Riding the Waves

Mary Porth

    Sleep wouldn’t come. Exhaustion from the previous night’s events had knocked me unconscious when my head hit the pillow a few hours ago. But it was a tease, the initial rest giving way to disturbing dreams, tossing and turning, and finally a middle-of-the-night, wide-eyed uneasy wakefulness.

   I had willed myself to lie still, copying the deep even breathing of my husband who slept next to me. At the foot of our bed, nestled in the corner of a pack-n-play, little Leo snuffled contentedly, his hands wound around the satin edge of his favorite blankie. The other kids slept next to him on a spare mattress, four-year-old Molly balancing near the edge to leave room for the dolls and stuffed animals lined up at her side, and eight-year-old Stephen looking like one of his favorite characters, Mowgli from The Jungle Book, hair mussed, twig-like limbs outstretched, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts.

   Thank God he was okay.

   I closed my eyes and blew out a long deliberate breath. He was okay. He was sleeping peacefully not ten feet away from me. He was okay.

   I always enjoy the odd occasions when my family stays at hotels. We never rent more than one room, so at different times over the years we’ve had both double beds filled, chairs pushed together, and the odd port-a-crib or sleeping bag set up on the floor. Or times like this one, when we crowd into one room at my parents’ beach house. Usually, when we’re all tucked in, I smile and take a satisfied inventory of sleeping bodies. It’s comforting having everyone within arm’s reach. I’m like a mother duck counting her ducklings or a border collie rounding up her sheep.

   That sense of security and control is a mirage though. I know that. Sooner or later, someone is asking to cross the street alone, or walk home with friends, or any one of the countless ways kids have of stretching and growing and putting distance between themselves and their parents. Sometimes you have to reach out and reel them back in. Much like I had done, literally, last night when Stephen had gone out too far in the ocean. Thank God I was right there and saw him in trouble. There were no lifeguards on duty. He might have…

   Oh my God. A wave of panic swept over me. A ball of terror lodged in my throat. My breathing became shallow and I stifled a strangled cry that rose up unexpectedly. I slid off the bed and to the floor, huddling out of sight of my family, not wanting to wake them. Oh my God, he could have died! He could have died! He could have died!

   I saw again the brilliant blue late afternoon sky, the impressive waves crashing near the shoreline. Heard Stephen’s panicked little boy voice, “Mom! Mom!”

   Not fifty yards away the beach patrol crowded the promenade along with most of the town’s inhabitants. It was the annual Island Run, a half marathon my husband loved to do. I’d been on the beach with the kids waiting for him to finish. More than once I’d reminded my oldest, “Don’t go in deeper than your knees! It’s rough out there! Nobody else is on the beach!”

   But the moment came when my attention was diverted to his younger siblings and that quickly he’d been swept out.

   “Mom! Mom!” his shrill voice was thin and vulnerable, barely audible over the ocean’s roar. His arms flailed above the outgoing tide.

   I looked around wildly. No one close. Nobody noticing. No time to get help.

   “Molly!” I bent down to my young daughter’s level and spoke urgently, “Watch the baby!”

   I plunged in fully clothed, not even daring to stop and take off shoes and socks. Running, jumping, lunging through the waves, my heart pounded thunderously. The only word that came out of my mouth in breathless gasps was, “Jesus…Jesus…Jesus…” Not “Jesus, save my son!” or “Jesus, give me strength!” or “Jesus , Stephen, why can’t you listen?” Just “Jesus…Jesus…Jesus…” Whenever a wave rolled forward and peaked, blocking my view of him, panic filled me, my breath caught in my throat.


   Suddenly I noticed my husband on the bedroom floor beside me, “Mary,” he whispered, “Are you okay?”

   “Steve!” I panted, “Oh, Steve, he…could…have…died!” My words came out in a staccato rush becoming higher pitched by the second. “ could…have…died! Oh my God, …could…have…died!”

   “But he didn’t.” Steve held me tightly. “You did great. Everything’s going to be fine.”

   I clung to my husband, our tears mingling, our rocking embrace gradually soothing and settling us.

   The next day at the beach we all went swimming together. We’d had the talk about water safety. Described the power of an ocean’s tides. Smiled and reassured the kids that everybody was safe now and, lesson painfully learned, we could enjoy our remaining time at the shore. The “day after” ocean bore no resemblance to its previous fury. Sun-dappled waves rolled forward in a docile orderly fashion, lapping gently around our legs. I knew, better than before, that family life was tricky, fraught with the daily possibility of sorrow and loss. But as I breathed in the bracing salty air, I chose to recall instead the the relief of grasping Stephen’s straining wet hand, of pulling my child close to my chest, of holding him tenderly in my heart.

* * *

Biographical Note: Mary Porth is a writer who resides in suburban Philadelphia with her husband and five children. She claims as her personal mantra the words of poet Nan Merrill who says, “Keep your heart open and free, make time to dwell in silence, become a peaceful presence in the world.” Although she reached the half century mark in the summer of 2009, she’s still unsure what to be when she grows up. Check the Author Index for Poetry, and also the Author Index for Prose for more of Mary's work.