Confront the Fear

One evening as we sat on the beach sipping rum, we saw a boy standing at the lapping edge of the water, crying and tiptoeing onto the damp sand, but turning back at the first touch of water. A plastic bag thrown in by an older person, presumably a father, sank, shining faintly white under the dark water.

I turn to my British mates, one a junior highschool chemistry teacher and the other a sardonic computer guy who used to rock dreads, and wonder what's going on over there. The boy's plaintive cries reach our ears, and I stand up, resolute to sate my curiosity.

"I'm going to help him," I say, draining my dixie cup. I roll up my pant cuffs and saunter over.

The boy stands barechested wearing boardshorts past his knees. His belly bulges slightly, unaware yet of the idea of the sixpack.

"Qué pasó? Qué pasó, chico?" I call.

"La bolsa," he blubbers, tear-streaked cheeks glinting in the moonlight as he points at the bag. "I need to get it. Swim to get it."

"Porqué?" I ask.

"Mi padre...la bolsa...pescados...enojado!" he wails, little-kid Spanish fading into incomprehensibility.

"Tranquilo, chico," I urge, biting back laughter. We'd speculated this was some sort of rite of passage or cajolery by his dad to get him past a fear of water.

"Hay aguas malas y no puedo nadar," he whimpers. Bad scary water lay just a few feet past the submerged bag, surface hidden by shadows from shore.

"Tienes miedo?" I know how to deal with kids' fear. He nods dramatically, clasping his hands in front of himself after flapping them once in consternation.

"You can do it," I say, stepping into the surf. "Mira, I am going to come in with you. Then you can go?" He nods again, venturing into the gently curling water. By this time, the bag has drifted deeper, lulled by a riptide.

"No tenemos mucho tiempo," I warn; better get it now. I know he wants me to reach in and get it for him, but I think we both know that could never happen. Prime Directive sort of ideal. Minimize direct influence. I coax him in further, water lapping up my rolled pantlegs (These good old pants! I shall miss their constant greasy company!) He comes within a finger's breadth of snagging the prize, earning steep praise from his father, the gruff sort of approval boys live and die for.

"Ah, very close." He backs off, and looks up at me dolefully. "Try another time." You can do it, you are strong. Mira, your arms. Flex. Musculos. I pop my biceps and he grins, pointing at his own wiry upper arm. But mine's soft, he whines. My god, how to explain the mechanics of muscle movement to a little Colombian niño, barely old enough to blow his own nose? I get the point across, and he concedes that he is big and strong.

"I will be right here," I promise, "if anything mal happens."

He ventures forth again. Shit, the bag's drifted much more. He's in gentle high-tide swells up to his armpits. At this point, he might not get the bag. But gah! so close. Come on, little man, you can do this. Be strong. Quick! I send mental blasts of telegrams, but my accuracy is off, and he backs off again, pulling at my arm.

"Por favor!" he cries, "won't you get it señor?" I realize with amusement that he's calling me usted. It sounds different, more genuine from a boy of five than from an ingratiating street vendor. Alas, I cannot. If this is a test from your pops and I ruin it, I'd never forgive myself for contributing among other things to the pussification of the next generation. My friend, I tell him silently, if you can't get it now, you will next time.

He gives up, and we turn back. The older guy who'd thrown the bag in turns out to be the waiter/owner of the restaurant where we'd just eaten pizza, and in fact is the boy's father.

"Muy cerca," I shrug. He almost had it.

"Ge got closer when you were there than before," he smiles, "He has made progress with your help."

I laugh at the praise, embarrassed. "I remember when I was five, how scary the world was."

"Si," he nods.

"Proxima vez," I suggest. Next time. They both agree, and Papi scoops up the shivering boy in a towl and bears him toward the house and an awaiting bowl of soup.