February 24, 2004

• I'm thinking about my life, and the image that comes to mind is:

  When I was a little kid, the family would sometimes go to the beach. We lived in Houston, and Galveston was just down the road. We'd go out on the island and down to the seawall.

  The seawall was created after a hurricane eroded a significant chunk of Galveston away. It's a huge strip of concrete about 20 feet high, straight as a ruler. Long jetties made of concrete chunks push out into the Gulf every couple hundred yards, perpendicular to the seawall. There's a road along the wall, on the high side, called Seawall Boulevard. Along Seawall Blvd., there are innumerable hotels and motels, and restaurants, and places to rent bikes and skates and buy t-shirts with the word 'Galveston' on them.

  I remember the whole family crammed into a motel room along the seawall. I think it was spring or fall, since it wasn't oppresively hot, and the breeze off the Gulf through the motel room's open door felt good. I remember pouring a Coke into one of those little glasses, with ice from the machine down the hall. Sipping the Coke, because it felt so much more civilized coming from a glass instead of the can.

  I remember crossing the boulevard and going down the steps to the beach. Feeling the power of the waves tossing me up and down. Swimming out to where my brother and sister were, where it was only barely too deep for me to stand, though they didn't have any problem. Just out of control, but in control enough to body-surf back to the shore. Stretch out and do a little half dive, catching the wave, paddle in between, and stretch out again for the next one.

  When I got back to shore, I sat in a squat, loosely curled up, arms around my knees, in relatively shallow water. My feet were swallowed up by the wet sand, and that felt reassuring, anchored and boyant.

  Eventually, I followed my dad and brother out onto the jetty. We made our way out to the tip, where people were fishing. We could see people on the closest jetty, the one to the west. There were some teenagers out there diving off, and I remember my brother arguing with dad about wanting to do the same thing. Nothing doing. I wanted to do it, too. I thought about just jumping off and seeing what happened, but it occurred to me that maybe I should have more of a plan than that.

  I've read some people's memoirs, and they always have very detailed accounts of episodes like this one. They have dialogue and characterization and gravity. I couldn't begin to remember if my brother was serious about diving, and I can't remember what sort of disipline dad gave. I can't remember if it was spring or fall, and I'm only down to those two guesses through deduction. I remember the feeling of the ocean throwing me around, and feeling truly insignificant. I remember the seawall, the road, the motel, the Coke. I remember the set, but not the dialogue, the sense but not the people.

  What I remember the most, though, is that feeling of my feet being held in the sand, of being gently boyed by an ocean so powerful it had to be held back by a seawall.

  Update: Old postcards of Galveston, The 'Robert's Rules Of Order'/Galveston seawall connection, Bruce Sterling and future storms, and finally, an actual decent picture of the seawall and a jetty.

  • 8:39 am
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