It was the summer of '76, and Dad and I were at the cafeteria at the Navy Base Exchange talking over a couple of Cokes. With his deployment schedule, Dad was gone for half the year, and these moments alone with him were a rare treat. We were talking about the Bicentennial and the celebratory atmosphere that was sweeping over the entire country. Six-year-old me didn't understand the concept.
"Well, in a few weeks, the country is having a birthday party." Dad had my attention. I liked birthday parties. "And this is a special one because America will be 200 years old." His face scrunched up to accentuate the age bit.
"Whoa. That's really old." He laughed at that.
"Yeah, son, I guess for people it is."
It was late May in South Mississippi. School was almost out. Dad was home from deployment. And I was living my best life as he and I went fishing every weekend.
Our favorite places were "The Rocks" in Long Beach and the concrete breakwater in Pass Christian Harbor. Once, after we were done for the day out in Pass Christian, we made our way off the structure. I was looking forward to the cold can of Nestle Iced Tea that we both always got at the convenience store up the lane when I looked down and saw my shoelace untied.
Dad was hauling the bucket with our catch, and I was responsible for our tackle box and my own rod. I set these down on the walkway to deal with my shoe, but as I finished, I nudged my rod the wrong way. I wasn't fast enough, and I watched it fall in slow motion into the water 11 feet below.
I must have yelled out because Dad turned and saw me lying on the concrete grasping over the edge towards the water. He took in the scene and ran to me. I was bawling. "Wayne, it's OK. It's just a fishing rod."
But I was inconsolable. Six-year-old me couldn't articulate what was going through my head. Yes, it was just a rod, but it was my fishing rod. Dad bought it for me, and in every memory I had of going fishing with him, I was using it. And when you don't see your dad for half the year, anything associated with a memory of him becomes inordinately more precious.
Dad looked down at his kid holding his head in his hands. Maybe, even though I didn't say a word, he sensed what I was thinking. He stood and told me to stay put in that exact spot. With that, he walked to the head of the breakwater, picked his way through the boulders down to the water, and jumped in.
I was not expecting that. He swam to the point where I was on the structure, looked up at me, smiled, and dove down. When he came up, though, the smile was gone. He dove down several more times but ultimately couldn't retrieve my rod.
When we got home, Mom saw Dad and almost shrieked. That snapped me out of my own fog, and I turned and saw what Dad's efforts cost him. Because of wave action or the wakes of boats leaving the marina, Dad was repeatedly pushed against the barnacle-encrusted concrete pilings of the breakwater. He had deep gashes all over his torso. The immense sadness I'd felt prior was now coupled with immense guilt. And I started sobbing again.
The next day was one of the last days of first grade. What should have been a happy carefree time was anything but because of yesterday's events. I got home and walked through the front door. "Hey, Wayne!" I turned and saw Dad sitting on the couch, wiping down a fishing rod.
Not a new one, but my rod. The same one he'd bought me when we were stationed in Maryland. The one we'd taken on all our outings. The one I'd associated with many of my fondest memories to that point.
"What? How?"
Smiling, he said he'd picked up a small grappling hook and a length of line at the Exchange and headed back to the breakwater. He'd spent the morning tossing the hook attempting to snag my fishing rod. He succeeded and was just now reassembling my reel after he'd cleaned and oiled it.
I just looked at him. Right then, I decided my dad could do absolutely anything in the world.
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