BEYOND THE BREAKERS (Excerpt)

September 27, 2018 by CS Devereaux

CS Devereaux

Chattanooga Writer’s Guild Contest

First Place, Creative-Non-Fiction Category

… I pull back the window curtain to check the weather. The rain has stopped and a timid sun peeks from between ominous gray clouds and disappears. On the beach below, a riptide pulls the water out to sea with each receding surge, creating rivulets in the exposed sand. The tide is going out! I rouse the others from their naps. Swimsuits on, my three siblings and I prance to the living room to launch a verbal assault. “Take us to the beach!”

Grandmother Mona is flipping through a recent issue of Reader’s Digest. She is wearing her favorite flowered halter dress, makeup, and freshly coifed white wig. On the floor next to her feet, her pearl-tipped cigarette holder protrudes from the top of her big straw bag. She quit smoking but clings to her signature prop. The keys to the Chrysler jangle in her free hand.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“It’s bridge day with the girls.” Seeing our crestfallen faces, she adds, “I’m sorry, children, I should have told you I was going out,” and motions to our grandfather, who is dozing in his favorite chair. “Dean, take them for a swim, won’t you? The ocean can be treacherous on days like this; they need an adult with them. That means you.” She drops the magazine onto the side table next to the sofa and heads for the garage.

In unison, we turn to him, “Pleeeze!”

Big Dean’s eyes pop open. “Huh, wha−?” He blinks at us and groans. Tossing back the last of his martini, he clambers out of his armchair. It isn’t long until we are on our way, inflatables in hand, towels over shoulders, a bag of miscellaneous gear over mine, with our grandfather trailing behind.

Sand stings my legs and the wind tugs at my rubber tire tube as we make our way down the boardwalk steps. The beach is empty. Even the ever-present surfers have declined the ocean’s invitation. Waves rush at us in crashing arcs. They pound the sand in angry protest at our invasion of their domain. Reconsidering the wisdom of venturing into the water, I suggest we browse for shells and other treasure the storm washed up. “The ocean is too rough. And look, the shallows are full of dirty foam and seaweed. I don’t want to get in that.”

Big Dean shouts a reply. Whipping wind steals his words the instant they leave his mouth. He places himself between me, the wind, and the bellowing surf. “To know the ocean is to know life, Margaret. One of the sea’s lessons is here in front of you; sometimes you must wade through the muck to reach the good place beyond the breakers. Follow me.”

Reluctantly, I tuck our towels and bag of sunscreen, pail, and shovel under the boardwalk steps, and clutching our inflatable lifesavers, my siblings and I wade behind him into the cold storm-wrought sea. We do our best to dodge the dingy mounds of foam. Long strands of seaweed envelop our legs. Random jellyfish stingers brush against us. They zing my calves, my thighs, and then my arms as I plunge into deeper water. I teach my little brother how to tackle rough breakers and duck under cresting waves. Next to us, Big Dean drags my sisters in their swim rings over the tops of waves. The salty spray catches them in the face. “Turn away from the wave. Hang on tight to your rings,” I shout.

On the back side of the thundering surf, the rolling sea is reasonably calm. Big Dean treads water between me and my siblings, the back of his head breaking the tops of passing swells. I bobble beside him, my rubber donut snug around my midsection, where baby fat lingers on my gangly frame. A strong undertow tugs at my dangling limbs. The boardwalk steps where we stashed our gear are a long way off and moving farther away by the minute.

“We should go back.”

“Relax. We’re fine,” Big Dean replies.

“But the tide is still going out. If we aren’t careful, the undertow will pull us out with it.”

“I said, we’re fine.”

Apprehensively, I gaze at the distant shore. Behind me, the crack of a breaker and a sudden slap to the back of my head accompanies whitewater sizzle. A rogue roller flips me upside down too fast for me to close my eyes.

Submerged, the ceaseless convolution of the surface cacophony becomes muffled thunder, close yet far away. I spot my grandfather in the dreary haze. His baggy swimsuit drifts with the ebb and flow of the tide between pasty belly and skinny legs. Next to him, my heedless brother and sisters kick the briny water from the underside of their tubes, legs pumping in slow motion. Strands of seaweed churn about. Tiny grains of sand and particulate float around us in an aimless dance. Seashells and bits of debris half buried in the ocean floor below are barely discernable in the moody light.

I wriggle and twist to extricate myself from my rubber ring, feeling like a fish caught on a hook. My legs kick empty air topside; my arms flail underwater. The tube refuses to budge from my chubby body. My lungs ache. I flounder, becoming more frightened by the second.

Then I see it. In the not-too-distant murkiness, a large dark fish shape hovers near the surface. It eyeballs us. Worthy of inspection, it glides closer with a swish of its tail. I push and pull with impassioned vigor, angling myself one way, then another. Desperate for air, at last I wiggle free. A wave sweeps away my inflatable. I swim toward daylight.

Splashing to the surface, I spew sea water. Whitecaps pummel me. I cough and choke and pump my arms and legs to keep my head above water. “Shark, there!” I point. There is no telltale fin.

Big Dean chastens me. “Stop it; you’ll scare the little ones.”

“But−but, I saw it. Big fish. BIG!” Traumatized, I need comfort and support. I need my grandfather to believe me.

Instead, he lobs a barb, “Don’t be a baby!”

“Baby? I almost drowned!” Frantic, I shout to my siblings, “We’re going back. Hold on to me as tight as you can. Don’t let go!” Wide-eyed, they nod their heads. I link my arms through their inflatable donuts and pump my legs with all my might.

“Come back here!” Big Dean yells…