Safe Suicide

Rescue

Rescue My wife and grown daughter had decided we should have a family outing to the beach. I agreed, reluctantly, having teaching work to catch up with that weekend. Our son, Dave at fifteen, was all the more reluctant. Ruth, twentytwo , had her apartment with friends across Boston. She was visiting us at home in Watertown before leaving for one of her trips. She tried charming Dave in his room, where he was playing a computer game, but somehow the charm attempt resulted in a fight. He refused to go. Then I announced that I was going, and just as we were leaving the house, he grumpily agreed to come along. We all went, car loaded with cooler with drinks and sandwiches, towels, Frisbee, books, sunglasses, portable CD player, portable radio. The objective was a beach that Ruth had taken David to several times with her older friends. Dave enjoyed it there. I worried about public access and where to park, but they said not to worry, they knew the tricks. White Horse Beach, Williston. Through unfamiliar routes and traffic, we found our way there, an hour from home. Off a crowded, local street, we pulled into a private parking lot. “Everybody parks here. Don’t worry,” Ruth assured me. Given the heat, I felt lucky to find a space in the shade. We climbed out, unloaded—me carrying the cooler and towels, Connie with her bag, Ruth with towels, Dave with the radio–and headed for the beach, which I couldn’t see yet. Ruth led the way, plodding through hot sand, then up wooden steps and out of sight. Connie and David followed, with me trailing after. What were these crowded beach cottages, practically window to window? We seemed to be trespassing. TV noises. Leaving the board path, I followed through sand on past open screened windows, turned a corner between cottages, and there was the ocean front, a coarse, kelp-strewn beach, perhaps some thirty yards sloping to the surf, with scattered bathers settled on towels, blankets, and beach chairs. Ruth was already staking territory that I thought might belong to the nearest cottage. A man and woman were watching from aluminum loungers in the sand nearby, shaded by its porch. 153 154 safe suicide The breeze flapped Ruth’s beach towel. Connie helped her to spread it and anchor the corners. We settled down, en famille. The sun was hot and burning, but the breeze was brisk and the water too cold for swimming. I’m not a fan of beaches. Other than my jogging, if that (depending on how flat the beach), there is nothing to do. I can’t concentrate on reading in bright sunlight and a high breeze. Ruth and David enjoyed showing their bodies off and attempted a Frisbee catch at first, then quit and tried the water. Connie was happy just to bask. I peeled off my windbreaker, shirt, and sandals and headed after my children. Dave was waist deep in the surf shouting and howling. Ruth had gone under and tried a few crawl strokes, then stood and waded back, hugging herself and shaking her head. Of course I thought it was just a matter of getting wet as always, take the plunge and before long my body would adjust. But this was numbing cold, biting. Waves rose and broke against my thighs. To my right, Dave turned and waded back then ran to follow Ruth. No one was braving this water, so I retreated too. I had counted only three maybe four bathers. Two teenagers far out, maybe fifty yards, swimming, playing with a raft. Another one or two figures wading. All up and down the beach, hardly anyone was in the water. I picked my way back to our blanket and towels. The people in loungers right behind us seemed to pay no mind. A man stood with them talking on a cell phone. I was hunkered down. Ruth and David were teasing each other, chattering over David’s music; Connie was trying to interest them in food, sandwiches, cans of soda, apples from the cooler. Then we settled into languid idleness. Connie was sleeping. Ruth was with David on a larger towel, drying her hair. Against the wind, the vista of slate ocean, the breakers, my eyes followed one or two sailboats far off shore and one motorboat that came in nearer and kept cutting back and forth, slapping the waves, a low, open outboard, with a...