The Beach
Henry Shorney
“I think it’s broken, she says. “If it hurts this bad, it must be broken.”
“Can you move it?” I say.
She raises her arm a bit. Winces in pain.
“Not really.”
We look at each other for a moment.
“Why’d you come back?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I thought I was going to die.”
I nod.
“You know how they say your whole life flashes before your eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?” I ask.
She stares down for a long while. Fidgets with her arm. Wipes some grit from her forehead.
“You know that feeling when you haven’t been to the coast in a while, and you decide today’s the day, and you spend the whole morning packing the car, and making sure the kids have eaten breakfast, and brushed their teeth, and are wearing enough sunscreen, all while you’re already making them sandwiches for lunch, and they don’t appreciate you for a single moment, and you finally get everybody loaded up, well past the time you thought you would be leaving, and the whole drive there you’re convinced you forgot something, and that you won't be able to find a parking spot, and that the entire day will be a waste of your effort, and when you finally get to the beach the sand is scorching hot, and the sun is brutal, and you have to walk much too far to find a place where your whole family can fit, and when you finally do find a spot you realize what you forgot was the umbrella, and that you will be without escape from the blistering sun, and the kids are going mad, running in every which direction, begging you to hurry up and get in the water already, and you tell them to go without you, that you will join them in a moment, despite the new risk this introduces, and you set up your chair, the one you’ve had to awkwardly carry the entire way, along with your overstuffed bag, and the cooler with all the drinks and sandwiches, and your whole body aches, like you just ran a full marathon, and you just can’t wait for the whole day to be over with, and to be back inside your house where you at least have some control over all the chaos, and you sit down in the chair, and it just seems insufferably hot, and you’re already starting to worry about the kids, so you rise from the chair, and feel the strain at the backs of your kneecaps, and walk down to the water’s edge, and a wave rushes up over your toes, and it’s much colder than you expected, because somehow it always is, but you keep trudging in anyway, until the water crests your knees, and your crotch, and you jump with the waves so it doesn’t hit your bare stomach, but you mistime one and it crests the waistline of your bathing suit, and it’s just as cold as that first drop that hit the tip of your toe, and you keep going, because your kids have now noticed you and are cheering your name and yelling for you to go under, and you finally reach the point where you know you should just plunge in, but you can’t bring yourself to do it, because no matter how hard you try your upper body seems to resist, against some sort of force field of fear, and you close your eyes and try to think about nothing at all, and your thoughts slowly drift away, and you dive, and your body tenses as you hit the water, so severely that you give yourself a little cramp on your left side, just above your hip, and the water feels incredible, and also cold, so very cold, and you swim further out to try to warm up, to generate some internal heat, and you rise and fall with the waves, and finally you’re acclimating to the water, and you look back at the shore, at the reflection of the sun in the water, at the zoo of people on the beach, at your own children, and it’s so beautiful you can’t even stand it, and you can’t believe any person can feel this good without the assistance of a foreign substance, and you finally understand that tacky phrase you’ve always hated, that phrase used by the lamest of lame people, “high on life,” but you can’t think of any other way to put what you are currently feeling, and you want to yell it at the top of your lungs, “I’m high on life! I’m high on life!” or at least grab the man nearest to you, who you’ve watched consistently huck the water ball over his son’s head in a manner that would be referred to on the playground as “throwing like a girl,” and is out here embarrassing himself on the slim chance his next generation will overcome the lack of natural skill he has passed down, but they won’t, they almost certainly won’t, because some things just can’t be overcome, and the world is an unfair place, and your oldest swims over to you and asks, “Mom, are you okay?” because you’ve been floating in the same place for a very long time, and none of the others want to swim out this far, and you tell him “yes, everything is going to be okay,” maybe because you misheard him, and maybe because you are actually speaking to yourself, and as the words leave your lips they feel true, they are true, because you just spoke them, and he tells you he’s cold, and that he wants to go in, and you say okay, and he takes off for the shore, and you stay right where you are, to try and harvest everything you can from this very moment, wishing you could bottle it up for some later use on a particularly hard day, of which you’re certain there will be a great many more, and all you will have is the memory, the memory of the good feeling you are currently feeling, and it will be impossible to recreate, until the next fleeting moment where all good things coalesce, and you stumble upon another similar but not quite the same feeling, and the cycle starts all over again, and you know this feeling wouldn’t be so good if it weren’t for all the other feelings that aren’t so good, so you make a promise to yourself to appreciate even the bad times, as you finally swim into the shore, and emerge from the water like a sea creature that is not yourself, and march up to your base camp, where there is no umbrella, and there are too many kids, and the water wicks off your skin, somehow rendering your body the ideal temperature, and you feel certain that you can persevere, that you will not let this place get the better of you, because it’s all you have, and all you ever will, and for that reason, it’s perfect . . . It was kind of like that.”
Henry Shorney
“I think it’s broken, she says. “If it hurts this bad, it must be broken.”
“Can you move it?” I say.
She raises her arm a bit. Winces in pain.
“Not really.”
We look at each other for a moment.
“Why’d you come back?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I thought I was going to die.”
I nod.
“You know how they say your whole life flashes before your eyes?”
“Yeah.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?” I ask.
She stares down for a long while. Fidgets with her arm. Wipes some grit from her forehead.
“You know that feeling when you haven’t been to the coast in a while, and you decide today’s the day, and you spend the whole morning packing the car, and making sure the kids have eaten breakfast, and brushed their teeth, and are wearing enough sunscreen, all while you’re already making them sandwiches for lunch, and they don’t appreciate you for a single moment, and you finally get everybody loaded up, well past the time you thought you would be leaving, and the whole drive there you’re convinced you forgot something, and that you won't be able to find a parking spot, and that the entire day will be a waste of your effort, and when you finally get to the beach the sand is scorching hot, and the sun is brutal, and you have to walk much too far to find a place where your whole family can fit, and when you finally do find a spot you realize what you forgot was the umbrella, and that you will be without escape from the blistering sun, and the kids are going mad, running in every which direction, begging you to hurry up and get in the water already, and you tell them to go without you, that you will join them in a moment, despite the new risk this introduces, and you set up your chair, the one you’ve had to awkwardly carry the entire way, along with your overstuffed bag, and the cooler with all the drinks and sandwiches, and your whole body aches, like you just ran a full marathon, and you just can’t wait for the whole day to be over with, and to be back inside your house where you at least have some control over all the chaos, and you sit down in the chair, and it just seems insufferably hot, and you’re already starting to worry about the kids, so you rise from the chair, and feel the strain at the backs of your kneecaps, and walk down to the water’s edge, and a wave rushes up over your toes, and it’s much colder than you expected, because somehow it always is, but you keep trudging in anyway, until the water crests your knees, and your crotch, and you jump with the waves so it doesn’t hit your bare stomach, but you mistime one and it crests the waistline of your bathing suit, and it’s just as cold as that first drop that hit the tip of your toe, and you keep going, because your kids have now noticed you and are cheering your name and yelling for you to go under, and you finally reach the point where you know you should just plunge in, but you can’t bring yourself to do it, because no matter how hard you try your upper body seems to resist, against some sort of force field of fear, and you close your eyes and try to think about nothing at all, and your thoughts slowly drift away, and you dive, and your body tenses as you hit the water, so severely that you give yourself a little cramp on your left side, just above your hip, and the water feels incredible, and also cold, so very cold, and you swim further out to try to warm up, to generate some internal heat, and you rise and fall with the waves, and finally you’re acclimating to the water, and you look back at the shore, at the reflection of the sun in the water, at the zoo of people on the beach, at your own children, and it’s so beautiful you can’t even stand it, and you can’t believe any person can feel this good without the assistance of a foreign substance, and you finally understand that tacky phrase you’ve always hated, that phrase used by the lamest of lame people, “high on life,” but you can’t think of any other way to put what you are currently feeling, and you want to yell it at the top of your lungs, “I’m high on life! I’m high on life!” or at least grab the man nearest to you, who you’ve watched consistently huck the water ball over his son’s head in a manner that would be referred to on the playground as “throwing like a girl,” and is out here embarrassing himself on the slim chance his next generation will overcome the lack of natural skill he has passed down, but they won’t, they almost certainly won’t, because some things just can’t be overcome, and the world is an unfair place, and your oldest swims over to you and asks, “Mom, are you okay?” because you’ve been floating in the same place for a very long time, and none of the others want to swim out this far, and you tell him “yes, everything is going to be okay,” maybe because you misheard him, and maybe because you are actually speaking to yourself, and as the words leave your lips they feel true, they are true, because you just spoke them, and he tells you he’s cold, and that he wants to go in, and you say okay, and he takes off for the shore, and you stay right where you are, to try and harvest everything you can from this very moment, wishing you could bottle it up for some later use on a particularly hard day, of which you’re certain there will be a great many more, and all you will have is the memory, the memory of the good feeling you are currently feeling, and it will be impossible to recreate, until the next fleeting moment where all good things coalesce, and you stumble upon another similar but not quite the same feeling, and the cycle starts all over again, and you know this feeling wouldn’t be so good if it weren’t for all the other feelings that aren’t so good, so you make a promise to yourself to appreciate even the bad times, as you finally swim into the shore, and emerge from the water like a sea creature that is not yourself, and march up to your base camp, where there is no umbrella, and there are too many kids, and the water wicks off your skin, somehow rendering your body the ideal temperature, and you feel certain that you can persevere, that you will not let this place get the better of you, because it’s all you have, and all you ever will, and for that reason, it’s perfect . . . It was kind of like that.”