This is a short little piece I wrote about self-awareness and pure character development. This is, in no way at ALL autobiographical, so don’t ask. Anyway…I wrote this as a sort of “writing exercise” and I’m please on how it turned out. I’m going to submit it to my school’s literary magazine, once I get it critiqued enough and edit it until it’s as close to perfect as it can be. So, please critique it so that I can improve it and eventually ship it off to the literary magazine! Enjoy! edited version

The ocean holds many secrets, as plentiful as the waves, and as mysterious and as unpredictable as the creatures that dwell within it. But of course, nothing is completely serene; the ocean is no exception. You can build a sandcastle at the beach, only to have it destroyed by the incoming tide. Memories work the same way. This is what I learned shortly after my father’s death. I learned to never underestimate the awesome power of the sea, or it can take away those memories that you worked so hard to receive.

I sat alone on the beach, watching the deep red disk sink below the buildings across the bay. My dark brown bangs swept over my eyes, ruffling in the light sea breeze. The gentle waves rinsed off my sandy feet, but nothing more. A single tear slid down my bony cheek.

Even though that fatal hurricane rolled by three years ago, I still remember the events that happened as if they occurred yesterday.

The sun shone playfully off the almost-calm waves of the harbor. Footsteps sounded off the aging wood – my footsteps. I was going to catch up with my father and give him one last hug goodbye before he set off for another of his week-long fishing trips.

“DAD!” I yelled out, hoping I wasn’t too late. My pace increased down the long narrow dock. I clutched the package that had been wrapped with care closer to my chest, almost to the point of crushing it.

A head peeked out the top of one of the boats a little farther down. I’m not too late! I thought, excitedly. “WAIT, DAD!”

I stopped, breathless, in front of my dad’s boat, Poseidon II. “Here, Dad, take this!” I panted, offering the package to my father. I grinned as I added, “I chose it myself!”

I eagerly watched as my father ripped open the gift, seeing what treasure it might hide. He smiled like an eight-year-old receiving a Christmas gift as he uncovered a photo, neatly tucked into an elaborate picture frame. “Thank you, Gaston. I’ll keep this right next to me while I’m out fishing, for good luck.”

Beaming, I said, “’Bye dad! Hope you catch something worthwhile!” I waved as I ran back down the dock, toward our beachside house. My mother was visible on the deck, clearly waving out to my father. The house grew ever-closer as I trudged up the beach, gasping for air. I wasn’t too late, I thought, climbing up the stairs to the deck.

I sat, curled up next to my mother on the couch, checking the weather for the weekend of my father’s outing. And what I heard wasn’t what I’d planned on hearing.

“Another hurricane is forming, close to the island of Curaçao, and should be making its way up into Florida in the next two or three days.” That sentence alone made me feel like vomiting. And I was shocked to hear the rest of the hurricane coverage.

I think it made me realize that natural forces aren’t put on hold for a week-long boating trip, and that Mother Nature deliberately entertained herself by creating forces so strong that no mortal was capable of overcoming them.

Physical damage meant nothing to me in this situation – I was more concerned with the emotional damage this would cause my family. I’d heard it said once that physical wounds can heal in time, but emotional wounds stay with you forever. Thinking that this statement would never apply to me, I never actually took the time to understand what it truly means. But now, I think I do.

I really hope he survives! I thought to myself, although I somehow doubted what I said would really be my father’s fate. After all, what are the chances that a man in a boat can endure a hurricane without any sort of support?

My mother cried. This was the first time I’d ever seen her do that. Her face was distraught, as loose hair fell untidily in front of it, tears trickling down her cheeks. She had always been emotionally strong, but now the barrier between her mind and pain and sorrow was beginning to crumble and fall. I don’t think anything could save her.

Not knowing what to do, I stood and ran into my room, head in my hands. I stayed there the rest of the afternoon, lying on my bed, crying. “So much for good luck,” I sobbed to myself, remembering what my father said about the picture I gave him for his trip.

Hurricane Gaston passed over Florida as a Category Two hurricane. Nothing major happened – a few shingles blew off of our roof, and we lost power for around 28 hours. And my father never returned home, and was then proclaimed dead. I didn’t want to believe that what had happened actually happened. For days after the hurricane had gone, I was out on the beach every morning until sunset, squinting at the horizon. Maybe a small boat would speed into the harbor, carrying my father with it. Or perhaps he would wash up on the beach.

But my tenacious efforts to find any remaining clue that would lead to my father were futile; I eventually gave up my searching.

Three years after that hurricane that snatched away one of the most important things in my life, I walked along the beach near my house. A single tear fell down my cheek, as I sat on the soft sand that was situated further up on the beach. I struggled to try to comprehend what had actually happened that day, and why God, who was supposed to be protecting my family and me, did not do so.

My attention was diverted to something washing up along the beach. It was rectangular and flat, and glinted in the setting sun. Squinting, I tried to make out what it was – something with a border of wood and a center of glass. Could it be? Running over, I discovered, to my horror, that it was. I picked up a rectangular picture frame, now wet and sandy. A few more tears fell down my cheeks. I removed and pocketed the soggy picture from the frame; the picture I had given my father exactly three years ago. The picture of me hugging my father as he showed off the first of his many big catches. What I would give if I could hug him again, and feel the warmth in his heart once more. He shouldn’t have gone so suddenly.

I turned away from the ocean; I couldn’t bear the sight of it any longer. A force that took away something so precious in my life shouldn’t deserve to be looked upon. I ambled up the beach with my back slumped and took one last gaze out at the orange disk in the sky. I noted the patterns of the waves, watched them cover up the tracks I’d made, and thought, “Memories are like footprints on the beach – unless made at the right time and place, they can be washed away forever.”