Beach Dreams

After recovering from our disastrous dining experience, we moved the next morning from our Virginia Beach hotel to our Nags Head, NC beach house. The drive was pleasant, the weather nice. The house is wonderful, right on the beach. From the deck you can watch the waves roll in and break on the sand. This evening we saw dolphins cresting just outside the breakers.

My kids are in heaven. My wife is happy, too.

One small disappointment – my sister and her family are delayed, and now won’t arrive until Wednesday afternoon. Our ‘sunrise ceremony’ will be a bit delayed.

I’m not sure I’m ready.

Anyway, we took a stroll on the beach after dinner, washed up, read books to the boys and got them to bed. My wife and I did the rest of the unpacking and we went to bed as well. It wasn’t such a great nights’ sleep last night, after all.

I was sure tonight would be better. I went to bed with every expectation that it would be.

I woke up a conscript in the Roman Army.

A blood red sun rose over a placid body of water. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked around at the uncountable centurions surrounding me. They were strong, resolute, firm of hand, secure in the conviction of their ultimate triumph. I was awed to be in their company.

Suddenly a runner appeared, looked around, saw me and stepped forward. “Sir,” he said, “the Generals require your presence immediately!” Saluting smartly, he motioned for me to follow.

Sir? Generals?

He led me through camp to a low rise where I saw two figures silhouetted against the sky, conferring, gazing over the field and out to the sea. Spread out before them were an array of battlements never before witnessed by these two eyes. As we approached the runner fell to his knees, averted his eyes, and said, ‘Your Generalships, the one you have requested is here.”

They turned, and I saw at once why the runner knelt. Resplendent in their glory and boyhood stood the two child-Kings of the modern world – Christophe’ the Strong and Tomas’ the Fierce.

Christophe’ the Strong, he of the fair hair and green eyes, tall and proud. His speed, quickness and agility belie his youthful countenance. His sharp mind and powerful command of language make him a natural leader. He asks nothing of his men that he cannot do himself, has not done countless times before. With Christophe’ leading a charge, victory is all but assured.

Tomas’ the Fierce, he of the fairer hair and dark brown eyes. If possible, more youthful that Christophe’. How many have looked upon him, smaller of stature, and mistaken his innocent brown eyes for those of a weakling, only to suffer a swift and terrible fate? Men in camp still tell the story of the unlucky Captain of the Guard who, thinking he was out of earshot, referred to him as ‘Tomas the Diminutive.’

Tomas’ cut him down like winter wheat.

They wasted no time. “Dadalos the Wise, we seek your council before the battle is engaged.”

Dadelos the Wise?

I approached, deferentially. “How may I be of assistance, your Majesties?”

Christophe’ said, “The enemy will come in from the sea. We’d like you, with your years of experience, to review our battlements and troop placements.”

Tomas added, “We are counting on you, Dad – I mean, Dadalos. Do not let us down.” His brown eyes burned with intensity. “This is a battle we must win.”

I gazed out over the field. They had done well. A series of interlocking walls and moats would funnel the attackers into a central corridor, where dozens of Seashell Centurions waited behind white ceramic armor. The main berms were reinforced with material taken from the sea itself – huge, fat walls with armor plating.

It was as if I had built it myself. With one small exception.

It would have been easier to defend if it had been built on the next rise, the one behind us. The one about ten yards further to the West.

“Who is this enemy of which you speak, young Generals?” I asked.

Christophe’ and Tomas’ glanced at each other, uncertain.

“We know not,” admitted Tomas.

Christophe’ said, with an edge to his voice, “It matters not. Now, quickly, Dadalos, your thoughts. They will arrive with the tide.”

I told them they had done a masterful job. I gently suggested some minor modifications – a few extra Centurions here, adding a bit to that wall there, deepening one of the moats. But these were truly minor changes, I told them. The final outcome would not rest on these changes. They had done a job worthy of their men, their nation, and their legacy.

The outcome of the battle, I told them, was already determined.

With energy and vigor they leapt onto the field, rallying their troops, creating the intensity they would need to wage the war at hand.

Finally everything was in place. The young Generals returned to the rise from which they would direct the battle. They bade me to join them. And so I did.

We gazed out over the placid sea, waiting for the enemy to appear. We expected them to come over the horizon like a tsunami, a screaming horde, a heathen tide to be turned back by the mighty Seashell Centurions.

It wasn’t to be. In fact, it was a stealth attack. First a feint from the right, testing the outermost wall, easily repelled. Another probe, center, also repelled. Then nothing.

Christophe’ and Tomas’ were jubilant. “See, Dadalos, we shall prevail!”

Then a stronger push, again from the right, followed immediately by another. The outermost wall began to crumble. Tomas’ leapt into the fray, rallying the troops, going so far as to wade in with his own shovel to beat back the invader. The grim determination on his face gave testimony to his name, Tomas’ the Fierce.

Oh, the minstrels will sing for thousands of years of the events of this day; how the two young Generals fought so valiantly, so bravely, so futilely, in their efforts to defeat the one enemy that could not be defeated; how they stood at the end, back to back, wielding their shovels until they could wield them no more, finally collapsing in frustration and tears as their empire slowly crumbled under the ultimate irresistible force.

I seek no glory for myself with this next statement, I present it only for the scribes so that future generations may learn of the life and times of the two young Generals. Just before all was lost I scooped them up, took them over my shoulders and carried them away to safety.

From the top of a far rise we sat, surveying the remains of the battlements that were no more. Silent, we watched for some time, the only sound that of the pounding surf.

Christophe the Strong finally broke the silence. Quietly, sadly, he said, “Dad – I mean, Dadalos – how did we go wrong?”

I paused, looked into their faces, their innocent young eyes. They should not have such weighty matters upon their shoulder at such an age. Yet I knew also this defeat would make them stronger, more formidable for the challenges that lie yet ahead. And so I chose my words carefully. “Young Christophe’, young Tomas’,” I said, “no mistake was made. You prepared for an enemy you could not have understood. You see, your enemy did not come in from the sea.” I paused, looked to the east.

“Your enemy was the sea.”

Christophe’ the Strong and Tomas’ the Fierce looked at each other.

They looked at me.

Tommy said, “Okay. Can we go have lunch now?”

It’s great to be The Family Man.