I'd see my dad look out to sea. We
would be on the beach in Wildwood, for a vacation week in August.
He'd tell me that were we able to see past horizons, we'd see
Ireland and the places of his growing up. He would scare my sister
and me, by saying that he was going to swim there - we had to
chase after him in the water to beg that he not go so deep, so
far. The picture of him at top of these Tenebrae pages, shows
him walking along the beach in Wildwood - the image, ever since
my brother Jimmy took it, has reminded me that he was most at
peace at the edge of the sea that connected and separated the
two homes of his life - the one of his childhood and the one of
his children.
Later, as a lifeguard on this same
shore, I'd scan the water. In the mornings the eastern sun would
dazzle the line that led toward Ireland; by late afternoon, sun
behind me, that horizon seemed much farther away. During the long
summer day, we were trained to keep our eyes on the water and
our attention on the bathers, but I'd daydream, my eyes caught
at the sharp line between heaven and earth, the slender edges
of sky, water, this land and the next land east of here.
One evening when I was rowing on
the Schuylkill River in Philadelphia, I watched the reflection
of Venus in the water beside the boat; it approached and receded
in the calm water. Or so it seemed - it was me moving back and
forth in the boat - the action so repetitive, and the water so
smooth - Venus was moving. This summer, Venus will be rising in
the East just before the sun rises, and I'm hoping that some clear
just-before-morning, that there will be nothing reflected in a
calm sea but the morning star.
As
a boy, I used to chase moonlight reflecting on dark water, entranced
at its tempting recession, though trained enough in high school
physics classes about optics to know the angle of the incidence
of light and the angle of reflection always are equal. The scientific
explanation didn't diminish my moth-like attraction, and my desire
to continue down the moonbeams .I like being places that are simple
- water, air, stars and moon. I'm hoping for that during the trip.
I know there will be days of too much wind and too little, and
something on the boat won't work, or will break. And time to spend
with my failures and limitations, but I'm looking forward to,
what always feels like a gift, a time of union and connectedness
without a lot of mental back talk.
When I was a young man, my dad sent
me to Falcarragh. I stayed for a few months trying to make myself
useful on the farm to Uncle Hughie, who was sick and coming to
the end. On good nights, I’d accompany him on walks along
the strand, the Atlantic beach that fronts the farm. Hughie, the
one who stayed at home, would look over the Western Ocean, and
wonder about his brothers and sisters in America, their lives
there, and how his life would have been, had he gone. Same scene,
opposite shore from his brother, my dad. This Atlantic salt flows
in my veins, it is the soup in which my kin’s lives have
stirred. By no means is my intended trip meant to conquer anything,
discover any unknown, test any mettle. I’d just like to
spend some time on the waters between here and then, and maybe
close a circle that was opened seventy five years ago with my
father’s migration.
I'd like to give a more judicious
and sober set of reasons and motivations for my voyage - my children
are worrying for my survival - and these above seem so lacking
in probity, or any necessity. I do sense that I won't know why
I'm doing this until I've done it. Kitty says "You're just
doing it so that you have a story to tell." - Long way to
go to tell a story; I would have liked it more if she had said
that I'm going so that I'll have an explanation for having gone
- that might be closer to it. In any case I am aware that it is
a lark, maybe even an indulgence, and a shame of selfishness rises
in me, when I see Kath or Jody or Dan worrying that they'll end
up with no father, no grandfather for their children. So, I want
to not just tell them, but also convince/prove to them that the
undertaking is not as risky, or death-defying, as they might think.
