A Day to Remember

The little girl will always be three years old in my head.  I never saw her; I never felt her life slip away under the hot Costa Rican afternoon sun, but the image in my head is clear.  Her dark hair is matted and sand clumps around her face and under her chin.  Her small hands are cupped, like she’s sleeping.  A small, delicate gold bracelet dangles from her tiny wrist, possibly a gift from her grandmother at Christmas.  She is laying there in a one piece bathing suit.  Is it pink or blue or maybe purple?  Little girl colors; I see pink. 

Her eyes are not completely closed nor are they open but I can see a sliver of white and I know her eyes are dark brown, like her mothers’ and fathers’.  I am not quite looking down on her; it’s more like I’m a detached spectator, part of a crowd that’s gathered.  She is unnaturally still; her small body is tiny against the dark sand as I focus on her hands.  Her fingers are so small.  She has perfect little girl fingernails.  Her skin is perfectly brown.  I look away.

The faces looking down at her are in shock.  Every woman holds her own face, covering their mouths, cupping their cheeks.  Every mother is holding their child close; babies are in their mother’s arms.  Some start ushering children away; they know.  The men seem helpless.  Their brows are furrowed, they are bowing their heads, and their hands are on their hips.  For the most part, it’s silent except for the crashing of the waves in the background.  The men and women stand in a circle around the little girl and her mother. 

There are three people on their knees around the little girl.  All of their hands are working on her.  One woman, a blond, older, woman with an athletic build, is in charge.  She speaks with authority and trained calmness.  She is leading the fight to save the girl’s life.  Her hands are white against tanned skin. They look huge as they pump gently on a tiny, silent heart.  The man at the girl’s head holds her face close to his, ready.  He is trained, he brought her out of the waves and he saw life in her only to watch it disappear moments later.  He is the lifeguard. He listens carefully, his eyes never off of the little girl’s face.  When he’s told, his duty is to give her his breath.  I sense that he is willing life back into her with his eyes.  He is praying to his God to let his breath be her own.  God already has her breath, but he keeps praying.   

The third person is my father.  He has both of his hands on the little girl’s legs; her knees are bent.  He is rubbing them and whispering something, his eyes close tightly then open again, they are piercing blue.  I know what he is doing.  He is pleading.  He is pleading with her to come back to the beach.  He is pleading with her because he knows her spirit is close, watching.  He makes promises he cannot keep as he looks over to her mother’s body.  He lifts her legs, bends them at the knee and tries to push life back into her.  I know he is thinking about his own children, his baby granddaughter; I know his heart is breaking.

Her family has been split apart in a matter of minutes.  Her father is in agonizing and painful shock.  Her older brother cries out that he wants to die.  He does not want to live if his mother and sister have to die; over and over he pleads with God.  Her father is pacing in circles as people step aside, giving him space.  They look to him and back to the bodies. The blond woman stops and places her pale hand to the little girls’ neck.  There is silence, no one moves.  Finally, I see a man shake his head and turn away.  I hear a woman cry.  The blond woman looks up to the crowd for a moment. She makes eye contact with the father, he drops to his knees, his hands covering his head.  She shakes her head and feels again for evidence of life.  There is none.  My father looks empty.  I see his tears. 

There are officials there now.  Men and women in blue and white uniforms are ushering the people away.  They are gentile but they are serious and people don’t argue.  It’s time to move on.  Once the hope fades the reality of death sets in.  No one wants to be near death.  They start to walk away.  Some are by themselves and their heads are bowed, their hands to their faces, they can’t believe how quickly it happens.  Some are with families, mothers, daughters, fathers and sons.  Strangers hug each other.  I am still there with my father.  He has not stood up yet.  He is alone on the ground now with the little girl.  I want to take his pain.  I can see the faces of our family in his eyes.  I know his fear.  He looks around and sees the little girl’s father, the dead woman’s husband who will never be the same, whose heart will never mend and he thinks “what if that was me” and then “thank God it isn’t me”, guilt and relief.  The officials speak softly about what will happen next, the father is trying to understand.  Someone is setting up orange cones.

My father picks up the little girl and carries her over to her mother’s body.  Earlier, when there was no more hope for the mother, someone had removed a wrapped skirt from her bathing suite and covered her face. My father places the tiny lifeless body next to her dead mother and gently puts the mother’s arm around the little girl.  The arm falls to the sand, but my father tries again.  Mother and daughter are together.  I feel heartbreak all around me.  My father picks up the little girl’s tiny hand and holds it in his.  He closes his eyes and says good-bye to her; he never knew her alive.  He does the same with her mother; he thanks her for giving her life trying to save her daughter’s.  He stands slowly; his eyes still on the ground.  Someone comes up to him and he looks up.  A friend, an acquaintance, a stranger, it doesn’t matter, someone puts their arm around my father and offers comfort. My father nods a “thank you” and walks away.  There is nothing more for him to do there.  He walks over to the blond woman who is now with the officials.  He puts his hand on her arm and thanks her for her efforts.  He does the same with every person there.  Everyone is quiet.  The waves continue to crash just below the tanned feet of a mother and daughter lying in the sand. 

I was not there that day.  I only looked into my father’s eyes and felt his pain when he returned home later that evening.  He spoke in detail; he had to.  He needed our support and comfort and love.  He broke down while retelling the story.  We all looked over at the baby at our feet, her innocent joy saving all of us.  His granddaughter, my niece, smiled and clapped her hands, we were all thankful for that.  He would remember various details throughout the night; looks on people’s faces, the smell of the salt water, the tears running down a brother’s face.  He would break down again.  He hugged all of us, but the pain he felt didn’t go away.  I could see that it stayed with him in everything he did.  Family is precious, life is precious, we shouldn’t need reminding of that, but we do.  I know the memory of that day will never leave my father. 

Anger and blame quickly set in at the beach that day.  My father was angry and it came out in different ways through out the following days.  He was not alone; lifeguards quit or were fired, depending on the rumor of the day.  Words like “funding”, “equipment” and “training” littered each conversation at the local bar.  Anger and blame will not bring a sister back to a brother; it will not bring a wife back to a husband.  My father will come to grips with this, eventually.  Each person involved in the tragic events of that day will all learn to live with just the memory, as is natural.  I think about that little girl and her family often.  I think about my father and how much he wanted her to live, but mostly, I think about what I can do.  Help the lifeguards.  Learn CPR.  Raise awareness, recreate responsibly.  I can do all that and more, I can honor that little girl and her mother by never forgetting and telling the story of that day.