Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul (16 page)
Read Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
We scoured the beach, enjoying the cool ocean breeze and the feel of the ocean mist on our bodies. Although we still exchanged no words, we became friends through our daily enterprise.
One morning I saw a large piece of driftwood floating close to shore and retrieved it before it could be carried out to sea. Queenie was elated. We put the piece on her sled, which was now full, and usually that meant the end of our day together. But Queenie tugged at my sleeve and motioned for me to follow her. Before long we stood in front of a small house that had fallen into disrepair. Remembering how my father had described Queenie’s home, I knew where I was.
She deposited the large piece of wood that we had found earlier next to the house, then beckoned me to follow her inside. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The furniture, the cabinets, the pictures on the wall and the many exquisite-looking sculptures—all were made from driftwood.
“Queenie, did you make all these things?” I exclaimed.
She nodded her head, smiled a toothless grin and gestured for me to sit down. She left for a second. When she returned, she placed some cookies in front of me and scribbled on a large note pad. Her message said, “Hello Anne, my name is Erma. Welcome to my home.”
I smiled and answered, “Hi Erma, these cookies are great, and your house is beautiful.”
She reached over and patted my hands with great affection and then began to write again. “I don’t talk very well, but I want you to know that I love your company.”
“Me, too, Erma.”
We continued our daily quests until it was time for my family to return to the city. Summer was almost over, and school beckoned. I saw tears in my friend’s eyes as I said good-bye, and I assured her that I would see her next summer. She placed a small package wrapped in newspaper in my hands and kissed me on the cheek. I ran home, not turning to wave, as I knew I would cry. Inside the package was a seagull carved from driftwood. Today, some forty-eight years later, it still stands in my curio cabinet. Sadly, I never saw Erma again. My parents sat me down after school one day to say a letter had arrived from the chaplain at the hospital on Long Island. Erma had been rushed to the hospital after being found lying in the snow near her home. She had lingered for several days before she succumbed to pneumonia. Before she died, she had written a letter in front of the chaplain addressed to “My best friend, Anne.”
The chaplain knew my parents and of my association with Erma and had forwarded the letter to us. It said simply: “Thank you for being my friend. I love you. Take my driftwood and make others happy. Love Erma.” It took me weeks before I could talk to my parents about Erma’s death. She was the first person I knew who had died. I found it hard to relate to the fact that I would never see her again. I dreamed about her, the ocean behind her smiling face, the beauty of her driftwood.
My family donated the collection to the church community center for all to see and use. I told my parents that I knew this would make Erma happy. They agreed. Every summer, the first stop we made, upon arrival, was at this small meeting hall. I would stand and gaze in awe at the items that had come from the ocean and had been transformed into works of art by my friend. Mom and Dad said they were proud of me for the kindness I had shown toward Erma. I knew I had received so much more than I had ever given. I had learned that, like the ocean, love goes on forever.
Anne Carter
One morning at the Aquarium of the Pacific, three divers were preparing to feed the thousands of fish that inhabit the aquarium’s 360,000-gallon Tropical Pacific Coral Reef Habitat. The first stop was the Aquarium’s husbandry kitchen where the divers cut up large cubes of squid, shrimp and clams for larger fish, smaller cubes for medium-sized fish, and a blended “soup” for the very small fish. The food was then put into rubber containers that the divers could take under the water.
One of the dive volunteers would feed the smaller and medium-sized fish off to the side of the sixty-foot-wide exhibit window, and another volunteer would use his supply of food to attract the largest fish to the center of the exhibit. The feedings were always popular with visitors, so one diver had the responsibility of explaining what was going on. Bob Buck, the dive-team leader, would be the “spokes-diver.” Using a special Aga-mask, Bob would answer questions from underwater via a volunteer docent stationed on the dry side of the glass.
As soon as he was in position, Bob received his first question. “Aren’t you afraid of those sharks?” someone asked. Bob answered that, fortunately, the sharks in the tank had already been fed. He explained how and when sharks eat, then he took the opportunity to decry shark-finning, a practice in which fishermen remove the shark’s dorsal and other fins, then dump the shark back into the ocean to die. “Can you imagine that?” Bob said. “Does this extraordinary animal deserve a death so wasteful?”
Later, a group of young schoolchildren outside the glass window caught Bob’s attention. Instead of talking to each other like the other kids, these children were communicating with hand gestures. Bob, who had a hearing-impaired sister and had learned sign language, realized the children couldn’t hear any of the information he’d been sharing. But he still wanted to connect with them. As a school of golden trevallies swam by, he looked at a little girl in the group and made the sign for “beautiful fish.”
The children beamed!
They signed back at Bob. Their silent questions, comments and ecstatic responses filled the air. Bob continued to speak to the audience as he had done before, but now his comments were echoed by a flurry of sign language. As the presentation ended, Bob had an inspiration. He added a final thought, one that the children could take with them to always remember their first visit to this fantastic underwater world. He held out his hand and bent down two fingers. It was the sign language equivalent for “I love you!” Joy filled the faces of the children as each of them returned the love.
To this day, every diver presentation at the Aquarium includes the sign for “I love you!”
Warren Iliff
Hot sun. Salty air. Rhythmic waves. A little boy is on the beach. On his knees he scoops and packs the sand with plastic shovels into a bright red bucket. Then he upends the bucket on the surface and lifts it. And, to the delight of the little architect, a castle tower is created.
All afternoon he will work. Spooning out the moat. Packing the walls. Bottle tops will be sentries. Popsicle sticks will be bridges. A sand castle will be built.
Big city. Busy streets. Rumbling traffic.
A man is in his office. At his desk he shuffles papers into stacks and delegates assignments. He cradles the phone on his shoulder and punches the keyboard with his fingers. Numbers are juggled and contracts are signed, and much to the delight of the man, a profit is made.
All his life he will work. Formulating the plans. Forecasting the future. Annuities will be sentries. Capital gains will be bridges. An empire will be built.
Two builders of two castles. They have much in common. They shape granules into grandeurs. They see nothing and make something. They are diligent and determined. And for both the tide will rise and the end will come.
Yet that is where the similarities cease. For the boy sees the end, while the man ignores it. Watch the boy as the dusk approaches.
As the waves near, the wise child jumps to his feet and begins to clap. There is no sorrow. No fear. No regret. He knew this would happen. He is not surprised. And when the great breaker crashes into his castle and his masterpiece is sucked into the sea, he smiles. He smiles, picks up his tools, takes his father’s hand and goes home.
The grown-up, however, is not so wise. As the wave of years collapses on his castle, he is terrified. He hovers over the sandy monument to protect it. He blocks the waves from the walls he has made. Saltwater soaked and shivering, he snarls at the incoming tide.
“It’s my castle,” he defies.
The ocean need not respond. Both know to whom the sand belongs. . . .
And I don’t know much about sand castles. But children do. Watch them and learn. Go ahead and build, but build with a child’s heart. When the sun sets and the tides take—applaud. Salute the process of life, take your father’s hand and go home.
Max Lucado
Guiding Light
Original painting by Wyland © 2003.
In my dreams, a monstrous wall of green water races my way, hissing, roaring, towering, inescapable, sweeping me into a cascading aquatic mayhem. I am lifted, tumbled, churned, pushed and fall, gasping, clawing for air. My toes touch sand; a sweet breeze soothes my lungs. I stand, choking, face the next advancing wall and leap into it, exhilarated!
In reality, when I was three the ocean along the New Jersey shore first got my attention much as it happened in the dream: A great wave knocked me off my feet, I fell in love, and ever after have been irresistibly drawn, first, to the cool, green Atlantic Ocean; later, to the Gulf of Mexico, warm and blue, serving as my backyard and playground through years of discovery; and thereafter to other oceans, to reefs, raging surf, calm embayments, steep drop-offs and the farthest reaches of the deep sea beyond. The “urge to submerge” came on early and continues, seasoned and made more alluring by thousands of underwater hours, each one heightening the excitement of the last as one discovery leads to another, each new scrap of information triggering awareness of dozens of new unknowns.
The lure of the sea has enticed explorers to probe the mysteries of that vast, sparkling wilderness, probably for as long as there have been human beings. Our origins are there, reflected in the briny solution coursing through our veins and in the underlying chemistry that links us to all other life. We are probably the most versatile of creatures, anatomically gifted with an ability to climb mountains, swing among treetops, leap into the air, race across plains and briefly enter underwater realms. While we are not naturally equipped with wings to remain aloft or gills to stay submerged for long, we are endowed with ingenuity, and thus have been able to respond to another human gift, especially evident in children and those who happily never quite grow up: an irrepressible curiosity.
Dr. Sylvia A. Earle
T
he sea never changes and its works, for all
the talk of men, are wrapped in mystery.
Joseph Conrad
N
ature is the ultimate divine mystery.
Wyland
I never considered myself the corporate type. I didn’t want to sit behind a desk, and I liked to fish. So studying marine biology seemed like a natural. But after graduating college, I found myself working for the South Carolina Marine Resources Division doing exactly what I had tried to avoid: sitting at a desk crunching numbers. The job wasn’t without perks, though, and occasionally I left my desk and numbers to join the research teams on multiple-day trips at sea.
The purpose of one of these cruises was to collect golden crab specimens about 120 miles offshore. Usually, we fought through rain and choppy seas. This time the sun was shining. And the glassy water made hauling in the crab traps more enjoyable, if not exactly easy. By the last day of the trip, everyone was in good spirits, satisfied that we had produced substantial data for analysis back at the lab, and we were seizing the opportunity to do some deep-sea fishing when the boat jerked into gear.
All of us looked up. Captain Pete was at the helm. He seemed to be focused on something in the distance. Keeping my hands on the rail, I worked my way toward him. “Pete,” I asked. “What’s going on?”
He pointed to a disturbance in the water about five hundred yards away. “There’s something over there,” he said. “We’re going to see what it is.” As the boat moved closer, I recognized the heads and flukes of whales, about twelve animals in all. The pod was mostly adults with a couple of juveniles, but the one that held our attention was the male at the lead, by far the largest of the group.
Pete slowed the boat, keeping the whales on our starboard side.
Everything about the pod seemed routine until the lead male broke away from the group, swam across the bow and turned to pass us on the port side.