thanksgiving

After all, what do I have to be thankful for?

This summer, I sailed with my wife and daughter to a tiny sheltered cove for a few days of quiet family time. On the boat were my sister and her husband, their two boys, and our skipper — my father in law. The boat was the same sturdy lady of adventure that had seen my wife and her family safely across the Pacific nearly twenty years ago, back around the first time she and I were dating.

I say quiet family time, but quiet is a subjective term. Between my 2 year old and my nephews, 8 and 6, the quiet was more luddite than serene. Let’s say instead that I had left the job at home.

We threw in a crab trap. We kayaked. We barbecued. We made the biggest splashes we could off the rope swing.

It was sunny. Warm. The water was brisk but not unbearable. Cold enough that my ring felt loose on my finger. Standing on the dock and awaiting my turn on the rope, I pulled off my ring, thinking I would tie it to the drawstring on my suit for safety.

Come on. It was a good idea.

It pops free of my cold, wet fingers. It arcs, flashing, through the air. It bounces once, twice, and it’s gone. Neat as you please, right between the boards.

My first thought? “This, my friend, is why people buy insurance. Remember how we keep meaning to do that? You are a stupid man. A stupid, stupid man.”

I eye the distance to shore. I reckon that the water here is probably, what, twenty feet deep at lowest tide. Maybe I can scare up a mask and some fins. I might get lucky. In the deep, soft, silty sand. I might get really lucky.

She’ll forgive me, right? She’s such a sweet and kind lady. Like this story. And this story.

Stupid accident. It happens. Let it go.

I lay down flat on the dock, peering between the 2×10 planks. I stare hard into the emerald green water. Is that the bottom? Maybe? I think that might be the bottom.

Maybe thirty feet. It can’t be forty. Can it?

I sigh. I know I’m going to dive anyway. I can’t not try. For the rest of the day. And again tomorrow. This is my new thing that I do. I dive for my ring. And that line of thinking is depressing because I know perfectly well that when the tide turns, that heavy ring is going to gradually, relentlessly burrow deep into its snug new home. Precious.

As I lie there thinking about how you can apparently buy insurance online in about fifteen minutes, my brother in law comes wandering down the dock. He wonders what I’m doing. I tell him. To his credit, his eyes bug out a little but he does not crack a smile.

He offers me his headlamp. I shine it bottom-ward. Its three brave little LEDs don’t count for much in broad daylight. The gorgeous jade water is my Great Wall of China. Impenetrable. Insurmountable. A real pain in the ass.

The conversation in my head:

How long are you going to lie here, staring into the ocean?

Until I relax enough to let the Force flow through me and I can slurp that ring right back up where it belongs, I suppose. Why?

We’ve tried that before.

And?

Hey, I’m not judging. I’m just saying.

Not helping.

Neither is this.

Ok, we gotta make a move. How much do you think it would cost to rent some scuba gear?

You want to take the boat back to the mainland, rent gear from a shop open on the long weekend, come back out here, and dive for your ring?

It’s a plan.

Are we really having this conversation?

I have my scuba ticket. And I bet the ring is, like, right there.

You are not taking the boat and probably everybody back to the mainland on a mission to rescue your ring. Suck it up. You lost your ring in an accident so clichéd that no one is ever going to believe this story. In fact, I don’t even know why I’m talking to you, you are so stupid.

That seems a little harsh.

…

Hello?

…

Fine.

…

Eventually, I get the hint that I’m not coming back. I start to push myself up off the deck–

Wait.

Wait a sec.

Right there. Below the planks but…

On that crossbeam there? That two inch wide crossbeam? Below which is all the depth and breadth of the mighty Pacific Ocean? That two inch wide toothpick of lumber?

Is that…?

Don’t be (more) stupid. It’s the top of a pipe or something. A dirty quarter. A bottle cap.

Just a bottle cap.

Damn.

Still…

I roll up to my knees and wave my brother in law over. I hand him the light and ask, ever so casually, what he thinks that little circle of silver light might be.

He lays down and aims the light. Seconds tick by. He looks up. He advises me that every ounce of luck I was ever going to experience in this life just got cashed out.

While I carefully plot the exact location of what I caution myself is just a bottle cap, my brother in law goes in search of some leverage. I find him searching the toolshed with one of the caretakers of the lagoon. Not usually here this weekend, the caretaker says. Just happened to have the time off and thought I’d swing by. Good thing I remembered the keys. He hands us a couple of wrecking bars. I promise to be gentle, and whatever damage we do I will happily cover. He offers to help.

We will pry up a couple planks. Gently. I glare at a dopey golden retriever as he lopes heavily by. Every vibration is The Bell tolling the death knell of my (probably just a bottle cap) wedding ring.

I commandeer my brother in law’s wrecking bar so that it’s (more) my fault if that (bottle cap) ring topples off its precarious perch.

The boards come up. He reaches in. I hold my breath. It’s farther down than we thought. He lurches lower and I probably make a girlish sound of terror.

He stands, wipes it off, and hands me my wedding ring.

From the boat, my wife, just woken from her nap, climbs up to the deck. Hi guys. What’s up?

I am thankful for so many things.