A Seaside Letter to My Dad, and to My Daughter

I biked to southern tip of Tybee Island, 5:30 p.m. I find solace by the sea.

Dear Dad,

Thank you, again, for the lasting gift you and Mommy gave me. The gift of the sea. You unwrapped it for me at Rockaway Beach and Jones Beach in New York, at Beach Haven in New Jersey and most importantly, on Cape Cod.

Thank you, Dad, for pointing out the morning call of the bobwhite ["Bob White! Bob White!"] in a rented Cape Cod cottage when I was just four. 

Thank you for showing me how to swim. Mommy sat on the beach towel by the yellow striped umbrella, but you took me in. You had that big maroon port wine birthmark all over your back and you must have felt funny sliding your white T-shirt over your head to swim, but maybe leading your daughter into the ocean made the shyness go away. 

Thank you for showing me horseshoe crab shells--teaching me that things of nature are cool and magical--that they are to be embraced, and that I could be brave enough to handle and study them. Thank you for teaching me to stand up in the waves. I was afraid, and got knocked down and dragged to shore a few times. Thank you for encouraging me to keep on trying. Thank you for demonstrating how to float in the salty sea--how to work with the waves, not against them.

Thank you for collecting snow-white, sun-bleached clam shells, and putting some in our garden in New Jersey, near the pale pink and white peonies.

Thank you for showing me the lighthouses. The beacons. The safety and strength. 

Thank you for taking me near the dunes. The unspoiled seashore.

Thank you for loving the beach, and being excited to go there.

Thank you, Dad.

Love always, Al

_________________________________________

Dear Annie [aka Figgy, but this is important, so I used your real name],

Honey, I hope you will one day read the letter above.

Thank you for being my daughter, for coming to me through an act of love, God, faith and destiny. I longed to be a mother, and you made my dream come true. It's not as though we truly chose each other, yet somehow, as a lucky mother, I guess I did feel your baby self selected me.

Thank you for going to the beach with me. In your daisy-strewn turquoise onesie as a baby, in a pink floral two-piece from Gap Kids when you were almost four. In the Jessie [from the movie "Toy Story"] swimsuit from Aunt Eileen, white with cowgirl fringe.

By the time you were in preschool, you were jumping and skipping on the sand near the water on the Cape, saying "I love Cape Cod," over and over. You grew to love mermaids and fairies and seals--to be a brave, smart girl with a passion for whimsy and fun. 

But here is the thing, my Annie. You are 19 now. A young woman. Life has not been as smooth as we would have hoped. Maybe, though, a sea that is always placid would not teach us or show us as much as one that is rocking and tossing. Those are the waters that show us who can survive. Those are the waters that delight children and churn up shells and pretty, smooth stones for us to keep and treasure.

Look at the water, Annie. Look at those waves. Remember your grandparents; you were close to Grandpa and never knew my Mom, but I can tell you understand her. 

Feel the firm footing as you look at the sea. Avoid the riptides. Beware of sand bars because you may be able to swim or wade out but then the tide can change and you will have a hard time getting back.
Consider the seashells. Crafted carefully as houses by and for the creatures within. Built strong and hard to withstand predators and whipping waves--yet the shells are intensely beautiful, too. Lovely yet rugged, like you. 

Annie, I love you. Standing by and watching you try to find your way in rocky seas is one of the hardest things I have ever done. Watching you flail and not being able to run in and scoop you up and take you to safety on shore is heartbreaking. Watching you swim into waters that look dangerous--deadly, even--is bad. But standing here I am and standing here I will always be. I will never leave. Now salty tears are burning my eyes. I hope and pray that you will one day look to those waters, look to that sky and find your peace and your joy. Mother Nature is your answer.

I hope that what Grandpa and my Mom taught me are lessons I have taught you.

I love you.

Love always, Mom 

P.S. You know Daddy loves the ocean, too, and has so many shared memories with you about water and nature. But that is his letter to write.

Tybee Island Lighthouse, the tallest and oldest lighthouse in Georgia.

My Tory sandals by the sea. Had to scoop up before wave drenched them!

Blue crabs on a cannonball jellyfish! This one is for you, Figgy.