Starfish

Walking on the beach early this morning, I found what, if I had held them all together, might've amounted to a fistful of starfish. 

They were washed ashore, scattered along the Atlantic coastline. I kept bending down to pick them up, finding that their little sand sifting legs had been bitten off.  One was dead. He was crispy and floated when I lobbed him back into the surf but the others were all alive: tawny, malleable and pulpous within in my palm. 

Squinting into the sun, I tried remembering where I'd read that starfish will grow their legs back if permitted to survive. Tossing them into the ocean as I walked along, I scanned for more. I enjoyed scouting for them, grabbing them, and throwing them in, a little starfish project for the day! I was  saving something (yay!) and was "making a difference to that one!" just like in the Chicken Soup for the Soul story which I'd read 20 some-odd years ago.

Later, I came back to the house and curiously Googled "what eats starfish?". I thought for sure it would be "seagulls" but the first answer was "sharks". 

Ugh.

So I tossed stumpy, defenseless starfish back into the ocean to drag themselves one legged across the sea floor with the sharks that liked to eat them? 

Great. 

Tumbling it around in my mushroom of a mind, the curious encounter with the starfish seems more and more like a message from the universe. It's sort of an analogy for life. When injured or defeated, do we throw ourselves back in the fray and bravely splash around, preparing to fight what is devouring us or do we stay limbless on the beach, knowing we are slowly perishing but feeling comfortable with the idea that least it's a warm, slow, certain sort of perish and not a surprise chompy one? 

Truth be told, I'm thinking I might be more of a slow perisher.  I fondly remember being a daredevil who flung herself asunder, emerging stronger for it, regenerating legs and handling adversity like a (sea) star but lately, I am less sure floating around in the foamy breakers of my life.

People see me and throw me back, thinking that I can handle the crashing waves, thinking that I can reconstruct my missing parts, but most days I am chum.

I don't want to be chum.

So if the first step to becoming less shark bait and more star-like is acknowledging this, then surely the second step must be to swim, even with only one functional leg, and take some chances. I decided to write this piece and chuck it out there even though it's not perfect and it probably won't get me a book deal and I won't be suddenly asked to write for my favorite nostalgia-based television show because of it, but at least I'm not lying on the beach dying a slow death because I am missing a few parts. In fact, I'm sort of growing accustomed to the idea that I am an imperfect half-legged starfish. At least that makes evolution possible for me. 

So, I am committing to blogging more regularly and flinging it out there, barnacles and all. 

And then, this afternoon, I saw a ten foot bull shark in 3 feet of water. Truly, I did; and where I joined the other folks around us pointing, afraid of the possible consequences, I really wanted that shark to circle back so I could look him dead in the eye and say, "Not today, buddy. I'm growing legs."

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Marco Polo...Roles Defined.

Marco Polo, you know, the old-timey swimming pool game where a crowd of leaping, back arching participants holler "POLO" every time the sucker who's "it" yells "MARCO" all the while shut eyed and lunging, reaching to grab hold of someone in an effort to no longer be "it"...well, to my delight I see it's still being played today despite kids having a million other electronic options and things to keep them indoors and entertained on a hot sunny April day.

However, it occurred to me, watching a gaggle of young'uns in our condo association pool this afternoon, that you can tell a lot about a kid by how he plays Marco Polo. 

What follows are my personal observations:

1. First, there is the kid who yells "not it" every time it's time for someone to be "it". This kid is observational and quick and will not consider taking a turn at being "it". He is usually one of the older kids in the group and he makes sure that the resounding cry of "not it" follows immediately after or even during a final declarative pre-game anecdote being offered by a parent or some other rule explainer. The "not it" is uttered so quickly it comes out as a single word: "nottit!" typically followed by foot shuffling and  absentminded swimsuit crotch adjusting after it's been yelled...signaling some sort of (presumably ethical) uncomfortableness, but not the same sort of discomfort that would appear to exist were he "it". Being "it" is far worse than being obnoxious in this kid's book. 

2. Second, there is the kid who refuses to be caught by the one who is "it", even though not being tagged involves routinely breaking the rules of the game. This kid swims mainly in the deep end, 90 percent underwater, so as to not have to utter the word "POLO"...ever. If he gets too close to the one who is "it" and "it" child clearly bellows "MARCO" within an inch of this kid in a blind and soaking stupor, the kid who refuses to be caught dives under and swims about 6 feet away. He then emerges sputtering a weak-assed rendition of "POLO". This kid is usually slower, both physically and intellectually than "nottit!" kid but seems to never be "it", either, due to his ability to hold his breath long term underwater and a complete disregard of the rules. 

3. Third, there is the poor kid who is always "it". Customarily small and probably kid one or two's little brother, this one usually ends up, at some point, angrily splashing everyone in circles while screaming "MARCO" over and over again in an exasperated, tinny, high-pitched whine. No one wants to be this kid. There might even be a complete break in the action and an enraged "MOM!!!!" thrown in there because this kid is so sick of being "it" in every damn game he bothers to play with his siblings and he can't ever seem to catch someone, or if he does, he is unlucky enough to catch kid 4.

4. Fourth, there is the kid who, when caught, won't accept being "it" and exits the pool, feigning a cramp or loudly declaring the need for a 5 minute bathroom break despite the fact that everyone saw him huddled in the corner by the jet and pissing in the deep end three minutes prior. This kid will weasel his way out of being "it" by any measure necessary and will usually hang out next to Grandma while sticking his unwashed-from-the-bathroom hand in the Cheetos bag before entering the pool again; smashing the whole neon orange handful in his mouth and smearing the crumby residue on the cement deck upon entry. 

5. Then, finally, we have the kid who steps up and decides he will be "it". Ordinarily, this is the athletic kid who either joined the game late as an onlooker or the kid who knows he will grab kid number one or two or four by the scruff of the neck and shove their faces in the water as soon as he can once he assumes the role of "it". I happen to enjoy watching this kid meter out justice in the pool. 

And I wonder what these kids will be like in adulthood.

I played Marco Polo with my best friend and her brother in their pool all summer long growing up. We took turns being "it". We got caught and accepted it. We goodheartedly cannonballed one another when it was called for, and we stayed chummy throughout the day despite being in the water, sometimes, from noon 'til dusk. No one weaseled out of the dictates of Marco Polo or any other childhood group game. Interestingly, we all turned out to be decent human beings. Correlation? Perhaps. However, I really do think you can tell a little about how a kid is going to turn out watching him play an afternoon's worth of Marco Polo. 

Which kid were you?

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