Saturday, Dec. 29, 2001

And so Mom and I went our separate ways. She boarded a plane back to Los Angeles and I climbed onto a Tri-Rail Commuter train that took me from Miami to Boca Raton. There I met up with my childhood friend, Blaze, who was enjoying his Christmas vacation with his wife and two kids at their Florida getaway.

Blaze’s condo is a two bedroom, two bath affair which his grandma bought in the 70’s and bequeathed to the family after her death. Since that time nothing seems to have changed; like a fly embedded in amber, the condominium and its contents are frozen in time.

The floral wallpaper is the same as when the condo was first built, as are the avocado appliances and the white bamboo furniture. Even the tube TV is the same, boasting an old receiver that could only pick up two stations. My old friend, his wife, their kids and I spend an inordinate amount of time watching “Cops” on a fuzzy, snowy screen.

Immediately after I arrived, we worked our way through most of the duty-free Caribbean rum I had bought them at the airport.

When I first presented them with the bottle of rum, I said, “Um, I’m not sure if you drink . . .” Amber first replied rhetorically, then sarcastically, “Do we drink? Do we drink?” and gladly accepted my gift. Blaze expertly mixed the rum and coke so well that I barely had a hangover the next day. (The next day I felt, more precisely, like I was on the cruise ship during that tropical storm, but my stomach was OK).

In addition to watching “Cops”, we also watched “King of the Hill,” “The Simpson’s” and “Malcolm in the Middle.” It was a far cry from Blaze’s satellite system at his home base in Chicago where he could receive over 500 stations. We didn’t spend a lot of time watching the tube and getting drunk, however.

We spent most of our time on the beach, and the weather was perfect. At the start of the day, we collected a dozen beach towels, a bag of toys, and a metal detector and drove a couple of miles to Deerfield Beach, where Blaze rented a cabana for $25, and we all settled in as One Very Happy Family.

It was my responsibility to apply sunscreen to five-year-old Brian, Blaze's son. He’s small for his age and an absolute angel in every way. Three-year-old Billie, on the other hand, is a lovely child to behold, but a total terror. It was not long after I arrived that she began rifling through all my stuff, walking around in my shoes, digging through the china cabinet, hiding Daddy’s wallet and scattering money all over the place.

I can see her now, running about with scissors, one eye on a peeling sheet of bamboo wallpaper, the other on her mother, deliberating between thoughts of good and evil. And she never stops. From the moment she wakes up until late, late at night (long after Brian is fast asleep) Billie is running around non-stop causing all sorts of trouble. Ask her to do something, and it’s “No!” “No!” “No!” Everybody was on their best behavior during the visit and discipline was lax, though I did see Amber blow up at her once (not that it made much difference).

We humanists shrink back in horror when the subject of discipline is brought up. Well, let me tell you something, most kids will destroy the place if you don’t put your foot down. It is so easy to be an armchair philosopher and criticize teachers and parents for screaming at their kids and spanking them. We somehow think that “time out” will solve all their problems (and if worse comes to worse, psychiatric drugs).

Most armchair philosophers don’t have kids, and a lot of us don’t even like kids. But having been on the front lines (as a failed student teacher), I can say one thing for sure: I don’t know what it takes to make kids behave. I once thought I knew, but now I know that I don’t have a clue. And if I had to lean toward any school of thought, I would probably agree with the behaviorists who say that “a child’s behavior is a function of the consequences.” But one’s thing’s for sure: I’m not going to be the one who lays down the law to a child. I'll never be the bad guy.

Blaze brought along two boogie boards, and we walked to the “sports beach” on the other side of the fishing pier. He said I could go out on one alone and I did. I paddled way out in the calm, warm water, all the way to its end. And that was just what the doctor ordered: I was finally away from the madness of civilization with its crowds and automobiles. Away from the urban sprawl, the road rage, the noise and all the greed. It was so incredibly peaceful and quiet out in the ocean.

Verses from Rabindranath Tagore’s Gitanjali raced through my head. The 80-degree water and the sun beating down on my body felt good. It just didn't get any better than that. So I’m way, way out there in the water, about 300 yards, near the end of the pier. I can’t see much because I left my glasses on the beach and the world looked like an impressionist painting by Monet.

I’m slowly drifting toward the pier and near a gaggle of fishermen, armed with their deadly rods, reels, lures, hooks and lines. Oblivious to all that, I was feeling more rested and rejuvenated than I had in quite a while. Suddenly a young man, about 20 comes paddling up to me on a surfboard.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I am having the time of my life,” I say.

“Don’t you know the rules?”

“What rules?”

“You’re way too far out. You shouldn’t be more than 50 feet from the shore. You could be hit by a motorboat. You could become shark food. And you’re way too close to the pier, you could be snagged by fishing line, or an ocean current, or a riptide could take hold of you and carry you way out to shore. Didn’t you hear me whistle?”

“Uh no.”

“I was whistling at you for five minutes.”

“So then, you’re the lifeguard?”

“Yes. Where are you from?”

“I’m from the desert. Albuquerque, New Mexico. We don’t have rules there. You could be bitten by a rattlesnake or clawed by a bear, and nobody would know or care.”

“Oh, I see.”

And so began a friendly conversation that lasted all the way back to shore. We talked about the desert. We talked about the difference between Florida waters and California waters. We even talked about sharks.

“Yes, of course, there are sharks out here: This is the open sea!”

In the end, I played the part of the uninformed tourist to this lifeguard: I was remorseful, I said I wouldn’t do it again and I thanked him for saving my life. I even gave the guy a 10-spot to make it worth his while.

Meanwhile, Blaze and Amber and the kids watched in horror from the beach as all this played out and eventually went back to the cabana embarrassed and shocked by my irresponsible behavior. I was to hear about this all day long, and Blaze reported my actions to my sister (who called from Canada) and told his whole family: I had been shamed. And so, after going off on my own, it was time to rejoin the social unit and follow the rules.

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This marks the end of the TWENTY-SECOND installment of "The Last Hoorah." If you'd like to start from the beginning, then please click this page.

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