Our Dad and the Sea

our dad and the sea

tan and lean we’d follow him,
voice and gait he’d guide us in, past
rocky cliffs, down canyon path,
all barefoot clad, we loved our dad.

on a secret beach far from home,
under the hawks and feathered clouds,
on tar crossed sand, against the wind,
boys girls him, all played to win.

there the ocean knew and called us in,
the dolphins, seals and pelicans,
the rush of waves, the feel of kelp,
the glow that lingers on the skin.

then time for fire, wood from the sea
and drinks kept cold in holes dug near,
his songs to sing and stories tell,
of “mice and men” and “gunga din”.

we’d gather round and wait our turn for
chile, hot tortillas crisp, and butter brown
charred slathered things, warmed by the
flames, we’d find our rock and then "dig in".

before dusk approached and wind grew
cold, we’d hear about the brave and true,
by his voice from memory or book,
of those who gave and those who took

till the sun burned orange horizon red and
the cliffs threw shadows, and the tide crept in,
we’d live in his stories and forget about his sins,
to love him forever, for a thousand things.

without a clock, the time would come
to pack up our stories, and all we brought in.
dusted with sand and marked with tar,
we’d trek up, seemed forever, to the car.

at the old rail trestle at the end of the climb,
we’d turn to look back to our dad and the sea,
and the moment lingered, as the sunset glimmered,
and we’d gather in the moment, one more time.

still long years after, from the trestle I hear, white
waves gently splashing, and voices draw near,
and then climbs a vision, tan lean and together, in
bright saltwater colors, all us and ever,

our dad and the sea.