Sea to Sea

When my brother and I were boys, my father promised us that he would take us anywhere in the world to celebrate our thirteenth birthdays.

“Anywhere?” we asked, our jaws nearly dropping into our cereal bowls.

“Anywhere,” said my father. “And I’ll try my best to make it happen. Which means that, Sam,” he looked at my brother, “you’ll have to start thinking of some places for next year. And in two years, Luke, it’ll be your turn.”

It wasn’t until nearly half a decade later that I was able to recognize the audacity in my father’s promise. He was headmaster of small, Christian school back then and earned an educator’s salary. My family wasn’t poor, but grandiose vacations were easily beyond our means. Sam and I didn’t know that, however. We were still boys, and Daddy was still Superman to us.

When Sam was twelve, close friendship often eluded him because he was overweight. His weekends rarely filled, so he would reinvest them into fishing trips with my father. So he requested a deep-sea fishing trip. Dad thought it was a great idea, and despite lacking appropriate gear or even a boat, replied, “I’ll see what I can do,”

Weeks later, at my Sam’s birthday party in our local park, my father stepped forward with a small envelope and quieted the boys who had come to celebrate. There in the park, he explained aloud the promise he had made to Sam and me. “And then Sam said he wanted to go on a deep-sea fishing trip.” The other boys looked to Sam and nodded approvingly. “Here you go,” he told Sam, handing him the envelope. “Happy birthday.” Sam dumped its contents into his hand. Two industrial fishing hooks. He looked at my father puzzled. “They’re from an old friend of mine who wants to take us tuna fishing in the Atlantic,” he said. Sam’s expression melted into awe. “How’s that sound?”

“Sounds great,” Sam said, and all of the boys cheered for my brother.

Two years later, my plan to have had honed the perfect trip was sabotaged by the rise of a dozen equally desirable vacations. “If you can’t decide where to go,” my father advised, “try deciding on something you like to do.” This instantly inspired an idea: biking. Biking is what Dad and I did; it was the only outdoor activity on which our interests overlapped and we relished in it. We would plan “bike days” weeks in advance, and when they arrived, spend them peddling throughout New Orleans from breakfast until sundown. Atop bikes, Dad and I could relax into each other’s company in a way not possible anywhere else. “That is a great idea,” he replied when I told him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

In retrospect, I do not recall my father being exceedingly absent from home during that time, but know now that many nights, after I’d fallen asleep, he must have gone back in to work overtime to afford our trip. Meanwhile, I daydreamed of what biking adventure Daddy would devise: a Grand Canyon trek? A treacherous Rocky Mountain trail? However, even these imaginings were dwarfed by Dad’s final proposal: a five-day bike ride across the full latitudinal distance of England.

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Six months later, Dad and I had landed in London and were on board a train headed north towards the Irish Sea. We whizzed through rolling pastures, which eventually gave way to small, rocky cliffs, and beyond those, ocean. Our final stop was Whitehaven.

Whitehaven was a seaside town, modest in size but bursting with character. Every building wore its Victorian design proudly, as if the whole town were donning its Sunday best. Even the residential structures announced their British origins. Narrow, cobblestone lanes spaced them all apart, every lane eventually leading downhill to the marina. Strolling about, suitcases clicking behind us, Dad and I passed quaint grocery stores and private booksellers. Everything in this coastal burrow was politely self-confident. “Here we are,” announced my father, stopping in front of our bed-and-breakfast.

Our hostess was frightening. At not older than forty-five, she had a centenarian’s posture and a ravaged smoker’s voice. I remember thinking of her, This woman murders her guests in their sleep. However, she turned out to be very hospitable and kept her bed-and-breakfast well. “Your bikes will be delivered tomorrow,” she wheezed after showing us to our room. We thanked her and headed out for dinner.

Dad and I meandered, more interested in exchanging stories than locating a restaurant. Dad shared with me that he had studied in London in college. He adored this country, thrived on being encased in its history. I had heard all of this before, but didn’t mind listening again.

“Did I ever tell you the story about the bagels?” he said. No, he hadn’t. “When I was in college — I must’ve been twenty-five or so then? — I was walking one morning in the city and decided that I wanted a bagel. After a bit, I spotted a bag of them in a shop window, so I went in. The clerk was there and he said, ‘How can I help you?’ and I said, ‘I’ d like to buy a bag of bagels.’ Well, he gets all stiff and looks at me for a sec.” My father acted out the uptight clerk. “And he says, ‘Excuse me. What do you want?’ I looked around and said again, “I’d like to buy a bag of bagels?’ Then he leans in and says, ‘Look, kid, you trying to sell books or something?’ I look around like — what? — and I say again, “I would like to buy that –‘ and I pointed to the bag in the window — ‘bag of bagels.” They were hanging right there in the window. He told me to get out, to get out or he was calling the police.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“Me neither. I could never figure it out. All I wanted was a bag of bagels, but he wasn’t having it.”

Dad’s story wasn’t particularly interesting — it lacked a climax, a plot, a punch line –, but there was something in the way he told it that drew me in, rendering me just as thoroughly confused by the clerk as he had been decades ago. He could have engulfed me in any tale here on the streets of Whitehaven. Here, he was my own C.S. Lewis, my Tolkien, and my Dr. Suess. All of his stories were enchanting.

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On the second day of our ride, Dad and I were beaming. The landscape outside of Whitehaven had begun to roll and bloom into an expansive green lush. And there we were, zipping through it like two Dorothies in Oz. Our daily rides were measured just so, so that by the end of the day, we were ready for bed, but never had to rush along the way. We often pulled over to take pictures or to share an improvised picnic. Despite our unrelenting exposure to one another so far, neither my father nor I had grown tired of the other’s company.

That day, our path led us up the side of a towering hill. At the peak, riders were rewarded with a majestic view of Dales beyond, and could then coast down the other side into a city below. At the top, the view was so grand that for minutes Dad and I could only absorb it. I picked through the valley with my eyes and on a hillock not far from us, spotted a ramshackle wooden hut complete with an old billy goat outside, smacking on his grass. “See that shack, Dad?” I said, pointing. “When I grow up and am a famous actor, that’s the house I’m going to buy you and Mom to live the rest of your lives in. Sam and I will air-drop you groceries. ” Dad laughed and laughed.

“I only have one question,” he said. “Does the shack come with the goat?”

“Sure does.” I said.

“Then sign me up.” We giggled as we gathered our things to begin our descent.

Cruising down the hill didn’t even require peddling. We slowly squeezed our brake when the path became tedious, then continued downhill. Occasionally, though, I would pedal just hard enough to feel like I was actually moving dangerously quickly, then brake before I crashed, adrenalized. Dad didn’t mind, even though I wasn’t wearing a helmet.

“C’mon, old man!” I teased at one point, zooming ahead of him.

“Your old man’s just taking his time,” he replied.

I turned over my shoulder to respond, but in doing so, veered my handlebars towards the edge of the road. Immediately, I jerked them back, but overcompensated. In the same moment that I lost balance, a stone came underneath my front tire and jammed it sideways. I flew forward off of my seat. I flipped toward the road. My father recalled seeing it as if in slow motion, and having a sharp awareness that my spine might crack on the asphalt. I landed on my head and rolled eight feet. My bike flipped over my body and off the path.

Daddy ripped off his bike and ran to me.

“I’m okay,” I said reflexively. I was crying.

“Is anything broken?”

I sat up. “No.” He looked me over for blood, anywhere. There was none.

“What hurts?” he asked.

“My head.”

“Let me see.” My skull was already forming a knot where I’d landed on it.

“That was scary,” I said.

“Can you stand up?” he asked. I could.

Standing, no blood dripped, no bones ached. Somehow, my accident had yielded nothing more than a bumped head. We thanked God above and wore helmets for the rest of the trip.

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The evening of our fourth day, our bikes laid in the grass off the side of unknown highway while Dad stood apart, rotating our biker’s map clockwise and back. “This just doesn’t make any sense.” We were lost, had been for quite some time. I was on my butt in the grass, tired and generally whining.

We began our day in small town called Alston, which marked the two-thirds waypoint of our trip. Exiting Alston was tricky because signage leading to our next destination, Nenthead, indicated the possibility of two routes, and we didn’t know which one was our designated bike path. We decided to consult a local.

“Nenthead!” she exclaimed. “Of course!” Twelve miles down “that-a-way,” she said, indicating the first route, would take us to directly to Nenthead. Probably wouldn’t be on our biker’s map; it was a shortcut. Twelve miles later, our path was yielding none of her promised landmarks. At a small construction site, we asked a worker to crosscheck the woman’s directions. “Oh, wow,” he said. “Yeah, that woman sent you way off course. What you’re going to want to do is head fifteen miles back uphill, and at the junction there, a sign should direct you back towards Nenthead.” So we followed his route — a two hour, uphill climb. My legs pained me and we were behind schedule. We no option but to crest the hill. At the top, however, there was no sign. There wasn’t even a junction. Locating ourselves on our map, it appeared he sent us up the neighboring hill to the one we needed to be on. We dragged our bike off the road and dropped them in the grass. Dad flipped the map over and back, twisted it round and round. “This doesn’t make any sense.” I sat in the grass and whimpered.

Ultimately, Dad discovered that the construction worker had directed us back to our trail, just not the part of it he had promised. One more significant ascent had to be made. Dad sat with me in the grass. “I’m really sorry about this, bud. But we got to get going. We’ll be riding in the dark if we don’t.”

“My legs hurt,” I said.

“You know what? Let’s pray for some relief here. Can you do that with me?” I sniffled and nodded. He held my hand. “God, Luke and I are in need right now. His legs are hurting, I’m pretty tired myself. Could you send us a little relief here? Please, God.” We opened our eyes. Daddy helped me to my feet and we gathered our things.

The trail uphill was one of the nastiest stretches we had encountered yet — muddy, steep, and riddled with potholes. At the top, the trail disappeared.

“Where’d it go?” I asked.

“Right there,” said Dad, pointing into the brush.

Carved into the grass was a five-inch wide dirt path. We consulted our map again: this thin dirt trail was called the Waskerly Way, and it was, indeed, our designated path.

“Think we might see some wascalwee wabbits on the Waskerly Way?” asked Dad. I giggled.

We mounted our bikes and tediously navigated the thin dirt route. From parts of it, we could see Hadrian’s Wall on the horizon. Not far down the path, a breeze swept in, cooling our backs. It stayed with us and gradually swelled into a gusting wind that propelled us forward without our even needing to peddle. We needed only to steer ourselves for almost five entire miles. “Woohoo!” we shouted. “This is great!” Dad said. We were blown farther and farther down the Waskerly Way and back out onto the road, and as the sun set, Daddy and I coasted into Nenthead.

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Daddy’s and my seats flying home had been upgraded. We prayed they would be. We had completed our ride the day before; I dipped my feet into the North Sea just as I had in the Irish Sea five days earlier, and it made me smile and laugh. Underneath the thrill of completion, though, Dad and I shared a mutual understanding that, like all great journeys, our relationship had been strengthened more in the peddling than in the arrival.

On the plane, I thought of my suitcase somewhere below me, and of a small peppermint jelly jar that I had packed inside it. The morning we embarked from Whitehaven, Dad and I decided to bottle some water from the Irish Sea. His idea was to dump it into the North Sea five days later as a symbol of our journey. We slipped into a grocery store, and in the jellies and jams aisle, found a container small enough to fit into our packs. It was a two-ounce peppermint jelly jar, and we carried to the marina.

I lowered myself onto shore beneath the dock, and when the tide rushed over my toes, I crunched them into the sand. The water was perilously cold. Ankle-deep, I unscrewed the lid from the jar and dug out its insides with my fingers, washing it clean in the surf. When the next tide rushed in, I dunked it under and screwed the top back on, trapping the water inside. I knew then that that I would keep this jar of ocean water for my own despite Daddy’s idea to dump it at the end of our trip. And I did; to this day, it rests on my desk and ripples when I type.

The sun above Whitehaven lit my jar and standing in the surf I inspected the grains of sand swirling inside. Then I clenched it close and turned back to the marina. There on the dock I spotted Daddy, and he was taking pictures of me.