Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Pardon my hiatus. Between returning from afar (and, regrettably, not finishing my travel blogs), throwing a massive graduation bash where my parents did dueling keg stands (and my mother won), entertaining out of towners for a week, and now being planted on the beach in Sandbridge, VA, there really hasn’t been a moment to write, but nevertheless, there is always moments to write about.
I’m brought to the page today (18/7/07) because of what happened to me yesterday. We (my mom, dad, and I, along with 14 of our closest friends (we vacation every season together)) arrived in VA on Saturday. The weather has been perfect and the sea just a delight. Reading and sunning, eating and drinking, drinking, drinking, the days commence with the rise of the sun and end in some other beach-themed way. But yesterday, there was something that happened that made the day different for me.
Four years ago, while my dad, Emily Constant, and I were jet skiing on the back bay, something happened that has kicked off a steady and yearly train of events: I flipped my dad off the back of the jet ski and he lost his brand new Oakley glasses to the shallow depths of the murky, hot bay—this was most upsetting for him as he had just purchased the glasses the week prior to departing for vaca; the following year, also while jet skiing on the Back Bay (it’s official name), I lost a ring that I bought on a Madison Avenue street sale and had worn for three years. It was a beautiful sort of chunky basket weave topped ring that I adored. Of course I didn’t realize I lost it until long after we returned to the house and started eating. It was a sad day, likely comparable to the loss of my father’s glasses. All of these past occurrences lead us to the grand and indeed heart wrenching events of yesterday.
On Monday, we all decided Ocean Kayaks might be fun for the day. Dad and I, being the crazy adventurous ones that we are were the first ones to cast off over the rough surf during a lull. We rowed about, parallel to the shore for a while before deciding to get tossed ashore by the crashing waves; I was incredibly excited for the rush. We made our way, slowly, cautiously, waiting for the right wave that would effortlessly carry us to solid sand. Finally, our wave arrived. We began paddling, quickly working to get ahead of the wave so we stay perpendicular to it and be cast ashore flawless and without capsizing, and more importantly, to get the rush-feeding perfect wave ride. So much better than a boggie board.
Needless to say, all of our paddling and planning efforts were thwarted by the restless, powerful, and unpredictable sea. To our grand delight, we were flipped right at the shore. Both of us popped up with ear to ear smiles, breathing heavily, laughingly reflecting on what the hell just happened. It was a blast and we needed a little rest.
By this time, mom had arrived and was there, laughing, taking our paddles and walking with us up to our chairs. We sat down, told her of the massive feeding frenzy we came upon where bait fish were just flying out of the water, trying to escape the jaws of a hungry predator from below. Little did the jumpers realize, there were also hungry stomachs flying above—a looming pelican, several seagulls and an unrecognizable hunting bird, circled, knowing full well their chances were enhanced because of what was going on below.
Now, on with my point. As we sat, laughing and recalling, it finally hit me, “Where are my sunglasses?!?!!?” Shit fuck cunt mother fucking shit, whore ass bitch. Damnit. We ran to the shore, quickly running up and down, in and out, hoping to find them washing back and forth in the turbulent and turbid waters. Our beach neighbor came down and began chatting with my mother about how his son lost glasses and they found 8 pairs, except his. I was in shock; I still am.
You see, the glasses I was wearing were the first designer pair of frames I ever bought—ever, in the history of my 22 year life. They were classics, ones that the world had seen (seriously, they’ve been around it) and friends knew just by glancing. I reached for them when I needed comfort, when my attire was casual through and through, and also when my outfit was screaming and if my glasses were any louder, I should be imprisoned. They toned it down while keeping it spicy, and vice versa. They were a perfect green plastic frame with a subtle CD on each side in a pewter silver color. From that I’m sure you can surmise they were Dior’s, and clearly cost a pretty penny. I had them for seven years and adored them, even as my sunglass collection grew more outrageous, more flashy, more luxurious.
It didn’t matter, they were classics. But I’m the fucking idiot. I know the sea and her unforgiving ways. She had no reason to throw them back on shore; I’m the one who wore them on the kayak to begin with. And to think that when I left the house and threw them on my face I thought, “Christ, I better not loose these out there.” I’m truly an idiot and I have no one to blame, no one to be mad at but myself.
Perhaps if I had realized sooner, perhaps moments after, not minutes, that my frames had disappeared, I would of found them. As it were, the next person I went out with, Timmy G, also wore his glasses and lost them when we came in; however, he was able to quickly recover them from the rushing surf and crashing waves. I was pissed. But oddly, and surprisingly, I never expressed it. My disdain was for myself.
I love the sea and there’s just no getting mad at her. Arguably the most powerful force on our earth, making it more blue than green, her powers run deep and what she takes is hers for the taking, be it a freighter or a frame. And though I’d give anything to have them back, it’s comforting to know they went this way. It’s not like I broke a lens or sat on them, had them stolen or even misplaced them. It’s kinda like dying in your sleep or just collapsing without knowing you’re dead; it just happens and there’s nothing you can do about it, but supposedly, it’s the way everyone wants to go. It wasn’t their choice and it certainly wasn’t mine.
In the end, I’d say they had a damn good life, and I know my eyes and outfits were always thankful to have them adorning my face. Fare ye well, my prized green glasses—enjoy the sea for me.
So, there they be;
Lost at sea.
My green Dior glasses
Were so very good to me.
I’m not mad at her,
Just pissed at myself.
For if I’d thought it through,
They’d still be on my glasses shelf.