Navy. I was afraid he would get teary again and Iâd have to explain the tears to the woman next to me, as well as to the flight attendant, but he settled down. I breathed a sigh of relief. Iâd learned to take them one at a time, when they came.
Tick and Little Sunshine sat behind us with the headphones on, already lost in the world of music. They could have been on the school bus, or a train to Timbuktu. It didnât seem to matter to them. But during takeoff, Dad became anxious again. So, I took his hand and held it, like heâd done with mother. Anytime a plane was taking off, he stared ahead, just like he was doing now. He didnât like any talking and activity going on around him; he didnât think it was appropriate. He was praying.
âDad, are you all right?â
âOh, yes, I like to fly.â When we landed at the airport in St. Petersburg, Dad told the pilot what a good job heâd done and that he ought to keep his job. The pilot thanked him in that hale-and-hearty way we have once we are grateful to be out of the air and on the ground.
Once we stepped out of baggage claim and into the sunny breeze and humid air, I immediately began to unwind.
Florida has a way of doing that.
It wasnât a long drive to the cottage, less than an hour. Once we were all loaded into the taxi, we were silent, tired. But when we rounded the curve on Gulf Drive and the cottage came into view, Tick whooped and Dad laughed out loud. Little Sunshine, though, was curled up on my sweater, like a cat; the excitement had finally knocked her out.
Our little home on the beach, the waves beating musicagainst the shoreline, opened welcoming arms. Sunset was approaching. Rain drops glistened on the sea grape and queen palms at the cottage door. As I pushed the door open, a flood of memories washed over me. It was hot inside the cottage. I strode through the living area to the porch and stared out at the Gulf of Mexico, letting the warmth wrap around me like a blanket. It was all just as Iâd left it, the white wicker with faded cushions, arranged in a chatty corner of the porch, the rusting lamp on the table. I turned and threw the back door open.
Weâre here. We made it.
Seconds later, Tick was racing along the edge of the water toward the jettie.
Dad, Little Sunshine, and I followed Tick out to the beach. We sat in white plastic chairs and dug our feet into the sugary sand. The sun lowered quickly, spreading a gold path across the water, and soon the sky was filled with pearly pink-and-blue ribbons. To Dad, sunsets meant the end, but for me, this was a beginning. Our new beginning. Together, the four of us, perched on the edge of The Adventure.
12
WATER IT AND IT WILL GROW
The languid, hot August days induced complacency, but there was no time for it. The height of hurricane season was upon us, and soon enough the weather reminded us of this with a jolt.
It all began with one long, endless cycle of torrential rain, night after night. The water rose up out of the Gulf into the clouds, and then dumped its cache onto the roof. It sounded like we were holding out inside a hollowed-out drum. Thankfully, the roof and windows held tight. The mornings, though, sparkled clean and humid, and in the midst of it all, the kids started school. In the afternoons they ran around the island with their new friends like a pack of cats. But at night, again, the rains came.
One of those nights, in a deep sleep, I awoke to the strange sound of gigantic bubbles bursting in slow, lazy belches. I imagined I was inside my stomach after a huge Italian dinner, but slowly, the spooky sound launched me out of a drifting sleep. I lay there listening to the continuous
baloop, baloop, baloop
. Then I knew.
Fresh hell, because there was never enough of it. I satup slowly, swung my legs off the bed, and landed in water ankle-deep. Not thinking or caring about the possibility of zapping myself, I snapped on the light. In the dim
Tick and Little Sunshine sat behind us with the headphones on, already lost in the world of music. They could have been on the school bus, or a train to Timbuktu. It didnât seem to matter to them. But during takeoff, Dad became anxious again. So, I took his hand and held it, like heâd done with mother. Anytime a plane was taking off, he stared ahead, just like he was doing now. He didnât like any talking and activity going on around him; he didnât think it was appropriate. He was praying.
âDad, are you all right?â
âOh, yes, I like to fly.â When we landed at the airport in St. Petersburg, Dad told the pilot what a good job heâd done and that he ought to keep his job. The pilot thanked him in that hale-and-hearty way we have once we are grateful to be out of the air and on the ground.
Once we stepped out of baggage claim and into the sunny breeze and humid air, I immediately began to unwind.
Florida has a way of doing that.
It wasnât a long drive to the cottage, less than an hour. Once we were all loaded into the taxi, we were silent, tired. But when we rounded the curve on Gulf Drive and the cottage came into view, Tick whooped and Dad laughed out loud. Little Sunshine, though, was curled up on my sweater, like a cat; the excitement had finally knocked her out.
Our little home on the beach, the waves beating musicagainst the shoreline, opened welcoming arms. Sunset was approaching. Rain drops glistened on the sea grape and queen palms at the cottage door. As I pushed the door open, a flood of memories washed over me. It was hot inside the cottage. I strode through the living area to the porch and stared out at the Gulf of Mexico, letting the warmth wrap around me like a blanket. It was all just as Iâd left it, the white wicker with faded cushions, arranged in a chatty corner of the porch, the rusting lamp on the table. I turned and threw the back door open.
Weâre here. We made it.
Seconds later, Tick was racing along the edge of the water toward the jettie.
Dad, Little Sunshine, and I followed Tick out to the beach. We sat in white plastic chairs and dug our feet into the sugary sand. The sun lowered quickly, spreading a gold path across the water, and soon the sky was filled with pearly pink-and-blue ribbons. To Dad, sunsets meant the end, but for me, this was a beginning. Our new beginning. Together, the four of us, perched on the edge of The Adventure.
12
WATER IT AND IT WILL GROW
The languid, hot August days induced complacency, but there was no time for it. The height of hurricane season was upon us, and soon enough the weather reminded us of this with a jolt.
It all began with one long, endless cycle of torrential rain, night after night. The water rose up out of the Gulf into the clouds, and then dumped its cache onto the roof. It sounded like we were holding out inside a hollowed-out drum. Thankfully, the roof and windows held tight. The mornings, though, sparkled clean and humid, and in the midst of it all, the kids started school. In the afternoons they ran around the island with their new friends like a pack of cats. But at night, again, the rains came.
One of those nights, in a deep sleep, I awoke to the strange sound of gigantic bubbles bursting in slow, lazy belches. I imagined I was inside my stomach after a huge Italian dinner, but slowly, the spooky sound launched me out of a drifting sleep. I lay there listening to the continuous
baloop, baloop, baloop
. Then I knew.
Fresh hell, because there was never enough of it. I satup slowly, swung my legs off the bed, and landed in water ankle-deep. Not thinking or caring about the possibility of zapping myself, I snapped on the light. In the dim
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