Scratching the Horizon

by Izzy Paskowitz

  That second wave, man … that’s what sets my story apart. I knew it as it was happening. If one wave is likely to kill you, then two will leave no doubt, and here it left me twisting, struggling, fighting. It started to freak me out that I couldn’t see. A couple seconds earlier all I could see was blackness, and now it felt like the blackness had been dialed down a couple shades. Like I’d somehow fallen into an abyss of the deepest, darkest blackness known to man. Weird, huh? And all I could think was when to start sucking in water, when to give up.

  If I had to put a clock on things, I’d say it was about forty-five, fifty seconds until the first wave quieted. Maybe as long as a minute. And it’s not like I had a lungful of air to start out with, either, so I was operating on a half tank to begin with, and then the second wave hit, and the clock started all over again, and now I was tapped. Done. And as I realized this, one dark thought piled on top of another, the claustrophobia I’d been feeling started to slip away. The panic I’d been feeling, it started to quiet. I felt calm, warm, almost euphoric. Sounds like a big fat cliché, I know, but that’s how it came over me. And then, in another cliché, that deep, allover blackness began to fade, and I could see light and color. And fish! All in brilliant Technicolor! It was like a whole new daydream burst forth and swallowed up the nightmare of a beat or two before.

  Amazing.

  All of a sudden, there was no more panic, no more urgency. Nothing. Just, a complete sense of allover, inexplicable calm. Then I must have blacked out, because I have no memory of what happened next. All I know is that a short time later I was coughing. Somehow, I must have floated back up to the surface. Floated, swum, scrambled, clawed … whatever I did, I found a way up and through. I was conscious. I was spitting up water. My neck was on fire, from where the leis had been whipped about, but at first I thought a jellyfish had wrapped itself around me. It was the only way I could think to explain it.

  Little slivers of reality began to slip through my fog, and I think I drifted off again at this point. I went back underwater. I saw two white lights, and I knew enough to register what I was seeing, but somehow the lights left me thinking, Oh, shit! Here we go. I’m going to see Jesus! Me, a nice Jewish boy, being led into the light. And then, I felt about a million tiny bubbles floating around my face. I’d swallowed a bunch of water, apparently, but there was all this trapped air in the foam. That’s the kind of shit you read about in all those science articles and you file it away, thinking it’s kind of cool but knowing you’ll never apply it to your real life, to your surfing life. But those tiny bits of air brought me back to consciousness, and as I came clear I saw that those two white lights weren’t Baby Jesus. Don’t know what the hell they were, actually, but they fell away soon enough and in their place I heard this swelling roll of thunder. My first thought here was that these were the French lifeguards, on their Jet Skis, and this thought was soon replaced by another, by me wishing like hell I’d been knocked out in Hawaii so I could at least get a decent rescue.

  I coughed and coughed and coughed, and when I finally shook myself alert I could see all these red and white carnations, dancing on the water. As far as I could see, there were these fucking carnations, and as I realized what they were I reached to my neck and felt the hot red burn of a big-ass welt forming around my throat. The carnations were strewn across the water the length and width of a football field; that’s how far I’d been dragged along by these wicked currents. That’s how long I’d been under. Long enough for these flowers to decorate the ocean for what should have been my funeral.

  Underneath the welt, I could feel Eli’s rosaries, still hanging around my neck, and I remember feeling lifted by this. I took it as some sort of sign, that the pull of family was so strong it could drag me back from those giant waves. It was unbreakable.

  I grabbed my board, which was still lashed to my foot, and got back on top of it. I thought about heading into shore, but then I thought about it some more and turned to check out the next killer set that was already coming my way.

  I thought, All right, Iz. You dodged a big fucking bullet right there. That’s the worst wipeout you’ll ever have, and here you are. Still.

  I thought, Shit, there’s probably only ten minutes of daylight left in this sky.

  Then I pointed my board back out to sea and started scratching like crazy for the horizon.

  13

  Blobber Beach

  It was one thing to shake myself awake about Isaiah, and another one thing to try to be more involved with the getting and spending and running of our upside-down household, and still another one thing to recognize that my career was passing me by … but I was a long way from following through on these realizations all at once.

  One thing at a time was hard enough.

  Like I said, my father was no real help on this. He could see I was on the downward face of my career. He could see I was struggling to keep ahead of my bills and get a handle on what was going on with Isaiah, but he never once took me aside and told me to get my house in order. If anything, the message I got from Doc was just the opposite. It was: Keep surfing. It was: It’s nothing a day at the beach can’t fix. It was: You’re a world champion, Israel. Remember that. That’s what it was all about with him, what it had always been about, but it wasn’t working for me and Danielle and the kids. There was no money in surfing, only juice and glory—and I was pretty much tapped on these last two. What might have been right and good and true for my folks and their family was no longer right and good and true for me and my family.

  And yet I kept at it. Been riding those waves for so long I couldn’t step off. So I didn’t. Got myself a new sponsor, in Glenn Minami of Blue Hawaii; Glenn was a talented shaper with a sweet line of surfboards, and I was happy to throw in with him while I still could, while I still had enough of a name to get someone to pay my way. Got to thinking it would help ease myself off the professional circuit, to be able to ride into the sunset on my own terms, and it worked out that one of my trips for Blue Hawaii was a real game changer for us as a family—for me and Isaiah, especially. Eli was just a baby; Elah and Isaiah were still little, but Isaiah’s symptoms were full-blown; he was already a handful, had lost almost all of his language and his ability to connect with people. We’d had his diagnosis for a couple years, which meant I’d been rejecting his diagnosis for a couple years. It was a heartbreaking thing to see, so I tried to look away and pretend he was still the bright-eyed, beautiful, engaged little boy he had been as an infant.

  Shortly after that Forrest Gump trip to Oahu, I had another opportunity to return to Hawaii, and this time I found a way to take Danielle and the kids. Seemed like the right move. Plus, I didn’t want to be holed up in another nice hotel room, alone, crying over another movie that reminded me of the life I was trying to avoid.

  The irony of my sponsorship deal with Blue Hawaii was that Glenn Minami was the guy cutting me the check, based on a fair calculation of what everything would cost. This was great, because hotels were expensive on Oahu, rental cars were expensive, everything was expensive, so there was good money coming back. But it was doubly great because I arranged to stay with Glenn and borrow his car, so he was basically paying me to crash at his place with my family and pinch his ride; either way, I was ahead of the game before I even got in the water.

  I always loved being back in Hawaii, and this was the first time I was getting to share it with my whole family. I was really, really stoked about this. Guess a part of me thought if my kids could come to know and love Hawaii they would come to know and love me; God knows, I hadn’t been around enough for them to come to this on my own merits.

  First thing Elah and I noticed, together, was the way the whole place smells like a nursery the moment you step outside. Even the airport, against all those exhaust fumes, manages to smell like an exotic greenhouse; we were blown away by the sights and sounds and smells. It all took me back. And the food, all that kimchi and poi … I wanted to turn Danielle on to all of it, so it was a w
onderful homecoming—long overdue, and very much needed, I thought, to set my family back on a hopeful, healing course.

  The contest was being held at Maelie Point, on the south and west side of the island. It was an interesting place to hold an event, because there wasn’t a whole lot of sand on the beach; the wave was nice enough, but there was no place for the kids to play and splash around, so before my first heat I left from Glenn’s house and dropped Danielle and the kids at Pokai Bay, in Makaha, near where we used to live on Makaha Point, when my older brothers and I were little. It’s a popular, legendary surf spot, rich with tradition; basically, it’s where you’ll find the heartiest, most out-of-this-world/out-of-their-minds surfers on the island, and if you’re not there as someone’s “guest” you’ll start to feel unwelcome by the time you paddle out. It’s not that the locals aren’t good or gracious hosts, but they can be particular; you need to know someone if you want to surf Makaha; you need to belong.

  Happily, I had the right pedigree. I’d grown up on that beach, after all, and a lot of the old-timers still remembered Doc, so folks couldn’t have been more welcoming. I helped Danielle and the kids get settled by a gorgeous little bay, with crystal clear water and beach grass and palm trees. It was like a sliver of paradise. A part of me wanted to hang back and spend the day with them, but Blue Hawaii was paying our way and I had a job to do, so I laid out a blanket for them and lit out for Maelie Point.

  One thing, though: I didn’t think to pack a cooler, and poor Danielle had to walk into town for lunch. She managed to find Isaiah a decent plate of chicken nuggets, which was pretty much the only thing he could eat that didn’t make him gag and screech and hurl. Found something for Elah, too. (Eli was probably still breast-feeding.) And for herself, Danielle settled on an order of Rocky Mountain Oysters, which she was told was a local delicacy. Sounded good to her, so that’s what she got—and she ate it happily, hungrily.

  Wasn’t until later that she learned she’d eaten bull calf testicles. (Actually, it might have been pig balls, which are also called Rocky Mountain Oysters in those parts.) I suppose I could have kept this information to myself when she told me the story later, but that would have been way less fun than seeing the look on Danielle’s face when she put two and two together and started to retch.

  Before I left for the tournament, I had spent some time with Elah, splashing around in the water. It was such a perfect, perfect day I couldn’t bring myself to leave. We could see all these tiny, colorful fish, dashing around in these giant schools, in complete formation, and she was fascinated by them. She asked me what kind of fish they were, and I pretended to know. That’s what dads do, right? When we’re stumped, we offer up an answer with all the authority in the world, because we don’t want our curious kids thinking we don’t know absolutely everything there is to know.

  So I said, “Those are blobbers, Elah.”

  Elah crinkled up her face like she was making a mental note, and we goofed around for a while longer, studying all the tiny fish, and as I finally made to leave she hollered after me. She said, “We’ll be here at Blobber Beach, Dad. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  And as I drove off I caught myself wondering why I hadn’t been taking my family to every damn tournament all along.

  * * *

  The road to Maelie Point was snarled with traffic. Wasn’t built for so many cars, so many surfers, heading to the same place at the same time. Cars were parked along a red dirt road, going back about a mile, so I ditched Glenn’s Nissan and hustled to the tournament table on foot. As I approached, I took time to notice the scenery—it was breathtaking, really. The water was spectacular, breaking over a coral bed. The only drag on this spot was there was no place to hang out. You had to walk very light-footed onto the reef as you entered the water. I was running late, so my head was all over the place. Guys were already on the outside, the contest had started, and I was still reaching for my board.

  Not exactly the best way to get my tournament going.

  And there was also this: on my light-footed way into the surf, I slipped in a kind of hole; somehow got my toe stuck in the mouth of a baby moray eel. Scraped the shit out of my foot, too. It was a freaky thing, and it set me back. Wasn’t that it hurt so much, but I had to stop and find a way to shake off the eel and get my head back into this first heat. Left me feeling completely out of sync, where what you want is to be so focused that all you’re thinking about is grabbing that first wave.

  By the time I got out there, it’s like the waves were on a completely different setting. They were decent enough, but they kept missing me—or guess I should say I kept missing them. They’d pop up wherever I wasn’t, or break in a way or in a spot I wasn’t expecting. I had to keep paddling back and forth, chasing the next set, working on a canvas that was way bigger than usual. I’d paddle to the right, and there’d be no waves. I’d paddle to the left … no waves.

  In the meantime, everyone else was getting waves. It’s like there was just enough surf for all the other guys in my heat and because I’d gotten there late, or because I’d been distracted by that eel or tearing up my foot on the jagged coral, or because my heart was back at Makaha with Danielle and the kids … well, there were no waves left for me.

  Wasn’t too, too upset about this, I’ll admit—only bummed that I could have traded this disappointing heat for a day on the beach with my family. But I kept paddling, kept waiting. Finally, I saw a wave heading my way, and I took off on it late but somehow managed to ride it in for a good score. It was a cool wave, actually—a bowl that came together and created a fine peak, which left me a classic tube. Caught another couple waves after that, but it was this tube ride that got me to the next round, so I was happy about that. Hadn’t been my best day, not by a long shot, but it was enough to see me through.

  Some tournaments, you have to hang around to surf your next heat, but there were so many competitors in my division that this first day had been set aside for just the first round. All these years later, I can’t even be sure I waited to see where I stood. Maybe, maybe not; either way, I had a good feeling I’d advanced, but I had an even better feeling about doubling back to Makaha, so I got out of there soon as I could. Trekked back to Glenn’s car, and as it started up I noticed the cassette player was still playing the same Sarah McLachlan tape it had been playing on the way out, so I started fumbling through Glenn’s stuff to see if I could find something else. Wasn’t much but chick music, not the sort of stuff I listened to, and the radio was for shit, so I left the Sarah McLachlan tape in the dash and let it play.

  Got back to Makaha just as Danielle was starting to pack up, but I motioned her to leave everything where it was so I could hang for a bit with the kids. Wanted to squeeze the last few drops of sunlight from the day. Also, wanted to soak in the scene before it slipped away from me entirely: Elah was a total towhead back then, with long white hair and a little-kid belly that couldn’t keep from spilling over her bikini bottom; Isaiah was a giant butterball, and the way he looked up at me and smiled just about shattered my road-weary heart; and Eli was such a sweet, easy baby Danielle and I sometimes worried he was too good to be true.

  As I approached, I flashed on an image of Danielle, collecting our few things, corralling the kids from whatever they were doing, and I caught myself thinking I must have done something right, somewhere along the way, to be a part of something so beautiful, so magical. It was almost spiritual. No, it wasn’t a picture-perfect scene; there was still the anguish and worry about Isaiah, the tension between me and Danielle for the way I kept checking out on her. But it was as close to perfect as I had any right to expect, so I caught myself wondering where I’d been all these years while this beautiful, magical, spiritual picture was coming into focus; I was washed over by a whole range of emotions that ran from happiness to regret.

  Anyway, the kids were completely fried by this point, so there wasn’t much I could do with them in terms of playing or splashing around. Danielle was fried, too, s
o we sat on the blanket while the little bit of sun faded from the sky, and then we started to move towards the car. The big kids were still in their bathing suits, still wet, so we threw some towels down on the backseat, got Eli into his car seat, and started heading back to Glenn’s place in the middle of the island, about forty-five minutes away.

  We talked back and forth for a while. Softly, lazily. Danielle told me the Rocky Mountain Oysters story. Elah told me about her Blobber Beach adventures. And Isaiah was so calm, so peaceful, he was mostly still and silent, which was completely out of character for him. We were used to hearing him screech and grunt and mumble, all day long. Whatever language he’d had as a toddler was long gone, so for the past few years he’d only communicated with sounds and pointing and temperament. He had a few words, like “more,” and a few sounds, like neeeee. He was like a little caveman, just grunting and pointing to make himself understood; it would have been cute if it wasn’t so sad, so tragic.