Jelly Fish

As Dad and I strolled arm in arm on the beach in Santa Cruz, the purple debris focused more clearly. Jellyfish! Billions of them washed upon the sand by last night's storm. I caught myself before blurting out, "Gee, that was quite the gang bang." That wouldn't be appropriate to say to my father.

Being an inlander, Dad had never seen a jellyfish, much less touch it with the toe of his shoe. The gelatinous goo, about the size of a pile of dog doo and almost as conscious, jiggled in keeping with its namesake. He laughed a bit as he gazed over this spectacle.

A pair a middle-aged women passed us, leaving a trail of deep Burkenstock prints in the wet sand. One of them snarled, "They're probably protesting the dredging in the bay." And off they went, together, in their outrage.

I looked at Dad and he seemed a bit confused. Life had started to confound him about a year ago, so I was glad he could visit before I lost him completely. Then he looked at me and shrugged. I smiled wanly and said, "Welcome to Santa Cruz, Dad."

He grew up in an era when a lot of families had a kitchen garden and some chickens. His family was wealthy enough to have a cow for a short time. Fishing and hunting deer was more about the winter supply of meat rather than sport. So, Nature was no stranger to him.

He gazed over the dying jellyfish and huffed again with his ironic laugh. He undoubtedly guessed these tiny beings weren't able to organize and carry out a protest. They didn't really have much control over their presence on the beach. It was more a dilemma than political action. I knew what he wanted to say, but he'd lost the capacity to say it with the comic rhythm he'd once owned.

It looked like it was going to rain again. I could feel Dad shiver a bit with the damp cold. He was no longer the robust man of my youth. I hugged his arm and turned us around toward the car and home. Two idiosyncrasies of Santa Cruz were enough for one day … for both of us.