…tell him he is loved.”

The waves, even on the northwest coast, continue to be weak. At best. Still, people seeking some kind of float are journeying out, past the usual summer road work delays, and behind the usual hordes of leather-bound motorcyclists and the EVers making ‘the loop’ on Surf Route 101, the RVs and the folks with boats and already-blown-up blow-up SUPs, the campers and trailers.

Yeah, it’s summer. I haven’t ventured west yet, but my so-far stealth surf rig is up and running, and I am so, so tempted.

Here’s a story: I should add, non-fiction.

                        If you do happen to see Jacob…

…tell him he is loved.

I came around from the lake side of the house. I was standing at the open back doors of my van, considering whether I should break out another drop cloth. A car on the road that does a half circle on the south side of the lake stopped. It didn’t pull over.

The window on the front passenger side of the car came down. The woman behind the wheel said something. I was too far away to hear. I came up the slight bank and stopped at the edge of the road. “Have you seen a kid come by here?”

There was a blond-haired kid, probably nine or ten, in the back seat, hard to see through the tinted windows, straining on his restraints.

“I was… on the other side.”

The woman was smoking, not inhaling deeply, blowing the whisps out the open window on her side. “He… we had a… disagreement. A thing. He’s fifteen. I’m the stepmom.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. Does he… look like… this kid?”

“No. He’s… he looks native. Big for his age.”

“Not bigger than me?”

“No.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jacob.”

“Oh, like… I need something… I have a hard time remembering names… like Jacob’s ladder.”

“Guess so. Yeah.”

The woman could have driven on. She might have if another car had come up behind her. Though it’s summer, hot and sunny, a major closure on highway 101 has made traffic detour. I took two back roads to get to the lake house, located close to the public fishing dock, across the street from a farm, and adjacent to a small public campground.

The woman started talking about herself. She was a local, she said. She gave her family name.

I knew the name. I had dealings with a man by that name. “Oh. He’s my father.”

Her father had been a contractor. Roofer, mostly. Kind of thuggish. Our dealings had not all been pleasant.

He bad-rapped me, years ago, to a mutual client. I have a tough time forgiving this; mostly I just move on. I don’t forget.

I knew a few things about an uncle who inherited some money, bought a lot of new tools, vehicles, and equipment, and went into business with a couple of other guys. One partner had some health issues and moved to Hawaii. The other had a severe drug issue that was more important to him than completing jobs. The woman’s uncle died before, or just after the money ran out.

“Sad,” I said. “He was a nice guy.” Another uncle was described and written off as “Just… so fat.”

My mind went to someone I had just run into who was dangerously overweight.”

Her father, she said, lighting another cigarette, and her mother, sold the company, got divorced, “He met some woman on the beach. He’s got a seven-year-old. He’s doing the right thing, though, raising him on his own.”

“So… the woman from the beach? Gone?”

“Yeah.”

An SUV with a Costco kayak on top pulled up behind the woman’s car. After a moment, it went around.

“Hey, uh, if I see him… Jacob, I’ll tell him to get his ass over and… I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“Thanks.”

The woman never did ask my name. She wouldn’t know that, thirty years earlier, I had come to this very lake, a first responder with the local fire district, in response to a call for a teenager drowning. Drowning. I know how to swim. I live three miles away. I could beat the ambulance. I could do something. I could…

I couldn’t. The teenage boy wasn’t in the water, floundering. He had been underwater for too many minutes. He was on the beach, dragged by someone. On his back. He was already gone. Obviously. Visibly. He had thrown up. His airway was compromised. There would be no rescue, no heroes.

Still, I would be doing compressions all the way to the hospital, a nurse picked up at Four Corners. Desperate. Futile.

The boy’s mother showed up just after he was pronounced dead. I was headed out the Emergency Room doors, back to the aid car. I looked as the mother’s mouth opened, as her hands went to her face, possibly to block a scream. I looked away.

“If you do happen to see Jacob, please tell him he is loved.”  

If I had seen him, I would have. I didn’t. I had work to do before the sun hit the lake side of the house.

HOPE YOU’RE GETTING SOME WAVES!

REMEMBER to check out the latest installment of “SWAMIS” on Wednesday. This week, Joey goes to the psychologist, has a spell, gets a new board. Or maybe that’s next week. Still, the story continues.

NOTE: Copyright protection claimed on all original work on realsurfers.net. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. Thanks.