On Saturday we went down to the rocks to photograph and I forgot my camera. Typical. “Remind me next time,” I said bitterly to Elliot, who wasn’t listening.
Drive just south of the city, past the Oudayas at the mouth of the river with the huge cemetery running down to the sea, past the lighthouse and the surf school, past the bicycle market. To your left are line upon line of apartment buildings and to your right is the Atlantic, in deep green today, and the setting sun is sometimes in your eyes as you follow the curves of the road.
Here you are: you are getting to the part where the cliff face falls down into rocky shelves and tide pools, where fisherman stand on the very edge of the sea and get soaked in the spray and as always, you worry about them being swept away. (I don’t know if it happens or not…is this part of a fatalistic view of life where preventative measures are not taken, or is it just not really all that dangerous? Some day I will find out and tell you.)
We swerve across oncoming traffic and park in a tiny spot in front of what looks to be an empty apartment building, newly built. Taking our lives into our hands, we commend our souls to God and cross the street, where we find ourselves at the top of a cliff. This area has an enormous shelf at the bottom, complete with tide pools, casual boulders scattered about, and a sandy bit where boys are playing soccer and turning cartwheels and flips.
We make our way down. Ilsa climbs an enormous rock and pulls out her sketching book and pencil case from school—the one I just had to replace because the first one got stolen. She drops a brand new pencil sharpener in the sand and I stoop and put it in my purse with a sigh. Boys come to show off, climbing behind her on rock, doing flips down the side, glancing sideways to see if she’s noticed their antics. They faux fight, they race. Ilsa sketches on, unmoved. The wind blows her long blonde hair behind her as she bends over her paper, concentrating on the silvery mermaid she is drawing. “I like to be the only one on the rock,” she tells me.
Later she decides to go rock climbing herself. The boys follow to where my daughter is scrambling up, her hair a golden curtain. It’s obvious to me what’s going on but Ilsa is oblivious still, disdainfully scorning a proffered hand when coming down, appalled at the offer of help which she interprets as doubt in her ability. She is a mystery to them, in her black leggings and tennis shoes and long hair, clambering all over the rocks. She fancies herself a tomboy and mocks the “Barbies” at her school, but she’s really quite feminine in many ways.
The boys continue to approach in a sort of dance. They don’t come too close, they take turns; there are definite rules to this. I think that I could map this out, the way they circle shyly, the way they punch each other and vie for who can throw his body into the air the highest. We are near a shelf of rock covered in tide pools. The boys strip to their underwear, run across the rocks, and suddenly dive into the one deep pool in all these tiny ones. I catch my breath because it looks so improbable, like they’ve somehow found a tiny stretch in the space-time continuum, a baggy part, where they can splash and play. It’s still dangerous, but it’s fun too, like watching those scooters weave through traffic—there’s freedom there.
A lot of this is done with sideway glances at Ilsa, who continues totally unaware. I’m glad for it, but part of me wishes she could see her power without being damaged by it, and that this knowledge could be a pool unexpectedly deep enough for diving set in the rocky shoals of the upcoming years. We leave them, still splashing, and set our faces towards the cliff that is our way home.
10 comments
October 21, 2009 at 4:56 am
js
Well said! I hope the shoals ahead aren’t too rocky for Ilsa! She’s such a sweetie. I love it that she’s so natural and unaffected.
October 21, 2009 at 6:28 am
meredith
This story is perfect. You’ll have to give it to Ilsa one day…
October 21, 2009 at 6:27 pm
LIB
I don’t think the metaphor is too forced. I think it’s a very good, apt metaphor.
This is an achingly beautiful story. What a gift you have to be able to notice what’s happening and express it so beautifully in words.
October 21, 2009 at 10:33 pm
gretchen from lifenut
Oh, golly. Daughters at that age who have no idea…
This post was beautiful and yes, Ilsa must read it someday.
October 22, 2009 at 1:17 am
Mary Alice
Such a beautiful story. I hope she stays unaware for a while longer. When boys and girls hit their teen years, watching them reminds me of birds in some awkward mating dance..the boys showing off and the girls fluffing their hair!
October 23, 2009 at 6:07 pm
Kathi D
I am so glad that you forgot your camera. What a lovely picture you drew with words.
October 25, 2009 at 5:00 pm
MaryWitzl
I think your metaphor works just fine too — and it’s a lovely story. There is something so bittersweet about girls Ilsa’s age who are still unaware. My daughter is still unaware too, but it won’t be long before she knows what’s going on. I just hope the power doesn’t go to her head.
October 28, 2009 at 11:06 am
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[…] also gone to the beach. These pics were actually taken two or three weeks ago, before the visit I wrote about. These were taken at a different beach one Sunday afternoon when Donn and I left the kids […]
October 28, 2009 at 2:54 pm
KellieS
Your “word-photo” was clear in my mind. When my oldest daughter was younger, I remember several scenes like this where the boys flocked with insessant determination to get her to notice. Oh, but she did notice; she just pretended not to. Scandalous.
Thanks for your prose that truly made a few moments of my day rich.
December 19, 2010 at 7:21 am
too vague for a title « Planet Nomad
[…] have all this extra time to read blogs, In the meantime, here is a picture of Ilsa that goes with this old post. The picture was taken at the same place but on another day, and I came across it the other day […]