Dad Paddles In
- Oct 28, 2022
- 1 min read
by Teddy Engs
When Dad paddles in I’m like thank God, no more sitting alone on this stupid beach, no more squinting against the violent sea-glare, no more trying to will him from his endless catch-a-wave-then-paddle-back-out cycle, counting down from ten, counting up from one, pleading let this be the last one let this be the last one each time a wave suggests itself on the horizon, but now, as Dad bellyrides the whitewater, dismounts in the shallows, marches against the yanking tide, I imagine the car ride home, the questions about why I quit so early, why I look like I’m about to cry, I imagine the smack of his first beer, the stink of his eighth, and wonder if there is a way to freeze the moment when he has crested his final wave, sits contemplating whether to go for one more or call it for the day, then actually calls it for the day, I wonder if there is a way to freeze that exact moment and make it my Dad, my whole Dad, a Dad who’s constantly paddling towards, but never reaching me.
Teddy Engs is a writer and musician living in Portland, Oregon. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Split Lip, and Pithead Chapel. Find him on Twitter @WardoEngs.
