Photo by Carlos Aristizabal
It was a cloudy afternoon and the setting sun fought to cast a golden hue on the Pacific Ocean.
It was 1982 and I was on a California trip with my family. My older sisters ran along the shoreline taunting resting seagulls to take off in flight while my father watched on with a smile. I dipped my toes in the water. Even though it was July, it felt colder than any ocean I’d experienced before. My mother, usually cheerful, sat higher up on the sand watching me with a subtle frown.
“I hope you’re enjoying it,” she offered, her voice carrying a thin coating of annoyance.
“It’s great. I love it,” I lied.
In truth, it was much chillier than I had anticipated and nothing like the inviting Caribbean I was used to in Venezuela. But over lunch a few hours earlier I had won an argument with my mom, so, with goosebumps covering my thin legs, I feigned a smile and continued to subject my feet to the frigidness.
We’d found ourselves going over our upcoming itinerary while savoring hearty portions of Cioppino on Fisherman’s Wharf. As I scooped up a mussel bathed in spicy tomato broth, my mother looked at us and said, “And of course, we have the concert later today with the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra.”
I dropped my spoon and mollusk mid-air, the utensil banging the side of the bowl making a loud clang. My family turned toward me as I whined loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear.
“But Mom, you promised we’d go to the beach this afternoon!”
Everyone at the table remained silent, waiting for my mother — known not to forget a thing — to call my bluff. But she too, was quiet as her face began turning the same bright red as the lobster claw floating in her stew.
“Yes, honey, I did. But I had forgotten about these tickets which we purchased a while ago,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I know the beach is exciting, but we can go another time. Tomorrow, even,” she added in a bright tone.
I may have only been ten, but I knew my mother well. She was a woman defined by her principles — of which keeping one’s word was high on the list. I took that knowledge and ran with it, knowing it would give me the upper hand.
For the next ten minutes, I insisted that tomorrow would not work, that classical music was boring and that a promise must always be kept. In hindsight, reviewing the situation as a woman with children of her own, I’ve often applauded my mother’s resolution to transform that opportunity into a larger lesson I’d carry throughout my life. After all, she could have just flat-out said we were going to the concert and that was that. But she didn’t do that. She affirmed she had indeed promised me a visit to the beach, and because a promise is a promise, she’d give up the concert and spend the afternoon at the ocean instead.
The thrill of getting my way overshadowed anything else. It was only after I was cold and miserable, watching my mom feeling the same way, did I regret my insistence. I also admired my mother for sticking to her word, no matter the circumstance.
Our eyes locked and, just as I was about to shout out an apology, she beat me to it, delivering a message she stayed true to throughout the rest of my childhood: “By the way, I’m never promising you anything ever again.” She grinned, as if to soften the edges of the rigid statement, but her steadfast gaze affirmed she wasn’t messing around. I grinned back, both impressed and a bit sad, then turned and took another defiant step into the cold.
Happy Reading,
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com