Going and Coming

by Robin Jones Gunn

Norman Rockwell’s side-by-side painting entitled Going and Coming reminds me of childhood trips to the beach. The famous Americana artist painted two images of the same family. In the morning scene, they are full of vigor as they head off with a small rowboat strapped to the car’s roof. The tandem image then shows them on their way home at dusk, rosy cheeked and subdued. Mom is asleep, and Dad looks as if he can barely keep his eyes open.

I’m sure that, during my childhood, my family looked much the same on our eagerly anticipated jaunts to the sea. On those wonderful “let’s go to the beach” mornings, I recall Mom packing snacks in a red metal cooler and the unmistakable scent of the Coppertone sun lotion she slathered on our fair skin. I remember my dad whistling as he loaded the station wagon, and I loved the feel of the wind through the rolled-down windows as we took off down the street.

Our drive home, I’m sure, mirrored the droopy-eyed models in Rockwell’s painting. Sand in our hair, a swath of sunburn across our noses, big yawns, and a bucket of tiny seashells in my sister’s lap.

For us, the beach of choice was Corona del Mar. Since we weren’t the only ones who decided it was the best beach for a family outing, we would try to arrive midmorning and lug our gear down to the shore to stake our patch of sand for the day. We didn’t set up camp the way some folks did. Those families arrived with a fleet of beach chairs and colorful umbrellas that popped upward like a California poppy when the afternoon breeze kicked up. The kids in those families brought loads of toys and water floaties to keep them occupied.

For my sister and me, our entertainment started with burying our little brother in the sand so that only his head was showing. He eventually would break free, and the three of us would spend hours scooping up skittering sand crabs and creating sandcastles with moats. Then we would stand back when the big waves came in and wait for the saltwater to fill the moats while hopefully leaving our castles still standing.

Our favorite shoreline activity was gathering up ropes of bulbous, dried seaweed and popping the pods. Some pods still had water in them, and we would explode in riotous laughter at the rude sounds they could make.

Mom stayed in her beach chair, with the tails of her headscarf fluttering. Through her cat-eye sunglasses she kept track of our seaside shenanigans. Our dad, ever the athlete, loved the water. He would spend hours diving under the swells and going beyond the surf to swim laps parallel to the shore.

When the waves were just right, his aquatic interests would shift, and I’d stop building sandcastles to watch him. My hero. As a wave began to crest, he would position himself carefully, glance over his shoulder, and start swimming with his face fixed on the shore. His straightened frame would blend with the unfurling wave, and I’d observe, mesmerized, the way he bodysurfed to shore as effortlessly as if he were a dolphin.

Then one summer day I felt I was old enough to stop being a spectator. I asked my dad to teach me how to ride the waves the way he did. The camaraderie he had with the ocean lured me past the knee-deep water. I wanted to make friends with the surf the way my father had.

I was a slow learner, and undoubtedly I shed an excess of tears. I wasn’t an athletic child, nor was I very coordinated. Those factors didn’t seem to matter to the waves, because at last, the moment came when I got it right. The exhilaration of being lifted by foaming seawater and powerfully carried all the way to the shore was unforgettable. I felt as if I had politely reached out to shake hands with the wild sea, and in its untamed exuberance, the ocean had scooped me up and enfolded me in a hug. We were now forever friends.

That night, when I turned my head, saltwater trickled from my ear and dampened my pillow. If I lay completely still and closed my eyes, I could feel the movement of the water as if my body were still rising and falling with the waves.

I understood why true watermen and women carry their heavy surfboards through the sand and paddle out even on stormy days. No wonder an entire industry has been built on surfboards and boogie boards, leashes, wet suits, and the right kind of fins for bodysurfers. There’s nothing like having a curling, foaming wave lift you like a javelin and propel you forward rather than slamming you down or turning you around in an underwater somersault.

I was smitten.

Years later, on my first date with the man who became my husband, I asked if he had any hobbies or played any sports.

He smiled and said he loved to bodysurf.

I think that was the moment I knew he and I would become the next generation to reenact together the Rockwell-style “going and coming” summer days at the beach.

Robin Jones Gunn is the award-winning author of more than 100 books, including the Father Christmas novellas, which became the inspiration for three Hallmark Christmas movies. She has visited many beautiful countries and is a frequent keynote speaker at women’s events. Robin has spent most of her life living near the sea, including a decade on Maui. She and her husband currently live in Southern California where the best days are always beach days with their family.