Carmela Russo loved the ocean, loved its predictable tides, its pounding waves, its perfect lulls.  So on promising summer Saturdays her husband, Gaetano, would rise even earlier than usual to water his tomatoes.   Then he’d carefully pack their ’49 Plymouth station wagon—an old Woodie that wouldn’t be hurried anywhere.  Mr. Russo would stuff it with the paraphernalia of the beach:  blankets, towels, beach umbrella, suntan oil, bathing suits, sweatshirts, rafts, radio, and food, more food than could be eaten at home but which never seemed enough on those beach days when the salt air turned everyone ravenous, especially me .  No matter how many sandwiches Carmela offered, I always had room for another, and then another.

Growing up in an Italian family, I learned at an early age the great significance of food.  Food to me was like the rosary to the black-garbed grandmothers—I worked my way through it with calm fervor and passionate commitment, trying to fill an emptiness I couldn’t name.

I’m not sure if it was my father’s friendship with Mr. Russo or my own with the Russo girls that made them include me on their trips to the New Jersey shore, but for as long as I can remember when the Russos went to the beach, I went, too.  There are photographs of Christine and me at three years old, kissing like guppies on the sand.  Often I would spend the night at their house because of our early departure from Plainfield for Point Pleasant Beach, which is where Carmela preferred to go because she had been raised there and still had cousins who worked at Jenkinson’s Pavilion.

So early one Saturday morning in July—the hot sun rising into a cloudless sky over the heat-shimmering rooftops on St. Mary’s Avenue—we climbed into the Woodie to head down the shore.  As usual Christine, Jeannette, and I scrambled to the way-back.  Kneeling on the seat we could look out the big back window and wave to the people in cars driving behind us.

When Carmela got into the front passenger seat, bringing with her the huge bag of food just for the ride down, Mr. Russo started slowly backing out the narrow drive between the Russo’s house and their neighbor’s.  Just as he reached the Avenue, he suddenly jammed on the brakes, sending us flying towards the rear window.

“Whadda you tryin to do, get us all killed?”  Mr. Russo screamed into the rearview mirror, then turned to glare out the back window.

Standing there, directly in the middle of the driveway where it met the sidewalk, stood Mogwa and Ogwa, now clutching each other’s hands in the wake of Mr. Russo’s rage.  I never knew what Mogwa and Ogwa’s real names were.  I didn’t know as a child and I don’t know now. No one ever called them anything but Mogwa and Ogwa. Mogwa’s name could have been Michael, but the way it came out through his rebellious lips made it sound like Mogwa, so that's who he became.  Ogwa, whose long blonde curls made him look like a stained glass angel, could have been Arthur, but I’m only guessing.  What I know is that he had more trouble speaking than his twin brother, for when Ogwa spoke it was as if his mouth were a dark pit full of writhing snakes that fought to swallow whole each word before it could escape into the light.

As he stood with his brother in the driveway, Mogwa had his little, white transistor radio up on full volume, and out of it came the mellow sound of the Drifters singing “Under the Boardwalk:”

Oh, when the sun beats down and burns the tar up on the roof,

And your shoes get so hot you wish your tired feet were fire-proof,

Under the boardwalk, down by the sea, yeah,

On a blanket with my baby’s where I’ll be.

The twins were dressed identically in green plastic sunglasses, yellow bathing trunks, blue beach thongs, and glowing orange life jackets.  Donald Duck beach towels hung from around their necks.  Ogwa also had nose-plugs already clipped onto his nostrils.

Mr. Russo stared at them for so long without saying anything, his mouth open in disbelief, that a small smile of hope began to appear on Mogwa’s face and he said without stumbling, “Weah weddy to go.”  Then Ogwa smiled, too, and nodded his head eagerly.

“Oh my god,” Mr. Russo moaned.  Then he added, anger rising in his voice, “Who told them we was goin?  Christine, was it you?”

“Not me, Daddy,” Christine said quickly.

“Tony, was it you?”

“No way, Mr. Russo.” I said emphatically.

“I mighta known,” he said, now looking directly at Jeannette, scowling.  “What in god’s name possessed you to invite the dummies along?”

Jeannette’s big brown eyes flashed with anger:  “You said I could invite anyone I wanted.  And they’re not dummies, Daddy!  They’re my friends!”

“They’re not dummies?  Whadda you talkin about?  They go to Lincoln School, don’t they?”

His retort should have silenced her immediately, for we all knew what going to Lincoln School meant—it was the dumping ground of the city’s school system, and going there bore a stigma that couldn’t be denied.  Teachers used it as a threat; kids used it as a taunt.  The dark brick building itself had a foreboding, almost gothic look to it.  One of the oldest school buildings in the city, Lincoln sat in a rundown neighborhood bordering St. Mary’s Avenue.  Most of the other schools were surrounded with fields of neatly clipped grass, but Lincoln’s schoolyard was covered with stone, tiny black cinders that stung the flesh in a fall.  The playground out back bordered St. Mary’s Cemetery, adding to the dim atmosphere of the place.  Lincoln School looked like an old county jail or mental institution, and I guess in its way it was a bit of both.

“Well, do they go to Lincoln School or not?” Mr. Russo was smug now, knowing Jeannette had no way out.  They had these kind of arguments often, for Jeannette was as stubborn in her way as her father, and she wasn’t afraid of him.

“You know they do,” she said evenly, looking him straight in the eye. “But so does Mary Basso.”  This was her ace in the hole, for the entire neighborhood was outraged over Mary being sent to Lincoln.  Mary had gotten polio just before the Salk vaccine had been made available.  Now she walked with difficulty on crutches or rode in a wheelchair.  When she’d been assigned to Lincoln, Mr. Russo himself had said, “It’s a sin, that’s what it is.”

I figured Jeannette had won, so I leaned over to open a side door, but when Mr. Russo gave a warning growl, Mogwa and Ogwa turned away dejectedly.

“Wait,” called Carmela, who’d been silent until now.  The boys stopped immediately.  “Gaetano,” she said soothingly as she placed her hand over his, which was resting on top of the front seat.

“What?” he answered, avoiding her gaze.

“They’ve never been.  They’ve never once been to the ocean.  Never.”

“Never?” Mr. Russo was incredulous.

“Not once,” Carmela said.  “Let them come, Gaetano.”

He stared out the front window for what seemed like a long time.  I could see his face in the rearview mirror.  He looked like he was thinking of all the good reasons he had to say no, and I thought for sure he would refuse.  But when finally he turned toward her, his look had softened.

Carmela squeezed his hand and nodded at the twins, who quickly climbed in.

Mr. Russo said, “But we’d better go to Sandy Hook. It’s closer, in case we gotta come back quick, and there ain’t no boardwalk—less chance of Mogwa and Ogwa gettin in trouble.  Ya know what I mean?”  Carmela nodded her head. It was fine with her.

At Sandy Hook there was a national park with a lighthouse and miles of natural dunes topped with coarse grass where osprey built their nests.  By comparison with Point Pleasant Beach, the shore at Sandy Hook was wild and untamed.  Usually we went there off-season when the water was too cold for swimming and the boardwalk attractions in Point Pleasant had closed.  We’d go for a few hours to walk along the shore, throwing bits of bread to the gulls or searching for treasure in the debris at high-tide line.  We kids would race along the edge of the sea, playing tag with the waves washing up on shore.  Carmela and Mr. Russo would lag behind us, walking slowly arm-in-arm and talking quietly.  At times the ocean breeze would steal snatches of their conversation and carry them to us, wrapping these patchwork pieces of their adult lives about us like a reassuring quilt.  Together with the piercing cries of the gulls and our own excited shouts and laughter, there arose a sweet song that surely can be heard today somewhere in those ancient dunes.

AS WE DROVE out of Plainfield, Mogwa and Ogwa stared wide-eyed from behind their sunglasses.  Occasionally Ogwa would point to something.  I was never sure exactly what he’d seen, but Mogwa knew.  He’d nod his head and mutter as though naming what Ogwa had seen in a language known only to the twins.

We got on the Parkway at Iselin, so we didn’t hit a toll booth until the big plaza after the Raritan River Bridge.  The air was often murky there from the chemical plants that lined the river.  Once over the top of the bridge we looked for the Little Dutch Boy with his blue cap and smock and golden bangs.  This massive billboard figure proudly pointed at the giant cans of paint that arose from the marshes in front of the plant for Dutch Boy Paints.  It was a game we played: whoever spotted him first got to throw the quarter into the toll-booth basket.

“Dutch Boy!” Jeannette yelled in my ear.  I don’t know how she did it, but she usually won.  Christine or I got the quarter maybe one time in five.

When we approached the toll booths they were backed up already, long lines in every lane.  Cars zipped across lanes of traffic, jockeying for position in the fastest-moving lanes.  Mr. Russo, who was a slow and cautious driver, got cut off by a little red sports car.  He hit the horn hard and swore in Italian.  I could make out a few words but knew better than to comment.  The twins, however, laughed out loud and jumped up and down in their seats excitedly.

“Sit still!” Mr. Russo commanded.

Instantly the twins were still.

Then Ogwa pointed at the longest line, making a grunting noise.  He kept pointing and grunting louder and louder, until finally Carmela asked, “What does Ogwa want, Mogwa?”

“He say that one bettuh.”

Mr. Russo snorted his contempt.  “What’s he got sunstroke already? That’s the longest line in the whole plaza. I’m goin to the exact change lane, it always goes faster.”

“Ogwa knows,” Mogwa said simply.

“Yeah, sure,” Mr. Russo replied sarcastically.

No sooner had we pulled into the exact change lane, however, than a car six ahead of us overheated just as it got into the booth.  We all watched in exasperation as the cars in the lane Ogwa had pointed at moved steadily through their booth.

“Ogwa knows,” Mogwa repeated quietly.

Mr. Russo was steaming like the car blocking the lane, but he just fumed and said nothing.

The next toll plaza was as crowded as Raritan had been.  As we approached, Ogwa pointed and grunted until Mr. Russo drove into the correct lane.  We sailed on through while those in the other lanes languished in the long wait.

“How’s he do it?” asked Mr. Russo.  “How’s he know?”

Mogwa just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Ogwa knows.”

When we came to the exit for Sandy Hook, Mr. Russo asked Carmela, “So whadda you think?  Should we get off here?”

She was about to reply when Ogwa started grunting again, pointing away from the exit.

“Now what’s he doin?” asked Mr. Russo peevishly.

“He say keep goin,” Mogwa answered.

“Maybe you better listen to Ogwa, Daddy,” Jeannette said.  Christine nodded her head in agreement.

“This ain’t no toll booth and he ain’t no air traffic controller.  We’re goin to Sandy Hook and that’s final.” Mr. Russo took the exit.

As we came through Atlantic Highlands heading towards the park, we crested the final hill from which there’s suddenly a spectacular, panoramic view of the Atlantic.  The cerulean waters were filled with boats of every imaginable description, though most were pleasure crafts traveling the Intracoastal Waterway.  Mogwa and Ogwa, who had never seen the ocean before, gasped at the overwhelming immensity of it.  Ogwa started pointing in multiple directions, especially at the myriad sails that peppered the scene.  Mogwa pointed, too, and kept up his steady stream of naming in their private language.  None of us had ever seen the brothers so animated.

“They’re so excited,” Christine said.

“Thanks for letting them come, Daddy,” Jeannette said.

Mr. Russo mumbled, “We’ll see . . . ,” while Carmela patted his hand and smiled broadly, delighted by the twins’ response to her beloved ocean.

When we reached the park, however, the gates were closed because it was full already.  Now we’d have to take the long, slow route along the coast to reach Point Pleasant Beach.

“Aw geez,” Mr. Russo said.

“Shoulda listened to Ogwa,” Jeannette grumbled.

Every couple of miles along the coast road we came to a different town, and each one was unique, both in appearance and people.  Monmouth, for example, attracted the horse-racing crowd because of the Thoroughbred track that opened there every spring.  Long Branch, on the other hand, was more run down and people tended to work hard for low wages to make their living.  It had come a long way from when it had been the playground of presidents in the 19th Century.  Then there was Deal, where we gawked at the mansions and stately summer houses.

As we reached Asbury Park, the huge indoor merry-go-round was just starting up for the day.  We could hear its jangly circus-like music as we drove by.  Just beyond busy Asbury we hit Ocean Grove, which was surrounded on three sides by water—two lakes and the Atlantic.   It was a small, quiet community, not more than a half-mile in area, which had been established in 1869 by Methodists as the Ocean Grove Camp Meeting Association.  Back then people had pitched tents in the dunes, and apparently some still did.

Every once in awhile we’d get a stunning view of the ocean and sometimes we’d see people romping in the waves.  It was tantalizing, devastatingly so, for the temperature inside the Woodie must have been nearing 100°F.  On the sandwiches Carmela kept passing back to us the mayonnaise had turned into a slimy, pale gelatin.  Of course it never stopped me—I liked fried mayonnaise.

When finally we reached the Brielle Bridge, the tires humming over the metal section that opened up for tall-masted ships, I knew we were but minutes away from Point Pleasant Beach.  When we arrived it was late morning and Jenkinson’s small parking lot was full; but Carmela knew the attendant, so he made room for us by double-parking the Woodie and keeping its keys.

     WE WERE HOT and sticky as we wearily trudged up the ramp to the boardwalk.  On the other side of the wall from us there was an outdoor swimming pool.  Some people preferred it to the ocean even though it was filled with salt water straight from the sea.  We could hear gleeful shouts and the enticing sound of splashing coming over the wall, which made us walk a little faster.  Carmela told us, “When I was in high school I was one of the very first girls to get hired here as a lifeguard.  Of course they wouldn’t let me guard the ocean—they said I was too tiny to inspire anyone’s confidence—but when they saw what a strong swimmer I was they let me guard the pool.  It was a good job to have on days like this.”

Normally as soon as we hit the boardwalk we would feel the cooling ocean breeze, but that day the air was still and stifling.  Mr. Russo paid for our beach badges.  He handed us the little squares of brightly colored cloth with tiny safety pins, then carefully pinned one each on Mogwa and Ogwa’s bathing suits.  “Now don’t you lose these or they won’t let you on the beach.”  The twins nodded their heads, but their eyes were riveted to the ocean.  From the moment we’d stepped onto the boardwalk they had been mesmerized by the pounding surf.

There usually weren’t many waves at Jenkinson’s, perhaps because it was so near the deep water of Manasquan Inlet, but today, even at high tide, the surf came crashing onto shore to wash far up the beach.  It made the beach much smaller, and it was crowded to begin with because of the perfect weather.

“Where we gonna put our blankets, Daddy?” Christine asked.

“We’ll go down by the water.”

“But we’ll get soaked.”

“Naw, the tide’s already turned.  The beach’ll just keep gettin bigger.   You’ll see.”

There was a chalkboard on the booth where beach badges were sold.  On it were written the tides and temperature of the water.   Sure enough, high tide had been at 9:33, and now it was nearly 11:30.

“Look!” said Jeannette.  “The water’s 72°!”

“I never seen it that warm before.  C’mon, let’s go swimmin,” said Mr. Russo.

We cheered and walked down the steps to the wooden walkway that led over the sand for about fifty yards.  There was still no breeze, and the heat rising off the hot sand was like a blast from an oven.  Christine had taken off her sneakers, but as soon as she took a few steps on the blistering sand she yelled and jumped back onto the boards where she put them back on.

Carefully we threaded our way through the beach maze, around and between and over what seemed like an endless array of towels, blankets, beach umbrellas, and beach chairs.  The sweet smell of tanning oils and lotions permeated the air, along with the scrumptious aroma of food, for nearly everyone was eating lunch.  Ice chests were opened as families feasted on meals or sandwiches or snacks prepared hours before.  Those who weren’t eating ran to and from the ocean or lay still listening to the portable radios that competed with each other.  Some were set on music stations—WABC or WNEW or WOR from nearby New York City—while others were tuned into baseball games.  The unmistakable drawl of sportscaster Red Barber echoed across the blanketed beach as he announced the current stats of the hitter up at bat.

Halfway across the beach we heard the shrill sound of a lifeguard’s whistle.  It was a prolonged trill, piercing the air three times.  When we looked up we saw a deeply tanned, muscular young man wearing aviator glasses that framed his all-white nose, which had been covered with zinc oxide ointment to block out the sun’s burning rays.  He had on a sailor’s hat with its flap down, making a cone shape, and his body was heavily oiled to protect his skin from drying out in the sun and salt air.  Standing on the seat of the high lifeguard chair, he held out at arm’s length a young child as he blew his whistle loudly and turned in all three directions of the crowd so that everyone could see the lost child.  The kid wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.  Several blankets away we heard a woman cry out, then saw her race towards the lifeguard stand.

Just then the miniature beach train arrived on its return trip from the inlet.  It blew its loud horn to let people know it would be boarding soon.  The steady hum of its motor was joined by the louder whine of a single-engine plane that flew just off-shore, trailing an advertisement for a local seafood restaurant.  Farther out over the ocean the Goodyear Blimp floated silently by, as a speedboat towing a water skier drove dangerously close to the roped-off swimming area, prompting a new barrage of shrill whistling from the nearby lifeguard stands.

“Hey! Where’s Mogwa and Ogwa?” Mr. Russo called out.  We froze where we were and glanced in every direction.  In the avalanche of smells and sounds and sights on the crowded beach we had forgotten the twins, each of us assuming that they were following our meandering path.  Now that we’d reached the waterline, which was packed with people, they were nowhere to be seen.

“I can’t believe we’ve lost them!” Carmela was frantic.  “We’ve got to find them right away.”

When we heard the prolonged three whistles of a lifeguard, we half-expected to see Mogwa and Ogwa held out at arm’s length on the stand.  Instead it was the same child who’d been found only minutes ago.  I guess the kid liked it, after all.

“Look!” cried Jeannette.  “There they are!”

We turned to where she was pointing towards the pavilion that separated Jenkinson’s from Haven’s Beach.  It jutted out into the ocean on huge pilings.  The massive building on top included the orangeade stand, snack bars, a restaurant, a ballroom for dancing, and a large deck over the ocean.  During the day older people sat there in green rocking chairs in the cool ocean air.

Below the deck, leaning against one of the pilings near the water’s edge, stood Mogwa and Ogwa, holding hands and waving to us as though they’d been waiting patiently to be noticed.  Their towels were laid out neatly on the sand where they’d found the only open spot available on the whole beach, as was apparent to us now that we stood at the crowded water’s edge.  We quickly joined them and spread out the blankets.

“Don you ever go off like that again! You hear me?”  Mr. Russo was angry.

Carmela, however, was relieved.  “What a good spot you found,” she said, transforming their look of worry into proud grins.

“Ogwa knows,” said Mogwa.

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Mr. Russo.

We’d worn our bathing suits underneath our clothes, which we now peeled off and folded into piles to hold down the corners of the beach blankets.  Mr. Russo opened the beach umbrella and set it up, though soon we wouldn’t need it, for the pavilion would shade the afternoon sun for us.  It already was a bit cooler next to the damp sands beneath the pavilion, and a slight breeze was blowing through from the Haven’s Beach side.

Christine was the first one ready, so she cried out, “Last one in is a rotten egg,” and took off for the swimming area.  Mogwa and Ogwa started running after her.

“Hey you two! Jus wait a minute.  You know how to swim?” Mr. Russo was lying on his back on a blanket, propped up on his elbows.  Mogwa pointed at the life jackets he and Ogwa were wearing.  “That’s what I thought.  I better come with yous.”  He took each brother by a hand and walked them down to the nearest swimming area where, for a hundred yards or so into the ocean, pilings had been pounded into the ocean floor and then connected by heavy ropes to create a rectangular space for swimming.

Though he could stay afloat and go short distances, Mr. Russo was not an accomplished swimmer. He was, however, a master on the ropes.  For the next hour he regaled Mogwa and Ogwa with every rope trick he knew, from submerged tightrope walking to forward and reverse somersaults to wave jumping.  Jeannette, Christine, and I used his strong shoulders as a diving platform.  He was almost sixty then, yet his body still was trim and powerful, and he loved to romp with us children in the sea.

Carmela, who was an expert swimmer from having grown up by the ocean, dove through the breakers and swam beyond the ropes.  Just beyond the outer pilings she did countless laps as though in a trance.  A poised and graceful swimmer, she never seemed to tire in the water.

Mogwa and Ogwa never let go of the ropes and never stopped smiling; that is, until they got mouthsful of water.  Then they would choke and gag and spit it out, shuddering with distaste.  They just couldn’t get used to the water being salty.  Yet they delighted in the constant movement of the ocean, fascinated by the pounding waves and pulling undertows.  They couldn’t get enough of it.

When, after an hour in the water, their lips started turning blue, Mr. Russo made them get out and dry off.  After sitting in the sun for no more than a minute, they got up to go back into the water.  “Wait a minute, you two are still shiverin.”  They looked so crestfallen that Mr. Russo compromised by sitting with them on the hard sand near the water, letting the waves wash over their legs as the hot summer sun shone brilliantly in the clear sky.

Jeannette joined them and taught the twins how to make dribble castles by picking up handsful of wet sand and letting it slowly dribble down into conical towers.  Christine and I came and piled a huge mound of sand for a castle, adding turrets and walls and digging a moat that filled anew with every wave that reached it.  The water from the edge of the waves cooled us as the sun baked our bodies.  The ever-present hum of the crowd mixed with the gentle roar of the surf, sealing us off within a wall of sound from the worrisome world beyond the realm of the beach.

Mr. Russo sat silently for a long time, watching us intently or staring out to sea as if he could see all the way across the Atlantic.  His eyes became dark pools filled with sadness.  Then he began to speak, his tone muted and serious: “When I was you kids age, I worked every day carrying rocks down from the mountain.  My calloused hands would crack and bleed, my back ached with the strain of the heavy weight.  There was no rest, no play.   Just the rocks and the long way down the mountain from the quarry.  This”—he arced his head to indicate the beach, the surf, the clear sky, the pavilion, the people, all of it taken together in a dizzying, delightful whole—“I didn’t dare to dream of . . .”  His voice trailed off as if he had more to say but no words with which to convey it.  Then he grew very solemn and still.

Of course we had heard about the rocks many times before.  He would tell us whenever he thought we were being selfish or lazy.  Yet this time was different.  He was telling it for himself, somehow, and as though he needed something from us; but what, we did not know.  Nor did we know what to say, or even if we should say anything at all.  He looked sad and forlorn, perhaps like that long ago child who’d had to carry rocks on days when other children were building castles in the sand.  His shoulders were hunched over, and suddenly he looked very old and grey, sitting there isolated amidst all the gaiety of a sunny Saturday at the beach.

Then Ogwa stopped dribbling sand on his lopsided castle, reached over and took Mr. Russo’s hand.  It startled Mr. Russo at first, so lost was he in himself; but then he looked at Ogwa and smiled, a gentleness suffusing his whole face.  “You’re a good boy, Ogwa.” Ogwa nodded his head and went back to dribbling wet sand with his other hand, still holding onto Mr. Russo.  They sat that way, hand in hand on the crowded beach, as the summer sun slowly crossed the cloudless sky and the tide receded out to sea.

      AT FIVE O’CLOCK the lifeguards blew their whistles for the last time to let people know they were leaving.  Then they rolled the heavy surf boats back near the boardwalk and dragged the lifeguard stands above high-water line.  Usually this was our signal that it was time to pack up and head back to Plainfield.  Today, however, Mr. Russo said, “How bout we stay. It’s still hot as blazes and the crowd is finally startin to thin out.  Whadda ya think, Carmela, you in a hurry to head home?”

“Not me, Gaetano. I love the beach this time of day.  But I’d better go call the twins’ mother to let her know we’ll be late.”

“Can we go swimming?”Christine asked.

“As long as your father watches you.”

“Sure, sure. G’wan.  I’ll be lifeguard. Mogwa and Ogwa, you better go with Carmela in case your mother wants to talk with you.”

As Carmela and the twins went to the pavilion to use the pay phone, we walked down to the swimming area.  Jeannette, Christine, and I ran into the water, which was still incredibly warm.  The tide was coming back in now, and the waves were building back up.  I noticed as we waded deeper that there was a deep dip in the sand beneath our feet.  The water was practically over my head, but just beyond the dip it was shallow again.  We each grabbed onto the ropes to jump the waves coming in, then Christine said, “Let’s go all the way round the ropes,” so we started pulling ourselves along the heavy lines from pole to pole, getting into deeper water as we went.  At each pole we had to let go of the rope for just a moment while we lunged for it on the other side.  Both the ropes and the poles were slippery, so it was tricky to do it without taking a dunk.

We made it all the way round the three sides of the rectangle and were heading back around again when I noticed that the water in the deep dip just before shore was choppy and roiling.  There was a yellowish-grey foam swirling on top, and after a wave washed up on shore, its backwash collided with the next incoming wave to create a geyser effect.

“Hey look,” I said to Christine and Jeannette, “the waves are crashing into each other near shore.”  We were near the outermost piling closest to the pavilion.  For a few minutes we just hung on the rope in the deliciously warm water and watched the incoming and outgoing waves battle each other.

Then we saw Carmela running across the beach with the twins trailing behind her.  She was shouting to Mr. Russo, but we couldn’t hear what she was saying.  “Something must be wrong, ” Christine said.

“Yeah, we better go in,” I said, jumping around the corner piling and pulling myself along the rope towards shore.

Christine was next, and she made the grab without any problem.  But when Jeannette tried, her hand landed on a slimy piece of green seaweed that was caught on the rope, so her hand slipped off the rope and for a moment she was unattached.  Christine reached out to pull Jeannette in, but just then a huge wave came out of nowhere and crashed directly on top of us.  Christine and I had hold of the rope, so we came sputtering back up quickly.  Only Jeannette was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is she?” I yelled, the yellowish-grey water seeming to pull me right off the ropes.

“I don’t know!” Christine yelled back.

Then about thirty feet away from us we saw Jeannette’s head pop out of the turbulent water.  She screamed, and I will never forget the terror in her voice.  The next moment she was gone.  It was as if some diabolical being had grabbed hold of her foot and yanked her at tremendous speed down and out into the ocean, away from us, away from safe ropes, away from solid shore.

Christine and I didn’t know what to do.  There was this tremendous pull, and it was all we could do to hold onto the ropes.  Then we spotted Jeannette again, this time farther away than either of us could swim.  We were frantic, but out of nowhere Carmela was there, shouting, “Try to pull yourselves to shore!”  Then she was gone, swimming faster than I’d ever seen before, using the current to draw her to Jeannette.  Her strong, swimmer’s arms sliced through the choppy water and her head never veered from where Jeannette was struggling to stay above water.

Just as Carmela was about to reach her, Jeannette went under again, but with her last stroke Carmela grabbed beneath the water to pull Jeannette’s arm out of the sea.  She quickly turned Jeannette on her back and wrapped one arm over her chest and under her armpit.  Then Carmela began swimming with one arm towards shore, but not in a straight line or back towards the ropes.  Instead she swam diagonally with the current, bringing them eventually several hundred yards down the beach.

While Carmela and Jeannette were making their slow way towards shore, Mr. Russo pulled himself along the ropes to where we were struggling to get in through the deep hole.  “Grab onto me!” he shouted.  Christine and I lunged for him, wrapping our arms about his neck and pushing him under the water.  I don’t know how he did it, because we must have been choking him, but somehow he managed to get us to shore.

Once there we ran, gasping for breath, to where Carmela was carrying Jeannette through the shallow water onto the beach.  When we reached them Carmela was collapsed onto the sand, holding Jeannette as she wept with the lingering fear of having nearly drowned.

“It’s okay, baby, go ahead and cry.  You deserve a good cry,”Carmela said as she rocked Jeannette back and forth in her arms.

Mogwa and Ogwa were there already, holding hands and on the verge of tears themselves.

“It’s okay,” Mr. Russo said, “everything’s okay now.  Ain’t nobody hurt.  We’re all here, safe and sound.  Right, Tony?”

“Right, Mr. Russo.” I said it but I wasn’t sure.

“Right, Christine?”

“Right, Daddy.” Christine’s voice wavered.

“Right, Mogwa and Ogwa?”

The twins nodded their heads, but their eyes were worried.

“Right, Jeannette?”

Her face was burrowed into her mother’s arms, but we could see that she, too, nodded her head, which made the rest of us believe that it really was okay now.

I thought we’d go home then, but no, we lingered, enjoying the warm evening on the now quiet beach.  Carmela even had us go back in for another swim.  Jeannette didn’t want to, but Carmela said, “If you don’t face your fear now, it will build and build until you’ll never trust the ocean again.”

“But I’m really scared, Mommy.”

“Listen to me, Jeannette.”  We all listened as Carmela explained that Jeannette had been caught in what’s called a “sea puss.”  This treacherous, powerful current happens when outgoing water gets trapped in a hollow near shore.  The water continues to build up until finally it breaks free, rushing out to sea and dragging anything in its path with it.  “I knew it was there when I saw the yellow foam near shore.  It doesn’t happen very often, and now you know what it looks like and what it does.  You must respect the ocean, not fear it, learn about it, not hide from it.  Come on, I’ll go in with you.”

Jeannette went in, shakily and only for a few minutes, but after that her fear was gone.

AS THE ORANGE sun sank into the evening, we could see the multi-colored lights of the rides on the boardwalk.  We ate the last of the food Carmela had brought, then packed up and rinsed off at the shower next to the beach badge booth.

“Anyone feel like goin on a few rides?” Mr. Russo asked us.

“Sure!” we all answered, even Ogwa saying something close to that.

“Then let’s go!” Mr. Russo spread his arms wide and said loudly, “We got reason to celebrate tonight!”

We went on every ride on the boardwalk, from the Tilt-O’-Whirl to the bumper cars to the merry-go-round.  I don’t think Ogwa liked the spookhouse very much because when the scary, gruesome scenes lit up in the darkness, he wet his pants.  But Mogwa loved it, especially at the end where the powerful air jet shot up his legs.  He kept going back over it again and again until the owner told him he had to leave.

We gorged ourselves on boardwalk treats:  caramel apples, cotton candy, salt water taffy, hot waffles and ice cream.  The twins got cotton candy all over their faces—they just couldn’t figure out how to eat it—but they loved it just the same.

For the ride home Mr. Russo put down the rear seats of the station wagon and Carmela piled all the blankets and towels to make a soft pallet for us to lie upon.  The five of us squeezed in and got settled after a while, though whenever I shut my eyes it felt as if I were still in the ocean.  The skin on my face was tight from the sun and salt, and my shoulders ached a little from sunburn.  I had sand in my hair, and my fingers were sticky from all the sweets I’d eaten.  But I felt clean anyway, clean and content, full of more than food and sun and sand and surf.

As we cruised down the Parkway, the hum of the Woodie was lulling us to sleep.  I heard Carmela say in a low voice, “If anything ever happened to one of them, I couldn’t go on living, I just couldn’t.”

“Sshh, Carmela,” Mr. Russo soothed, “don’t worry, everything’s okay.”  She was sitting right next to him and he had his arm around her shoulder, stroking her rhythmically with his hand.

Jeannette must have heard them, too, because she asked, “But what made you come running down the beach, Mommy?  I saw you.  It was like you knew even before it happened.”

“Ogwa told me.  I had just hung up the phone from talking with their mother when Ogwa started making that grunting sound and pointing back towards the beach.  ‘What’s he want?’ I asked Mogwa.  ‘Somethin wrong,’ Mogwa answered.  So I ran, ran as fast as I could.”

“But you didn’t know,” Jeannette insisted.

“No, I didn’t, not really,” said Carmela.  “But Ogwa knew. I don’t know how, but he did.”

Then I heard a voice say, “Ogwa knows.”  I thought it must be Mogwa, but he was asleep, lightly snoring next to me.  Then I smiled to myself as I realized who had said it—Mr. Russo.