Remembering Gabe

Winter on the island and the wind kicks up, the beach gets narrow, cold front born combers march in from the distant north-northeast, dying on the chilly wet sand, spending their energy without telling their tales.

Even the winter sun isn’t all that warm. It mimics its summer twin, shining limited sickly yellow light on the dunes forming damp, salty shadows where the beach plants, railroad vine and sea purslane struggle to survive the all too short South Texas winter.

Sea oats nod in the wind on the tidal flats, nodding in agreement that natures season will be replaced soon by the parched and sandblasted winds of summer. Days are short, and the water is cold.

The island hibernates for a little while, and the beach resorts and palapa bars only open on nice weekend days, hoping to snag a stray off season tourist or two for a cutesy rum drink and maybe a greasy burger. The madness of spring break is still months away, and the ugly island infrastructure that caters to that time of year is still dormant and buried under last years plywood and rusty nails, now sandblasted gray and weathered.

I’ve always loved winter on the beach. It is one of the few times when I’ve found some sort of solace. While my mother died back in ‘95, I came to the beach, sometimes neglecting responsibility in order to recharge and escape the horrors of the cancer that consumed her being piece by piece. I spent a great deal of time in the water, surfing, sometimes just sitting out there beyond the cold lumpy breakers, clearing my mind in the zen rise and fall of the swell. On certain occasions, ladies would accompany me to the winter island and we'd hole up at my favorite port-o'-call, the Yacht Club. Angelic, they'd mother and smother me with exotic perfumes and gentle embraces, another sort of wave, energy spent on an internal beach, on the coastline of the soul, leaving me filled with life.

On Tuesday the police recovered the body of Scarlets oldest son, Gabe from the dunes between highway access five and six. In one final and absolute act of utter desparation, he parked his car along the side of the road, walked west out onto the wind tidal flat and committed suicide, choosing to take his own life, for reasons only he could comprehend.

I knew him well. During that same horrendous period of my life, after my Mom died and at the same time, my marriage fell apart, I moved to the Island and met Scarlet, her then husband Tom and their kids. Scarlet home schooled the kids and they were far advanced, well beyond the average in terms of education and understanding. Scarlet and the boys volunteered at the lab, keeping the aquaria spotless and gloriously stocked with a wide assortment of local sea critters that they collected during that warm and magic summer.

I was taking care of lots of things at the Lab, including keeping the computer network running. Back in ’95 it wasn’t an easy task, and lots of the equipment was crude by today’s standards. It was the heyday of the 486…. I had just enough computer savvy to get me in trouble. Gabe taught me to write web pages (a difficult task in those days, pre- Front Page), troubleshoot the system, teaching me the finer points of computer maintenance. He was 14, I was 40.

I worried over Gabe that summer. His dad was working out of town a lot of the time, and so I took him under wing, shuffling him outside, away from the nether-world of silicon and data transfer, to the real world of surf, sand and sea.

I tried to teach him how to surf, pushing him into endless waves, only to have him get pounded in the shorebreak, skinny legs flailing one direction, board whipping the other. He returned time and again to the take off spot, determined to slide down the wave. Other times we’d go out collecting sea creatures for the displays, and sometimes we’d just hang out on the beach. I tried to visualize what sort of person Gabe would become. After I left in the fall, I frequently worried over Gabe. He was an enigmatic child, fragile and different from the rest. Hyper intelligent, I knew that he’d never find a way to totally fit in with the mundane masses. There was an ineffable yearning in him to be accepted and loved, vulnerable and gossamer. The world doesn’t provide for that sort of need.

I returned to the western side of the valley for awhile, and moved out here about six yeas ago. During that time, Gabe had left. He lived with his dad for awhile, and I heard that he’d moved up to Austin after a time. I had also heard that he’d found a bit of trouble, and knew that it was his rudderless nature, his intelligence and youth, and I prayed that he’d find his way.

He returned to the island a while back, and one day appeared at the lab, sitting back in one of the big rooms like the old days, working on a defunct laptop, trying to repair some sort of esoteric mechanical problem. He hadn’t changed a bit. Just gotten older. I’d see him periodically, and was proud and content. It seemed he’d finally found his niche, he had learned the locksmithing trade, and in his brilliance invented all sorts of gadgets and methods to get locks unlocked. I’d see him around town, and we’d always talk, with the connection of time between us.

Yesterday, we all remembered Gabe at the Island Traders bookstore, one of his favorite spots on this earth. It was a bittersweet moment, and Gabe was the cement holding us all together. The gathering, like Gabe himself was a collection of eclectic people, from the remember Che Guevara crowd, to the middle aged like us, family and friend holding hands - sometimes crying sometimes laughing. The day was as brilliant as Gabe too, bluebird sky and light warm wind, soothing us all in our grief. Afterward, we boarded a boat, spreading a bit of his physical being in the cool waters of the Brazos Santiago Pass, along with Dr. Pepper, cigarettes and flowers- all things that he loved.

Then we remembered him in the past tense.

I crossed the causeway after it was all over, brooding about life and death, youth and age. I headed over to Le Menagerie along with CB and two of his friends who had known Gabes father, and attended the memorial. Firing up the 9.9, we untied the boat and motored slowly out past 17, where we raised the main, set the full genny, sailing quietly, lost to ourselves.

I looked up past the top of the mast, to the heavens and gave thanks for finally having found my place after more than 50 years of living.

A dolphin rolled to our starboard, and I gave thanks for the community that I've adopted, the community that's adopted me.

As the big sails fluttered lightly in the gentle breeze I silently gave thanks for knowing Gabe.

As the water slipped laughingly past the hull, gurgling and speaking of things long ago, I prayed for Scarlet, George and Tom, Seth and Heather and everyone who were touched by this tragedy.

I thought about all of my friends and family and gave thanks for them, they are the cement that holds this crazy life all together.