The Tragic Tale of the Windsurfer

It was eighteen summers ago and an afternoon like any other at the summer place. The wind stirred up the sea, churning the waves into a froth and slamming them against the rocky shore. Colorful sailboats glided past, racing up and down the river. I could hear the familiar flapping of the American flag at the Point, agitated by increasing westerly winds.

While the children played in a neighbor’s yard, I walked back to the house. The boughs of the maple trees were fanning the hot and humid air.

A short time later, my thirteen-year-old daughter shouted, “Mom!” as she bolted up the wooden stairs. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she told me that she had rounded the curve near the ocean’s edge and spotted something in the water. It appeared to be a black trash bag, flotsam being hurled back and forth in the tide.

Climbing down the steep bank, she investigated. A man in a wet suit floated in the foam. Terrified, she stumbled up the rocky shore, calling for help.

At first the neighbors didn’t notice. A beach is a noisy place, where yells of children echo as they jump the waves or play games in the sand. However, her persistent screams finally alerted neighbors who rushed to the seashore. Two men pulled the battered body of a windsurfer from the water. He was dead.

For hours the lifeless body lay in the sand. First, the paramedics came, running from their van, equipment in hand, to the black, wet-suited body. Glancing at him, they turned, walked slowly to the truck and drove away.

Then the press arrived, interviewing witnesses and videotaping the body lying on the deserted beach at dusk. Finally, they too left; and all that remained was a solitary officer standing vigil over the nameless windsurfer who was not taken from his resting place until nightfall.

For over twenty years I had been a summer resident on this tiny piece of earth that jutted into the sea. When I thought of my summer home, I pictured dazzling sunsets and shimmering waves. But from now on my memory would be altered. My mind would conjure up the image of the windsurfer lying in the sand.

Our neighbor said that he would never forget the man’s disfigured face as he pulled him from the surf. The image haunted his sleep. I worried about my daughter. Would the memory haunt her as well? I know that traumatic experiences like this one remain hidden until triggered by some word or thought and resurrected.

Following tradition, a few weeks’ later my family celebrated the Fourth of July at the water’s edge. The bonfire was lit, and the residents gathered around enjoying the fireworks’ display across the bay. I watched the children who sat together at the shore and noticed they were sitting on the same spot where the body had been. They had forgotten.

Although I will never forget the windsurfer, I believe that there is something about the ocean that heals. I have faith in God, and it is this belief in a Higher Power that helps me reconcile myself to the tragic loss of the unknown windsurfer. I know that he is in a better place and that the sea was just his port of entry.

ABOUT SEA, SKY & SPIRIT: Drawing from the many seasonal faces of Fogland, Linda Andrade Rodrigues paints vignettes about nature and spirituality.