Tide Out, Tide In
by Paulette Demers Turco

Starfish glistened
in morning shade,
too many to count–
scattered about
the granite base
of Tiverton’s bait shop–
all askew,
below the tide line.

We heard Mom count
lined-up life jackets,
rolled-up towels,
lemonade,
the jam-packed cooler–
heavy with ice,
egg-salad sandwiches,
chocolate brownies
tucked inside.

Dad stood, knee-deep,
waves lapping,
guiding the boat
from trailer to cove,
bumpers knocking
against the dock.

My brother folded
slackened line
onto the dock cleat–
bow and stern–
carefully locking
each with a flip knot,
a figure eight.

Fuel was low.
Old Stone Bridge
was our first stop,
past the cormorants,
sunning themselves
on promontories,
wings outstretched
after a dive.

Dad filled the tanks
and walked the length
of the wooden pier
to pay for gas.

A light breeze blew
in from the bay,
yet tidal currents
nudged the bow
just enough
for Mom to lose
her grip and slip.
She dropped, feet first.

We kids watched
her plunge below
the rippling flow.

Screaming like gulls,
throwing cushions
overboard,
we watched blue squares
bump along
on rolling waves,
far from the spot
where Mom fell in.

We screamed until
we saw Dad running
across the boards,
our boat still tethered
by the stern.
He dove head first,
as if he knew
where Mom would be–
disappearing
close to the pilings
supporting the pier.

Mom’s head bobbed up.
Soon, Dad’s did too,
as he helped her
approach the boat,
keeping both
of them afloat.

They seemed so calm
climbing the ladder.
Once aboard,
while bandaging
the bloody shin
Dad had scraped
across the barnacles
on his dive in,

Mom proudly told us
how, when falling
deeper, deeper
down, she thought
of Lloyd Bridges’
scissoring legs
for ocean dives
on Sea Hunt,
on TV 10.

That day, we kids
taught Mom how
to dog paddle, float.
Dad dug for quahogs.
We fished for flounder
in reed-filled shallows.

Back at the dock,
the sun was low,
the tide near high–
the starfish shimmered.



 

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