Not Every Beach Story is Fun Under the Sun — Conflict and Scotch
Normally, my stories about family vacations down in Belmar, New Jersey are lighthearted and usually involve a lot of drinking stories ( on my part) or reliving memories.
This isn’t one of those stories.
This past Saturday, the afternoon was hot. The water was great, and our group took several trips back and forth between the waves and the camp of umbrellas, blankets, coolers and chairs we set up.
All week we commented on the number of sirens we had heard. Each day, a siren wailed every hour or so, as ambulances and firetrucks raced up and down the streets. That was the reason we made no comment when, while on the beach, a new siren cut the air.
However, when several police officers on foot, and two more on dune buggies, raced passed us, we finally noticed.
We set up on 10th Ave. and the police headed toward the now noticeable crowd on 8th. I put on my sandals and walked toward whatever caused this commotion.
With all that is happening in this country, videos of fights between the police and citizens, I figured I was about to witness the newest version of the next viral video. Those thoughts were reinforced as shouts of “GET BACK! GET BACK!” filled the air.
I was wrong.
It took me a second to reset the image I had in my head to what was in front of me. A ring of police officers, and lifeguard personnel, stood atop newly formed mounds of sand. The lifeguards, each with a metal shovel, furiously dug at the walls of this immense hole that appeared in the sand. A police officer, upside down in the hole, his legs held by another officer, reached down for something.
Or someone.
I don’t know for certain the beginning of this story, how this hole came to be, but as I stood there, I picked up bits and pieces. A boy and his father dug the hole, what thousands of father and sons have done at the beach for decades. And now somehow, the boy was inside the sand. Not sure if he was submerged, or how far down he was. All I knew was he was far enough away that an inverted police office with arms outstretched could not reach him.
A man, on his knees, arms wrapped across the back of his neck, made guttural sounds, rocked back and forth in front of me.
That was the dad.
A woman, who also made indistinguishable cries, broke free from the woman who had embraced her, raced across the sand and hit the kneeing man repeatedly, who made no defense.
That was the mom.
Once the parents were separated, nothing else seemed to change; the same actions repeated provided no results. Sand flew as the lifeguards tried to remove every particle on the beach to save this kid.
Then a second officer was lowered, in reverse, into the hole. That’s when they called for water bottles. Within the crowd, water bottles appeared as if by magic, like everyone watching had a bottle hidden behind their ear.
Again, not sure why, but my assumption was that the boy’s face needed to be cleared, to clear the sand from his face. Again, my assumption — so he could breath.
I watched — and prayed — and I cried.
Suddenly, a man close to the police leapt into the air and yelled, “Yes!” and sporadic applause responded, but after a few more minutes all remained the same. Maybe he saw something I didn’t.
And then…
One of the rescuers reached into the hole, and withdraw a pair of small arms, followed by the face of a sleeping boy, then the whole body.
The crowd erupted for a second time.
Immediately they placed him on a small stretcher on the sand, a doctor crouched at his side. I could not see what was going on beyond that; my view blocked by the many spectators that stood between us.
On the third eruption of applauds I looked over, and the boy had raised his head on his own.
I walked away after that, having witnessed the beauty of a community of strangers doing the most amazing things — together.
Like I said, this was not one of my typical beach stories — this one was much, much better.
Photo by Steve Philip
Originally published at https://www.conflictandscotch.com on July 21, 2020.
