I was used to this. A week in a beach house with 13 cousins and 11 aunts, uncles and grandma was a week of torment and agitation. Even at 9-years-old, I felt a need for calm amidst the turmoil. I body surfed my way back to the shore. Searching to find some level of peace and quiet away from the screeching of relatives, I stayed on my stomach, laying in the surf. The water sloshed up to me and pulled itself away. The sand exfoliated past my body. The sun beat down on my exposed back. Tiny shells rolled and tumbled past me as my body began to sink deeper into the beach mud.
The water dragged the mud around my body away, leaving an outline of where I lay. I felt the sand get pulled away, trying to drag me into the water.
Aunt Kate, Uncle Richard, and Grandma were still sitting under the tent. I looked up and smiled at them. Realizing they were watching, I wanted to give them a little scare.
The water lapped over me and the tide kept pulling. I floated with the tide ever so little. With each wave, I slid a little further away. With the tumbling of the surf, I finally allowed myself to be pulled under.
I stayed under as long as I could.
* * * * *
“Careful…. Careful….” I heard Uncle David encourage as I kept gasping for breath, doing everything in my power to fill my lungs enough to gloat about my victory.
Finally, I blurted, “You only got four and a half! I got five!! I can’t wait to tell everyone. You’re over six feet and I’m under five!”
Laughing, he said, “Let’s try it again; that’s the only time you’ll ever beat me.” I could feel my heart pounding. It was beating so hard I could see my chest move up and down up and down.
Panting, “Yeah, right. You just don’t wanna look like a loser. Plus, you used less of your energy since you weren’t swimming before the underwaters and you didn’t go as far as me!” My stubbornness was coming out. I had won and I was going to stick by that.
These were our first underwater-no-breathers of my sixth-grade summer. I was 10. And I beat my favorite uncle—a pool guy.
* * * * *
At 17-years-old, I had the power to strike fear into that poor little kid’s face. I had made my annoyance known and he could feel me getting more and more angry. I had only known the boys for about nine months. Their mom and dad had adopted them when they were seven and ten. Immediately, I had felt a kinship with them. Being adopted as well gave us a sort or similarity that we could identify with each other on. I may have been 8 and ten years older than them, but we hit it off like siblings from the start.
I lifted him up out of the water and calmly said, “No, you can’t make Alex do push ups, but you are more than welcome—and by more than welcome, I mean you have to—do 10 push ups and then 10 sit ups and add 10 laps to your list.” His face looked like he might cry. I felt some sympathy for the downtrodden kid. He was a lot like me. I had always been a troublemaker. And I have to admit, I was still a little rambunctious then. I was willing to have fun and enjoyed causing trouble. I could completely relate to Brandon’s frustration.
As he started his push ups, I patted his little buzzed, brunette head and said, “You can do it, Buddy. You know you don’t need to be rude to your brother like that, and this is how you’re going to learn.”
Taking a deep breath, I flicked both my feet up into the air and pushed my head underwater. I stayed under and swam to the other end of the pool to catch up with Alex. I decided it was time to make this a little easier on him, “I’ll swim the laps with you, Alex, but you need to keep up with me at least some. You can’t be more than four laps behind.”
“K. Thanks, Kekky,” he pushed his head under just before me and kicked off the wall.
No comments:
Post a Comment