TOM

TOM

The morning sun was blinding. I shielded my eyes with my hands as I squinted, focusing on the breaking waves, as the sun sparkled on the water like sequins under light. I walked across the deck in bare feet, rested my arms on the railing (trying not to get a splinter), and inhaled salt air as it flowed through me as easily as around me, it seemed. This place was in my blood. My father was a commercial fisherman and his roots were wet with salt water as well. A league of their own, true, blue-blooded fishermen, embrace and endure Mother Nature to provide from her belly. It is a way of life and not a j-o-b. That was a bad word as far as my dad was concerned.

This house was my grandmother’s, provided courtesy of Mother Nature’s belly. Light blue with white trim, it sat on this beach long before everyone else discovered our piece of paradise. I glanced up and down the beach. Some early visitors had already staked their claim on fingers of beach to the right. The tide was low now. My favorite time to look for shells, which was apparent by the dozens of mason jars filled to the brim.

My daughter, who was four, walked up behind me. I turned to pick her up and there she was as usual...barefoot and hair a mess. “I need to take the big shovel today.” she stated. She could sit forever and dig in the sand. This is her bloodline too.

I leaned over her head, full of waist-length, curly (and knotted) hair. She was my pint-size twin. Auburn hair and matching hazel eyes. I kissed the top of her head and picked her up, which was quickly becoming more difficult. “She’s growing so fast.” I thought. I was pointing out the remains of her sandcastle from yesterday when I heard a plane in the distance.

You see, our “piece of paradise” is nestled between three military installations and a small airport. Planes and helicopters; military, personal, or Sky Tours lugging another load of tourists, were a daily occurrence. I have learned the hard way that one thing that is absolutely true. The grass is never greener on the other side. Every town has it’s good and bad qualities. Sometimes you’re lucky enough to find a place where the good outweighs the bad. We finally had.

“You’re too heavy...ya gotta get down, sweet-pea.” I told her. “Let’s go find your shovel.”

I noticed the noise from the plane was getting louder, with almost a strange scream to it. Almost like the ones you hear when they show clips of planes crashing on TV. I had long been wondering when our luck would run out and one of those military planes landed on the house. They flew so low sometimes the whole house would shake and you could wave to the pilot.

“Mama, can I ask you somethin’?” I wish I had a nickel for every time she says that in a day.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Wha’s that?” she asked, pointing.

I turned around. I could not comprehend what I was seeing. My eyes were telling me there was a cruise ship (the kind Kathy Lee Gifford used to advertise for) emerging from our beautiful white, billowy, beach day clouds. My brain, however, new that was impossible. The noise was getting louder and this sky oddity was getting closer. Panic set in. A thousand thoughts at once. I could only get one word out. “Run!”

I could tell it was coming fast, so I instinctively mama bear jumped on top of my baby. Hands over my head and prayin’ to the Good Lord. I heard it hit. A few seconds behind that...water? Was it raining? We stayed hunkered down until we heard screams, mixed with audible chatter and lapping waves. Hand in hand we walked back to the edge of the deck. I looked down to see the waves kissing the back porch steps. I looked up toward the horizon. For the second time today, I could not believe my eyes.

“Mama, can I ask you somethin’?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where’d they come from?” she asked.

“I have no idea.”

The vastness of the ocean was covered. Covered with boats. Every size, shape, and type you could imagine. Fishing boats to Chinese Junks. Sailboats to skiffs. Viking ships to battleships. And let’s not forget a cruise ship! So many they were nearly touching stern to bow; bobbing up and down violently. The sea had not yet recovered from the impact. Some looked to be rusted, covered in barnacles and seaweed, and some did not. As I was scanning from side to side, a white flash in front of me caught my attention. In the middle of them all was an old wooden, simple, white boat. Kind of like the ones my grandmother would show me in old pictures from the fish factory. The kind that would come back with a haul so big there was no place to sit but on top of the fish. By the looks of it, it only had one paint job in it’s entire life. It was bouncing up and down while water crashed in on this side and that. Even in the turbulence I could read the name of the vessel. “TOM” had apparently had been slopped on the bow with what was probably a very large brush (like the big ones you paint houses with). In faded black paint were those three letters: T-O-M.

As the sea was finally settling, I noticed the boat was almost to the porch with a figure standing at the bow. Since I had never let go of my daughter’s hand, I started pulling her back from the rail. The steps quickly turned into a run as I shoved her in front of me and just yelled, “Gogogogogogogo!!!” Through the sliding glass door, bedroom, bathroom, and to the stairs. Bless her heart, she was going so fast I couldn’t keep up! Down the steps, two or three at a time. I was just trying not to fall down them (again).

“Outside to the car!” I screamed.

I made it down the stairs, through the kitchen, living room, front door, “KEYS!!!” my brain erupted. “I need my keys!” I turned around in the doorway and ran back to the kitchen just in time to greet the figure on the bow coming around the corner.

He looked like every picture of a generic sea captain I had ever seen: black Greek fishing cap, black turtleneck, and black, double-breasted peacoat. He boasted the type-cast, neatly groomed beard and mustache, leading to graying sideburns and salt-and-pepper locks. I can tell you one thing that wasn’t generic. His eyes. They were two different colors! In the brief moment our eyes locked, I could tell one was green and the other, blue as the sky had been that morning.

I lunged for my purse, which I always leave hanging on the kitchen chair. I started running the second I felt the fabric in my fingers...bringing the chair with me, as I tripped over my flip-flops (which had come off with the purse). Finally free from the chair, I scrambled for the open front door.

I slowly opened my eyes. I could make out the shape of white sheers, beckoning, it seemed, in a warm morning breeze. Sounds of seagulls and the smell of low tide (it’s like they say about decomposition...once you smell it, you never forget!) let me know I was still in the house. In my bed. In my room. Confusion set in. I was trying to grasp the fact that none of what seemed so real, so clear, so detailed, in color, with sound, was nothing but a dream. Wow. I sat with my legs dangling on the side of the bed for a minute, trying to wake up before heading downstairs for some much needed coffee.

I took my coffee (in my “Bless this Mess” mug) out on the back porch, as I often did, to watch the day begin from the most beautiful spot in the world. I wasn’t the only on who thought so, which was apparent by the throngs of visitors that increased year after year. I heard someone coming up behind me and turned quickly. There she was...barefoot and hair a mess.

“Good mornin’, sweet-pea,” I said.

“Mornin’,” she barely mumbled. “I need to take the big shovel today,” she said.

“Huh?”

“I need to take the big shovel today,” she repeated.

Caught off guard by what she said, I slowly turned to get her morning Pepsi (don’t judge) and find something she would eat, which was a challenge. Picky eater. Once again I heard that famous phrase that will be ingrained in my brain forever.

“Mama, can I ask you somethin’?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wha’s that?”

I walked back out on the porch, down the steps, and into the still cool, wet sand. She was pointing up.

I hesitantly looked in that direction. “That,” I took a deep breath and finished, “is called an advertising plane.” For a moment, there was a flashback to my dream. I honestly didn’t know what I would see when I looked up! It was still so fresh in my head. I was relieved, to say the least.

“Mama, can I ask you somethin’?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, as I rolled my eyes.

“Wha’s it say?”

A faded, old, white biplane was pulling a tattered sign. Against a white background, written sloppily in black (with what was probably a very wide brush) were the words “TOM’s TOURS: SEE the SEA.”