Ionian Beach Day
late summer
our skin is hot
a breeze stirs
the small hairs
gently
voices are indistinct
on the uncrowded beach
-- no need to raise
your voice today --
on the blanket,
she reads
he stretches
all the way
in a deep nap
I stride
toward the blanket
"Mom, Tom is floating out to sea."
She throws down the book
"Dave! Wake up!"
and runs, kicking up sand
across the beach
into the surf
in the distance,
a young boy clutches
an empty bombola
discarded after
some revellers
used up the propane
-- a great beach toy
the riptide is fierce
today, the warning
flags are up
the boy is pulled further
and further out
the bright blue tank
and his orange hair
pop in and
out of sight
between the waves
Italian fisherman
long-casting in the surf
try to reach him with their
lines, but he is too far.
"uh, Dad, ..."
he rises through
soft layers of sleep
towards taut
and alert
and runs, kicking up sand
across the beach
into the surf
the rough surf
"Rae, get back!
Get back!" Her
blonde hair
threads
the dark sea
her arms
thrust
wildly, as she
moves towards the
boy on the bombola
she does not turn back
until he passes her.
the precise, forceful
strokes of an ex-lifeguard
"Tom, don't let go!"
propel him with speed
towards the boy, then ...
then, cradling him
with one arm
while the other pulls,
sure and deliberate, now
decades later
she tells the story
her voice tightens
she is reliving
her panic
and her dread
and his voice uncurls
"I thought I was
going to have to
save both of you"
he relives
his exasperation
(does it make him small?
he would rather relive
that than the fear
he felt as he dove
into the waves or
the bursting relief
he felt when
they were safe
on the blanket
or the tide
that never completely
released him
that still pulls
him that on
a peaceful day
could drag him
out to sea)