Beneath the Surface
By Lynne Edwards
A.K.A. Joann Wilson
I hurried out of my clothes, excited to play alone in the bathroom for the first time. I turned on both faucets full force and let the water flow between my fingers, adjusting the temperature as needed, like my mother always had. Eagerly anticipating the warmth of the water as it wrapped around my shivering body, I filled the tub almost to the top. I felt the power of the spray streaming from the faucet and inhaled the familiar soapy scent of the liquid as I slipped into the bath, toes first. Slowly I lowered my body into the hot water. Once seated, I eased deep into the tub until I was lying down, water barely covering my nostrils. Breathing in the steam rising from the water, I listened to the slow, steady sound of my breath and the eerie silence that surrounded me. I heaved a loud sigh as the tightness in my muscles eased and my senses were free to embrace the experience. Calmness filled every inch of my body. “No one is watching,” I thought with a smile in my heart. I lay there until the water began to cool. Then I lifted my head out of the water, took a deep breath, and submerged my face completely, my head resting on the bottom of the tub. Once I could no longer hold my breath and my lungs started to ache, I swiftly broke through the surface of the water, like a whale bursting out of the ocean, reaching for the sky. Water splashed everywhere. Even though I knew my fastidious mother would scold me, I didn’t care. I was six years old. The experience was worth it.
It was my father who taught me how to swim, though he always said he didn’t need to teach much. He would tell my mother with pride, “She takes to the water like a fish.” I couldn’t wait until school was out each summer. Dad and I would go to the neighborhood pool every weekend. Although neither of us knew how to dive, we cannonballed in sync into the deep end, with our knees held tight to our chests and our noses pinched shut. Those moments together were the only times in my childhood when I felt fearless.
Dad and I especially liked swimming underwater. We both plunged deep into the chlorine-scented pool until we almost touched the bottom. And just like in the bathtub, I would swim under water until I had to race to the top and gasp for air. It often felt like I was beneath the surface for a long time, but my father never seemed alarmed. He was always smiling when I emerged. Sometimes I really believed I could breathe underwater. I imagined that I was a mermaid cast out from my watery home and banished to dry land for some misdeed I had committed. In my fantasy, there was always a way for me to get back to the sea where I belonged.
Each year my parents and I vacationed at Daytona Beach, Florida. I cherish the memories of those days. While my parents were settling in our beach house, I ran towards the beach, through the weeds and over the dunes with my arms outspread and my head turned to the sky to feel the full warmth of the sun’s rays. I’d stop short to give full attention to the powerful roar of the waves and take a big breath, inhaling the fishy scent of the ocean. I couldn’t wait to feel my first footsteps into the cold water and the sensation of the wet sand sliding through my toes as the waves covered my feet. I loved collecting broken sand dollars and conch shells on the beach. I never minded the way my fingers would stick together after scooping up the foam from the beach or the gritty taste that lingered in my mouth, hours later. Most of all, I loved the time I spent with my father there. Being with him at the beach filled my senses and soaked my soul with contentment. It was the place my father had chosen for us. Dad loved the beach, and I came to love it, too, as much as I loved him. Although my mother, father, and I all journeyed to the beach each day, only he and I ventured into the water. We would swim far beyond where the waves began to break, and float for what seemed like hours. I remember my dad’s broad smile framing his yellow stained teeth, his dark brown arms floating just above the surface and his black hair dripping water back into the ocean each time he emerged. We drifted together with the current, far beyond the land, oblivious to the world around us.
I never felt closer to my father than I did during those summer beach trips. I felt safe and loved and valued. I trusted him implicitly and sensed a connection to him I’d never felt on land. It created a bond between us that I imagined was as strong as if we had been genetically linked. Few words were spoken, but our souls were in sync with the waves and our hearts were at peace together.
I am 78 now and still return to the beach as often as I can. Each time my mind is flooded with those childhood memories. As age has crept up on me, caution has tiptoed in. I no longer swim in the ocean. I’m afraid of falling and there is no one to catch me now. I sit on the beach, in silence, on the edge of the water where the waves wash up on the soft sand. I breathe in the ocean air and embrace the hot sun penetrating deep inside my aching bones. Sometimes I walk with friends down the beach and tell the story of me and my father, but I never give details. That’s a special gift only Dad and I share.
Each time I go to the beach, I rush outside with my arms outstretched, joyfully yelling, “Hello, again,” to my father, silently thanking the universe for bringing me there one more time. It’s at the beach where I reflect on my life, writing in my journal and getting lost in the pages of another author’s fantasies. Inevitably, my thoughts always come back to my father and the time we spent together. I know he’s there with me in the silence, beneath the surface, drifting in the ocean. He’s watching over me, keeping me safe. And once again, our souls are in sync with the waves, and we are at peace together.
