, is exactly how I felt when I first realized he was gone. I’ve sought that feeling, hunting it down, begged for it in the middle of the night…and then begged for it to not be real; for it all to be some sick joke, or a long nightmare from which I will wake up.

It has taken me twenty years to come to terms with that moment: that moment of jostling through the crowd, reaching the Captain at his helm, yelling over the loud music; turning back and pointing through thin air, thin and invisible wind, trying to explain that my boyfriend was sick, or something, and then…not seeing him.

I must have scanned the entire deck looking for his swimsuit, the colorful one filled with parrots. I think I stumbled back, pushing people aside, screaming his name… that’s how I envision it anyway. Apparently, we relive the moment in our best light, to suit our wishes or to justify our actions, or some crap like that.

“Sam? Where are you? SAM? SAM!!!!!!”

Not one person, other than me, noticed Sam fall into the ocean that day.

Not one. That is what gets me, still, after twenty years.

It was chaos, for sure: radio calls, and screaming, strangers shaking and drunk girls crying, people patting me on the back and acting like they cared. These are my re-constructions that I try to ignore. ‘Try’, being the operative word.

The official headlines reported that it was an accident, the body was never recovered, there was no suspicion of foul play!

Traveling home in a sedated-daze, flashing lights, cameras, reporters; slipping out the back door of the airport in April rain: hiding in our apartment for months until our neighbors forced me to get outside and walk…walk it off, they said, “We’re here for you any time, Lou. You can lean on us.”

So, I did. I walked it off. I leaned on them. I walked and ran and cried and screamed and threw rocks across the lake from the shore until I felt less angry; and sadness, my constant companion, slowly abandoned my day-to-day life. I went back to work. I stopped feeling hornswoggled.

I lived.

Still, I bristled each time I overheard any ‘pirate-talk’ as the memory of that day crept up from the depths of my being: from down in Davy’s Locker. Until one day I heard a little boy, on the subway, and he was ‘playing pirate’ with his little sister. “I’m a swashbuckler,” he said. “Are not,” the little girl retorted. And it abruptly made me laugh so hard I cried. Then, I cried so hard snot ran down over my lips and chin, and people on the train started to back away. The mother of the kids scooped them up into her protective arms from the loose-cannon lady sitting across from them who ignored her stop and stayed, crying, grieving, until the train itself stopped and reversed direction.

Luckily, my partner, Andrew, is cool enough to comprehend that choosing to name our first son Samuel was a no-brainer. Andrew, being confident enough, and caring enough, knows that I somehow needed to re-construct my old Sam by giving new life to the memory of his zaniness and his fun, so that I could stop re-living his loss. And my Sam, my sweet, cautious, kind, and fiercely intelligent son, will grow up to be his own person yet carry the gift of love in his name.

Sam the Swashbuckler.

Sam who lives.