There's nothing to fear. There never is, not really.

She laid back against the white sand and breathed in the salty air. No one was there. It was an undiscovered beach, thus far. She wasn’t sure how long that would last, now that he was gone. And then, the memories of her father inundate her.

 

He lifts her onto his shoulders and carries her, kicking and screaming, to the salty water where he dunks her in without a second thought. She had been four at the time, and hadn’t wanted her hair to get wet. “Stop! Stop! St--mmmffgh!” She hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the day.

 

She closes her eyes as she feels the tears begin to stream down her face. She doesn’t notice that it has begun to rain.

 

The next time they go back, she is fourteen and far more mature. They sit, side by side, on the gorgeous sand and watch the waves come up to the shore and then pull back, bringing their loot with them: shells, small creatures, sand, and--just barely--the two solemn spectators, sitting near the shore and feeling the gentle waves gather them in. “Sit still,” he had said, “And you’ll feel yourself being pulled into the water.” At her panicked glance, he added, “But slowly. It will be slow. The water is gentle. Don’t fear it, Ara. There’s nothing to fear. There never is, not really.”

 

Is the water pulling her in now? She doesn’t think it is. It seems as though everything has stopped--as though the beach itself understands that something precious has been lost, and cannot bring itself to go on without it.

 

They go back every summer after that. They never build sandcastles or make much noise or splash around in the water. Each year, they simply sit on the beach and watch. When she is eighteen and has seen more of the world than her father had ever wanted her to, she asks him, “Why do you love this place so much, Papa?” He glances at her and sees her brushing the sand off of some seashells she has collected with delicate fingers, placing them in the sand before her. He is not concerned. He knows that she will place the shells back in the water before she leaves; she knows better than to disturb this sacred place. “It’s clean.” She glances at the white sand around her and the clear blue water before her, then looks back at her father. He smiles. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

She is twenty-five now, and this is the first time she has been to this hallowed ground without her father. And as the rain drips down her skin, it carries away the unimportant things--the real ones. And with tears still falling down her face, mingling with raindrops, she opens her eyes, looks around, and realizes that her father was right. This is the cleanest place she has ever been. And when she turns and sees her father sitting beside her once again, and he nods towards the sand to show her that it is, indeed, still pulling her in, she is not in the least bit surprised.

Reviews

[RainQueen]

What an incandescently beautiful write. The fear Ara conquered of the sea, her father's gentle lessons, his everlasting presence when she faces the waves she so painstakingly conquered...This one begs for the publisher. One of the very best short stories I have ever read.