The Return

*A moment of suicidal ideation is implied. Alcohol abuse briefly mentioned but not carried throughout the story

A faded ‘No Swimming’ board with chipped red and white paint quivered against the wind as it stood guard over choppy waves rushing the dark sandy shore. The grey tinted air behind it swirled with splashes of brown and green water, a treacherous fresco of an unswimmable, unsurfable sea. ‘

On the beach, however, a smattering of bodies clad in various colors dashed back and forth. Sand sprayed as feet moved and bodies dove. The air was filled with the thump and cheer of sport. My sport. Volleyball.

It was a ritual of mine, one I had held since my youth, mostly thanks to my dad, in a roundabout way. He had hated anything with the ocean that didn’t involve a fishing line, a bottle of whiskey, and a comfortable seat. I never took much to fishing or drinking, and honestly, never took much to my father, in part because he’d come home stinking of saltwater and booze and resentment. As long as I could remember, my father’s face was painted into the ocean.

So I never ventured in, and I never learned how to swim.

I guess the one thing I caught from him as a teenager was his despair, which pushed its way deep into my chest and chased me to the end of a pier one summer morning.

Crabby’s Bar and Grill only had a handful of people, all consumed by their coffee and greasy eggs. Maybe dad was there, Bloody Mary in hand. Even if he was, he wouldn’t care. So it seemed to me, in that moment, it was fitting I should jump in at that spot, at dad’s favorite haunt, and allow myself to be ultimately consumed by his one true affection.

It was there my 9th grade Biology teacher stumbled upon me, Crabby’s coffee cup in hand. Mr. Randolph seemed to mimic the image of the smiling cartoon crustacean, who also was holding a mug and smiling up at me.

After a series of niceties, which I had tried to hurry him through, Mr. Randolph invited me to play volleyball with him and some of the other kids from my school. Whether it was due to my tall, lanky frame or my apparent distress, he took me under his wing throughout that summer. From the first game—which, all things considered, I didn’t do terrible—volleyball became my refuge. It was an oasis in an otherwise barren existence. I guess I just needed to know I had a place in the world. The sunshine and scantily clad women didn’t hurt either.

After I graduated, having played varsity for two years, Mr. Randolph insisted on two things. One, I call him Doug. And two, I play as his doubles partner on Saturday mornings at Del Mar beach until he passed five years ago.

I’d hardly missed more than a couple of weeks over those 30 years, at least until I sprained my knee a few months before. In my 20’s and 30’s, I could have returned much sooner, but the persistent ache kept me tied to my couch. It was physically, emotionally, and existentially unbearable.

On the day of my return, I dropped my bag next to court one, pulled up my knee brace, and looked for Sid, my regular partner, who assured me over the phone that he hadn’t moved on. Through the whipping flags, I spotted him playing on Court 3 with a fit young thing sporting a two-piece and a wedgie.

He saw me and waved timidly.

“Didn’t think you’d make it.”

“I’m only five minutes late,” I said between outstretched arms.

He didn’t give me a second glance. His eyes had already returned to his partner’s bent body. Then, as if burning with guilt, he turned back to me.

“You’re going to have to scrounge the scrap-pile for a partner,” he shouted. “Sorry,” he added weakly, “I got you next week.”

I swatted the air in front of me. Five of the courts had games running. Another court had two pairs volleying as a warm-up, but I noticed a couple standing together on the furthest court, the one nearest the ocean. They were setting back and forth, and when the ball slipped away from the woman, the man scoured the fringes in the unmistakable sign he was looking for an opponent.

I waved him down, and he motioned me over while simultaneously calling out.

“You got a partner?”

I stopped mid-spring and walked my eyes through the smattering of bodies not engaged in play. Most appeared to be family members cajoled to come watch, acquiescing either out of guilt or boredom.

I noticed a stick-thin blade of adolescence standing near the open court. Perhaps good fortune was shining on my return after all. I gave the man a thumbs up. He nodded curtly, holding up four fingers to show how long he needed before returning to coach his female protégé, who tightened under her partner’s frigid expectations.

I felt for her, but it also reminded me of that nagging desire I had started feeling five years ago after Kathy left me single and childless two weeks after my 44th birthday—a chance to be something of a father-figure. And this, it seemed was a karmic opportunity to repay the universe and satisfy a profound longing.

“Hey,” I called out. A gust of wind choked the rest of my greeting, actually pushing me back by its sudden violence.

The teen pumped his head in acknowledgment. He lifted his sand-caked right foot and hovered it back and forth like a metal detector. His other shoe was also covered in beach. What was peculiar was that his grey shorts and red t-shirt carried the unmistakable heaviness of moisture.

I wanted to ask him if he’d been swimming, but asking such a question, even with a level tone, smacked of condescension. It wasn’t my business.

And I wanted to ask him why his clothes were so threadbare, but I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to ask me that as a teen. It wasn’t my fault then that my father spent my clothing money on his two loves. So, I didn’t need to know his situation. I just needed to know if he wanted to join me.

“You want to play?”

He smirked a little. His face puffed unnaturally compared to his frame. A purple tint hung sickly on his cheeks. I wondered if the cold hadn’t affected his body already.

“Yeah, sure,” he said with an excited whisper that fluttered for a moment before being carried with the wind.

His slight smile broke the frosty tightness of his face. It could have been my smile 30 years ago.

“You play?”

He nodded. “A little. Used to play in gym class and at family parties.”

“It’s a start. Why don’t you take off your shoes and we’ll warm up.”

The kid yanked off his heavy shoes. The immediacy of the action assured me he wanted to play, so I held out my hand. “My name’s Mike. What’s yours?”

“Gio.” He reached out and shook my hand timidly. His hands were frigid and wrinkled. I remembered thinking the first few bumps would sting him a little, but I hoped he’d be able to fight through it.

“Where you from?”

He winced and pointed weakly to the north-east. “’Bout ten minutes away.”

My question struck something sensitive, so I tried to recover. “What kind of stuff you interested in, Juan?”

“Oh, uh, I used to mess ‘round with cars. Play some sports with my friends.”

“Yeah? That’s cool. You working on one now?”

“Nah…”

He trailed off and nudged a pile of sand with his foot.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” I bent down and picked out my yellow and blue spiraled volleyball. I softly lobbed a suggestion at him to redirect his thoughts. “Let’s see what you got.”

With a quick poke from the bottom, I knocked the ball to the air. It arced toward him. But as it peaked in its flight, a helicopter emerged from behind the bluffs, rising over the floating volleyball. My eyes focused on the helicopter, which made it seem as if the ball fell through Juan.

A thud faintly resounded from the heavily packed sand at his feet. He made no motion to hit it. Perhaps he was also taken aback by the helicopter’s sudden appearance and its cackling speakers, out of which a voice sputtered through the blades.

“Sev…six…red…shorts…wanted…if…911.”

The helicopter continued to circle. Police helicopters aren’t uncommon by the beaches and in the neighborhoods of Southern California. The only question is whether they are searching for a victim or a perp.

“Seventeen…foot…shirt. Gray shor…seen, call.”

I followed the helicopter for three loops, trying to decipher its message.

“Emerg…91…do not…”

The man with sunglasses broke my concentration.

“Yo, you going to play or what?” he called from the other side of the net.

I glared back at Sunglasses. He was as abrasive to me as he was demanding to his partner, which chaffed me all the more.

This stretch of courts was holy ground, set aside for communion with the grains of sand. I went to mellow my forceful, would-be-opponent, but Sunglasses broke his gaze from me to something over my left shoulder. Two uniformed officers had made their way to our court and now stood waiting to address us.

“Morning, officers,” Sunglasses said.

The officers nodded. The largest of the two spoke first.

“We’re looking for a teen. Hispanic. About six-three, wearing grey shorts, a red shirt, and black shoes. He was last seen by the cliffs half-mile north from here. Name’s Gio Garcia. Any chance you’ve seen anything?”

I twisted my torso to the spot where the teen had stood. Stunned, I only found my ball sagging in the sand. I turned back to the officers with my mouth hanging open. The salty wind plugged my voice.

“Nothing yet,” Sunglasses responded. My eyes clenched in confusion. After all, I had spent the last four minutes with someone of the same description. My body carried the icy wind through all the channels of my being. Sunglasses turned to his partner, then back to the uniformed officers. “But we’ll let you know if we do.”

They nodded, then trudged along the perimeter, stopping occasionally to ask other players if they’d see the very teen I had just claimed as my partner.

I spun to the rocks, to the clusters of people, to the ocean, searching for the kid named Gio, the teen with the purple, puffy face and wet clothes that had only seconds ago stood on my patch of sand. There was nowhere to go except for the walls of water violently rising offshore, which were precarious even for the most capable swimmers.

Through the haze of my stupor, an outline of footprints was the only vestige I found of that mysterious teen. But each shoe-shaped crater disappeared until nothing was left but packed sand.

Whether they had led to the water or out, I will never know.

“Hey man. You’ve been standing there by yourself for five minutes,” Sunglasses shouted through the wind and distant chopper, “Find a partner or get out of the way.”