By By Craig Ziemba / guest columnist
April 27, 2003
I crawled down some cliffs to the sea the other day to kill some time. The war had ended, and those of us deployed overseas were sitting on our derrieres waiting for the order to pack up our jets and head home.
I'd been in this position before, along with everyone else who ever served overseas. Time flies while you're busy, but when the ops tempo screeches to a halt, so does the clock.
After another frustrating Easter Sunday spent away from family, all I could think about was going home. Phil (one of the pilots in my room) declared he was going to explore the end of the island. I didn't feel like going along, but couldn't come up with a good reason not to.
Tidal pool
After a long trek and a slippery climb down to the shoreline, I saw it. At the base of the wind-swept cliffs sat a smooth tidal pool 200 feet across. Along its edge were hundreds of smooth, flat rocks. I picked up one that fit perfectly between my thumb and forefinger, turned it over a couple of times to get the feel of it, and then let it fly. Six skips. Right by my foot was another flat rock. Seven.
A few rocks later I'd forgotten about the war, the homesickness, and the work piling up for me at home. For the first time in a while I was serious about something I hadn't accomplished in a long time 15 skips. Walking up and down the beach picking up skipping rocks rekindled memories of doing the same thing half a world away in much simpler times.
Back when summer meant tree forts, chiggers and playing till dark, we'd go to a place called Blackwater Creek. It was paradise for a 10 year old. There was a rope swing from a cedar that bent way out over a deep hole, a clay bank for mud fights and lots of rocks flat ones.
As adults lazily drifted by in canoes and girls quietly sunned on the sandbar (we hadn't noticed them yet), we boys woke up the dead. We swung higher than Tarzan. Our mud wars were epic battles. Everything was a boisterous competition. When we were finally out of breath, or when someone got hurt too badly, we'd take a break and skip rocks.
Watch this one'
Hard feelings about that last mud clod in the face melted away as we raced up and down the banks of the creek looking for flat rocks. "Watch this one!" "Eight!! Beat that!" We skipped rocks till our shoulders ached.
Then we'd pull a watermelon out of the inner tube where it had been cooling in the creek. There was nothing better than sitting on the sand in July with a big slice of watermelon. We didn't know or care about sunscreen, the stock market or weapons of mass destruction. For us, summer was all about having fun.
A jet flying overhead awakened me from my reverie. "Life is much more complex now," I thought, as I skipped rocks in the tidal pool, wishing I were 10 again. That's when it hit me: Those of us entrusted with the responsibility of defending freedom are making it possible for boys back home to live life the way it was meant to be lived. It's payback. The older generation does what's necessary to make sure that their children can enjoy the really important things in life.
Like skipping rocks.
Craig Ziemba is a pilot who lives in Meridian.