Water and Stone

He stands at the water's edge. Small stones tumble from his hands in arrhythmic patterns, catching slender shards of late afternoon sunlight - absorbing and treasuring that single breath of prized warmth and glow - before surrendering to the inevitability of water, salt, and the slow brush of tide across stony shore. The water is cold. Stunningly cold, really, even for this last week of August. Summertime along the northern edge of the Maine coast is a blessing of blindingly clear blue skies and thick morning fogs, cricketsong and exposed granite. The air grows warm and full in time with the ripening of wild blueberries among the brambles, but the waters never relinquish the heritage of the many hard months that ring these bright moments like halos of dark light. This is where we were engaged, atop one of the island's mountains. This is where we came to be married, at the edge of a harbor, in the aftermath of a hurricane. And this is where we've returned, five years later, with our son.

The water is ankle-deep; a thin course of bracing swirls cascading over chubby toes and around chubby ankles. He appears none the worse for wear — his smile broad, his fine hair whipping free and wild with the breeze, tiny black sandals protecting the tender soles of his feet from the hidden edges of this new and unfamiliar world. Behind him, boats bob gently in the harbor, standing guard between his joy and the open sea.

He is a year and a half old, and has never seen the ocean before. And while he does not have the words - not yet, although each day we listen intently to the smooth vowels and hard consonants as they flow, ebb and flow, desperate in our eagerness to help give his world shape through the fluid definitions of language - there is no mistaking his delight. Peals of laughter skip across the gentle wavecrests like flattened stones spinning with energy and pure intent, seeming to gain velocity with each small leap, until they vanish among the distant cries of gulls, eiders and cormorants. 

We watch him with something like wonder as he feels the ocean lick at his toes. As he listens to the splash of his feet through the water, measures the impact of his footprint on this space between worlds, breathes air rich with salt and the aroma of sea-blown pine. He crouches down - the edges of his blue shorts dipping into the water - and pulls free a handful of small, rounded stones. And then, one by one, he lets them fall from his hand to the sea. It is an endlessly fascinating confrontation with the realities of the world: the weight of stone, the pull of gravity, the yielding of water. We watch him repeat it, again and again and again. Hypnotic. Calming.

• • •

They are sheltered, here, in this small cove along the edge of the bay. We know, just to the other side of the bluff, the wind is blowing straight off of Jericho Bay and the infinite expanse of Atlantic beyond, whistling through the sawgrass and the bright flowers of C's garden. But here... the water is placid. Quiet. From the edge of their yard, they lead us down the wooden steps to a maze of stones at the water's edge. G tells us, "You won't believe how warm the water feels." Our children are eager to test that assertion, after four days of braving the bone-deep chill of wading near Seal Harbor. The girls are three now - just this week, in fact - and without fear. They wear pretty sundresses over their bathing suits, and as soon as they reach the bottom of the steps they kick off their flip-flops and step carefully over to the water to dip in their feet.

"Mommy!" they cry. "It's so warm! You have to try it!" And with that, my wife begins the exercise of calling them back, removing their sundresses, and plastering on a thick layer of sunscreen. Pale skin invites sunburn, even on the Blue Hill Peninsula. Without asking, C steps in to help.

She is - they both are - miraculous in their kindness and generosity. They are the parents of my wife's college roommate, and in her stead - she lives on the far side of the continent - C and G have embraced us as family; our children as surrogate grandchildren. Welcoming us to the beautiful little home they built here on the northern edge of the world, flooded with light and open air and the smell of the sea that has shaped so much of their lives. A place of quiet beauty, where they can live out the warm months together among new friends and the sound of the waves. The first time we had visited - four years previously, our son still a toddler himself - my wife and I had been stunned quite literally wordless by the perfection of this setting. Without needing to say a thing, we both recognized it instantly: this was the life we wanted for ourselves, someday. And today we return: a locust swarm swollen to five, consuming all we encounter with voracious goodwill.

C takes off her own sandals, and without hesitating leads the girls out calf-deep into the water. They are overjoyed, their high, sweet laughter chiming together, saturating the warm June air, finding the cracks and filling me from the inside-out. Her laughter blends seamlessly with theirs. As my wife stands at water's edge, taking pictures and taking care not to slip in, G and I stay closer to the stairs, hiding our smiles behind sunglasses and two exceptional bottles of local microbrew. 

My son stands a bit off to the side. He has also removed his sandals and stepped, ankle-deep, into the water. Acclimating. His head tilts to the side - his orange baseball cap accentuating the tilt - as if trying to study angles of approach. I call out his name and ask if the water feels better than it did over in Acadia. He looks back and me and laughs and says, "Yes!" - his voice clear and definitive - and then, in a heartbeat, he takes strong and determined steps forward and suddenly is waist-deep in the cove.

My wife and I look on. He is not a strong swimmer, but the cove is shallow and the water is quite calm. The tide is coming in, slowly, and with each gentle crash of the surf against his abdomen his hands shake and flutter like excited birds, flapping together and then soaring free and high in a wordless joy that cannot be constrained. It is a joy we do not understand, but one we appreciate, from our distance. With love, and concern. Carefully.

In another two months, he will begin Kindergarten. The anxiety over the transition from his preschool - where he has been receiving specialized services since he turned three - has been considerable. This change from the known to the unknown... despite the signed IEP, the meetings and orientations with administrators and educators, the assurances from the staff we've come to know and trust over the years... there are terrors, lurking in those depths. Wondering if he is ready. Wondering if he'll be spending too much time in the integrated classroom. Or too much time pulled-out for extra support. Wondering what mistakes we've already made but have not yet learned to recognize. Wondering when and how he'll pay the price.

Two feet to my side, G takes a long draw from his beer, then exhales. Without thinking, I follow his lead: tilting the bottle back, drawing deep, feeling the cool liquid slide down my throat, and then releasing and exhaling. It is delicious.

The girls and C move carefully through the water. She has them searching for starfish. And on his own, without being asked, my son begins staring down into the water as well. He has been listening, and while his hands still flutter and fly into the air with each new wave... he is searching for starfish, too. Before we can even think to ask or suggest differently, he has stepped forward into unfamiliar waters and made them his own.

I listen to the waves, and take another sip of my beer.

• • •

A few weeks from now, just before school begins, we will return. We have rented a house. It's on a sheltered cove, next to a harbor feeding into Somes Sound. It has huge windows, and sliding doors leading out to a small deck. The deck overlooks a small yard - in the pictures, it looks large enough for three children to run around on, and play soccer, and tackle one another silly - and, just beyond the yard, there is water.

Since I booked the house in February, the kids periodically ask to see photos of it on the computer. The girls tend to focus on the bedrooms ("Where will I sleep? Can I sleep on my own, or do I have to share a room?" The onset of Kindergarten has lent heavier import to these questions than in years past. They are big girls now, and these are big girl concerns.) and the all-important matter of whether or not there will be a TV.

My son cares about these things, as well, but once we establish who will be sleeping with whom and where the TV sits in the living room, he always asks to see the photo of the water.

"Is that the ocean?" he asks.

Kind of, I say. It's part of a harbor which is connected to the ocean.

"Can we go swimming there?" he asks.

I'm not sure, I say. It looks like there's a lot of seaweed, and the rocks might be slippery once you get in the water. It might not be safe. But there will be other places where we'll be able to go to the beach.

"Oh," he says. He always looks little disappointed. His huge, gray-blue eyes looking downward, as if - despite the fact that this is the eighth, the tenth, the twelfth time we've had this conversation - there was a chance the answer might have changed, and he is saddened again. As if for the first time.

But you know what? I say. See the rocks? The little ones? Every morning, you and I can walk out the door, off our deck, and go down and throw rocks in the water. I can even try to show you how to skip stones. 

His hands flutter like birds. "We can go to the water?" he asks. "And we can throw rocks in the water?"

Every day, buddy. Ducking my head to catch his eye, keeping him engaged in the conversation.There is a structure to this. A give-and-take. One he has learned in school, one reinforced every week in his social skills class. You ask. You listen to the answer. You comment on the answer, or ask a different question. This is how people communicate. This is how we talk with friends.

He nods, and stares at the picture for a long minute. Looks at the water. At the stones. Tales a deep breath, and consciously quiets his hands. Then he looks at me. His smile broad; his fine hair framing his handsome face.

"I want to go now," he says.

I know, buddy. I know.