We took a family vacation recently, heading north to the misty coast of northern Maine. The water was too cold to even consider going ankle deep, but we did throw our shoes off the second we hit the sands and after a long cold winter, even the cool waters and windy seascape felt inviting.
I found myself picking up smooth oblong rocks that were probably there since time immemorial, washed up and swallowed back by the Atlantic over the millenniums, and skipping them across the waters like my brothers and I would do when we were kids. Lina ran over to join me, frustrated that her attempts ended up plopping and not skipping. When she was three and we lived off the Hudson River in NY, as a stay-at-home dad I would take her down to the park by the water and at some point, after tumbling around the jungle gym, kicking the soccer ball all around, and fruitlessly trying to sneak up on the geese, we would end up on the sand tossing rocks into the passing current. She doesn’t remember much of those days, whereas for me, they’re written in indelible ink on my heart. It’s always been a love story between my daughter and I, one I keep trying to selfishly slow down as I see her springing forward toward a future that for her is filled with wonder. This go around I taught her more nuances about how to select the perfect rock – oblong and just long enough to cradle between index finger and thumb, body position, and the slider delivery, and above all, patience child, patience, that with practice and a sense of calm the rock will bounce across the waters. We ended up with a tied score, each having thrown at least two rocks that skipped at least five times across the incoming surf waters – though I sure tried my best to beat her as I always have, attempting to teach her that there are no freebies (which she can attest to in past Jedi v. Sith lightsaber battles where she walks away bruised but determined to take her father out next time).
On the way home I watched her catching the wind from the open window in the rear of the Outback, a smile and sense of wonder in her eyes as the pine scented landscape whizzed by. I learn an incredible amount about life from this little creature of 9, though she incessantly reminds me now that “dada, I’m almost double digits you know.” Someday, when she’s all grown up and the only responsibilities I have left are to catch fish and not soil myself, I’ll have to remember to dig up these days of wonder and thank her for the gift she has been, something I will take with me into eternity.
