Some of my fondest memories of childhood are from our family trips to South Padre Island. Those were the best times. The sun, the sand, fishing, it was a different world. The beach seemed so far away when I was little. From the moment we started packing to the moment we got there seemed like a lifetime. Cramped into the back of our Ford station wagon with my brothers and sisters gave me little choice but to try and sleep. That was the only way to make time not stand still. Sometimes we would stop and eat at rest stops before getting to the island. Mom knew what she was doing. It was almost impossible to get us to eat or drink anything once we got to the beach, so that meal at the rest stop might be the only one of the day. Bean,bacon,or chorizo and egg tacos, baked potatoes, chips, and sodas. Some days, if we were lucky, fried chicken or hamburgers. At the beach, if she was lucky, we would eat the sandy left overs.

As much as I loved the beach, there is something very special about just getting there. Those of us that were awake could smell the ocean air and maybe even see the water 10 minutes before getting to the bridge. I'm sure the whole car shook with our anticipation! If I was asleep then the bridge would wake me up. The old Queen Isabella bridge was put together in short sections and you knew you were on it when the car tires started hitting the seams of the bridge every few yards. It wasn't a loud sound but it would always wake me up with a smile. The thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump meant we were over water! That was an amazing feeling. 

Before I got really interested in fishing, the beach was a wondrous place. Running down the beach along the edge of the water, chasing seagulls, baby crabs, small fish, and looking for sea shells and sand dollars. It all seemed so magical. The beach didn't end in those days, and you could look out into the water and rarely see anything man-made. As I got interested in fishing the wonder went away. Fishing is fun, but there is little magic in it. Fishing demands patience and focus, and always ends in little or no satisfaction. As we age we are drawn to things like that. We try to find enjoyment in things that will slow us down.  I find myself lately going in the opposite direction. I want the wonder back. I want to focus on nothing and enjoy everything. I want to see everything for the first time, again.

When I was 7 or 8 I went to the beach with my older half brother, his kids, and some friends of theirs. I was real exited about this trip because it was the first time I was going to stay anywhere over night. My older brother loved to go to the far north end of island, way past the last beach access, park his car right on the beach, and do some surf fishing. We arrived early in the morning and pitched 2 large tents just 15 yards from the waves. We fished late into the night and I ate home-made bacon and egg tacos that mom had made for me. 

I didn't like fishing too much then, but I could not pass up a trip to the beach. I sat in the sun all day with my brother watching the tip of the fishing rods he set up in the water, looking for any signs of a bite. Afraid even to look away because we might miss one. I had promised my mom I wouldn't leave his side, so running down the beach by myself was out of the question. It was fun though. My brother was still watching the fishing rods when I went into one of the tents and fell asleep. Even the bad sunburn I got didn't keep me from smiling as I drifted off into sleep. I knew mom was going to be mad about it though. But that seemed so far away.

I woke up the next morning to the tent slapping me in the face, as the wind howled outside. One of the spikes on a corner of the tent had gotten loose so I went outside to push it back into the sand. The sun was just coming up. I could see a small ribbon of red and orange out behind the water. Everyone was still asleep and I went to the water and washed my face and wet my hair. I was in cut off jeans and a white t-shirt. I was a chubby kid. Not huge,  by any means, but I could go without eating for a few days without worrying about starving. Not today though, I came back to the tent and grabbed my lunch sack that mom had made for me and got out a can of Vienna sausages and some bread. I made a quick sandwich and ate as I watched the sun rise. Some seagulls came close, begging for food, but I ignored them. This chubby kid would not share today. 

When the sun fully arose over the horizon I was still the only one awake. There were no other cars on beach that morning (though there had been some at night). Looking south I could barely make out some of the hotels very far in the distance. To the north there was nothing but miles and miles of empty beach. I thought maybe I could walk north a little, after all there was no one around to "robar" me, which was what mom was afraid of, and maybe I could find some sea shells or sand dollars for her. I knew she would like that. She wasn't happy with dad for letting me go, telling him that I was too young and that I didn't know how to swim. Dad reassured her, saying I was too chicken to get in the water, and he was right, mostly. 

I put my empty lunch bag in another bag we had separated for trash, threw that next to the tent, and then walked north. The wind had died down and I enjoyed the cool water racing over my toes with the ebb and flow of the surf. The smell of sea and sand filled my nostrils. Every once in a while I would chase the waves out and let them chase me back in while singing "hey hey we're the Monkees!" I loved being a kid at the beach.

I walked farther, but kept looking back, making sure I did not get too far from the tents. I thought about getting into the water. I did know how to swim a little bit, after all. I had learned one day when the school took us on a field trip to the city pool. A friend of mine had told me that swimming in the ocean was not the same as swimming in a pool, but I don't know. How different could it be? So I started getting farther in to the water looking for shells. I collected some shells and got mad at myself for not bringing a bag to put them in. The water was now at my waist and I thought maybe I should try swimming a little. I looked back at the tents and no one was up yet. Then I thought about it. I thought what if I drowned and no one was around to get my body? Mom would be sad. I probably shouldn't try it. Plus, I had to put the shells I found in my short's pockets and they were getting full. I told myself that now for sure I should not try swimming. I would surely drown with the weight of all the shells I was carrying. Or worse, if a shark came after me how could I get away with all those shells slowing me down? Surely the shark could hear all those shells clacking away in my pockets. And I was sunburned! Sharks can smell sunburned people a mile away! I was like a bbq rib floating in the water. Heck no, not me. I would be an easy kill. I chose not to go for a swim. To this day I am good at talking myself out of things I did not want to do in the first place. 

As I got out of the water and headed north again, I saw a man in the distance. I was sure I had looked in that direction just moments before, and there was no one out there. There were no cars out there so this man either walked over the dunes or had come from miles away. He was wearing something I had no name for. It looked like a long dress, but it wasn't a girl's dress. It was like a blanket with a hole in it for his head, just draped over his body, but it wasn't that either. It stretched down to his ankles and he had what looked like a rope tied around his waist. For some reason the word "hippie" came to mind, though I didn't know why. I knew the word from somewhere, but I don't think I had ever seen a hippie or even knew exactly what a hippie was. 

I started walking back to the tents, faster than I had left them. I don't think I was scared of this guy as much as I was scared that he came out of nowhere. I was trying to be real careful of my surroundings because I didn't want anything to happen that would prevent my mom from letting me come back to the beach without her. As I walked the shells rattled in my pockets. I didn't know if the man had seen me but I didn't look back to find out. I just kept walking. I covered half the distance to the tents when all of a sudden one of my pockets gave out and the seashells fell through to the wet sand. I knelt down and started picking them up. As I grabbed them I noticed one of them was not a seashell at all. It was actually a rock. The kind of rock I could find any day on the dirt road in front my house. It was brown, flat, and smooth on one end. As I looked at it, it came to mind that it was in the shape of a fish, or more accurately, a whale. The larger smooth and rounded end had a groove along part of it that formed the mouth of the whale, and there was something attached to it that formed the eye. I thought it was maybe a piece of tar or something and tried to remove it but couldn't. I had never seen a rock like this at the beach, and it seemed kind of fitting that when I did it would be in the shape of a whale. It was so cool. To this day I don't know if it fell out of my pocket with the shells, or if it was on the wet sand where I dropped the shells. 

I decided to get all the shells out of my other pocket and placed all of them into the folded up front end of my shirt. I don't know why I didn't think of that in the first place. The whale rock was the last one I was about to put in the fold of my shirt when I noticed a pair of feet right next to me. They had on the oldest and ugliest pair of sandals I had ever seen. I looked up and it was the hippie. I glanced south towards the tents and I was still about a football field or more a away, and I was still the only one awake. In my head I could hear my mom telling my dad that someone was going to steal me. I felt like running, but didn't. 

"What have you got there?", he said, pointing to the whale rock. I didn't say anything right away. I felt like dropping everything and running but for some reason I thought that would be, I don't know, maybe rude. "It's a regular rock" I said, "But it's kind a shaped like a whale". I handed it to him and he put it close to his face and gave it a good long look. He had a brown hair, mustache, and a scraggly beard. He was old, maybe around 30 or 35.  "It's a happy whale!" he said with a smile. He handed it back to me and we both started slowly walking towards the tents. I looked at the rock again and he was right. The whale did seem like it was smiling. 

As we walked I looked down and saw his sandals again. I guess I was nervous and didn't know what to say. "Those are the ugliest sandals I have ever seen!" He looked at me and looked down at his feet and laughed. "You're right", he said. "But they are the only ones I have." He wasn't embarrassed when he said it. But I think I was embarrassed for him. Kids get embarrassed about all kinds of things when adults are around. They always expect interaction and I always felt I would get it wrong or be inappropriate. I didn't like to lie to adults when I was that age. So I basically tried to stay away from them. I got over the lying part a few years later. 

We continued walking and talking and the man seemed kind of nice. I asked him if he was a hippie. He asked me if I knew what a hippie was and I told him I didn't know, but that I was pretty sure they wore ugly sandals. He laughed again and this time I laughed with him. He told me he had been called a lot things in his life but that was the first time he had been ever called a hippie. I didn't know whether I insulted him or not, but I was embarrassed. 

There was something very peaceful about him. As we walked I felt at ease, and I think it was because he didn't seem to concentrate on me.  He looked at the sky, ocean, sand, and only looked at me when I spoke. I liked that. He didn't make me nervous like other adults did. 

Before I knew it we both sat on the wet sand and started playing with the water, as the waves came and left. We dug holes with our hands and watched the surf fill them up and then drain them until the holes themselves were gone. A feeling of comfort came over me that I don't think I ever felt with another adult stranger again. It was as if we had been friends forever. Like being with my friend Bobby from school, who I could share anything with.  It was just like that. We talked about the waves, the sun, school, my favorite teachers, music, just about anything. I told him I wanted to be in band when I got to 6th grade, but that I wasn't sure my parents could afford to buy me an instrument. I told him that I hated the lunches they gave us at school, and that I liked this girl named Dalila, and this girl named San Juanita, and this girl named Velma, and, well, you get the point. I told him I was afraid of bullies in school and that I didn't know how to fight. I told him the nurse at school was always so nice and that my teachers were so old and white. I told him I would eat a peanut butter sandwich every day after school and that my favorites were crunchy peanut butter and grape jelly, though sometimes we ate Apple Butter because that was the one they would hand out at the welfare office. There was no end to the things we talked about and I lost all sense of embarrassment.  Time seemed to stand still around him. I never had that feeling around anyone else again. 

But even time standing still had to end. I looked toward the tents and saw my brother standing there, looking in my direction. It was time to get back. I asked my new friend if he wanted some of the shells I had collected and he said no. He told me to take them all to my mom. I don't remember ever telling him that I was collecting them for mom. He just seemed to know that. I left him, feeling that I did not want to go. Before I left he told me to listen to my mom, and to take care of the whale rock because it was special. I said I would. I realized when I walked away that we didn't exchange names. But that didn't even seem to matter. I got back to the tents as my brother started packing up everything to go back home. I looked back down the beach but the hippie was gone. I felt real alone.

Leaving the beach is just as terrible as getting to the beach is wonderful. This time it was worse though, I think because of the friend I had made. Even today I hate driving away from the beach, and when I do I think of him. But that time was the worst. When I got home I took the whale rock and hid it under the house with all my other rocks. I had found 10 or 12 rocks over the summer that I found interesting. Some quartz, shale, rocks that were shaped funny, all kinds. I even had a rock that looked like white quartz and had what looked like a small fossil of a tree in it. Or at least some lines in the shape of a tree. I had placed all the rocks by one of the concrete blocks holding up our small wooden house. The feeling I brought back from the beach stayed with me for a while. But I was a kid, and kids forget everything. In a few days all was well and back to normal, and that day at the beach was gone.

Months later my brother Albert and I were sitting in the living room when we heard cats fighting underneath the house. It was an ugly fight. My dad, who was in the living room with us, told us to go make them stop. My brother and I ran out of the house and immediately started looking for rocks to throw at them. I grabbed a couple rocks from our drive way and then knelt by a corner of the house and started throwing rocks at the cats. I missed with both shots and then I found some rocks by one of the concrete blocks holding up the house, so I started throwing those. Before I knew it I saw my whale rock flying out of my hand in slow motion, slowly cruising away from my hand in a flat spin. But of course it wasn't going slow. It was flying fast as it hit one of the concrete blocks underneath the center of the house and shattered into several pieces. It was gone. In an instant I remembered every thing about that day at the beach. The hippie and everything he said came back to me. I remembered what a good day it was. I felt bad about losing the rock, but the memory of the day brought me good feelings. The cats escaped unscathed. 

I wondered where the hippie might be. I wondered if he was just a homeless man wandering the beach that day. But I don't think he was. He seemed like so much more than a regular person to me. I felt really different when I was with him.I also wondered why my older brother didn't get mad at me for talking with strangers, or why he did not mention him at all when I got back the tents. A few days later my older brother came by the house for a visit and I asked him about that day. He said he didn't know what I was talking about. He said he saw me out there playing near the water but no one was with me. I didn't know if he was joking or not. I wanted to talk to someone about that day. I wanted someone to tell me why that day was different from other days. But I never spoke to any one about it again. I kept it all to myself and pushed it to the back of my mind.

It would be years before I would visit that memory again. One day I was sitting in my science class in the 7th grade. It was one of my favorite classes ever, with Mrs. Merrill, one of favorite teachers ever. Every one had to write a small paper about any science topic, and then present it to the class. One of the other students wrote a paper about recent events in which whales had been beaching themselves in record numbers across the U.S. and other countries. Whales were dying by the hundreds. Like in all the other presentations, questions were allowed after the person finished. One of the students asked if scientists knew why the whales would do something like that. The presenter said that no one knew why. He said that there a possible theory that suggested that the whale's ability to make sense of direction was messed because of some disease or bacteria. Another theory was that the earth's magnetic field goes out of whack for little bit and that messes up the whales sense of direction. 

Then Mrs. Merrill got up in front of the class and asked if anyone else had any ideas why whales would beach themselves. The whole class was quiet. Every one looked at each other in an awkward silence. I don't know why I did what I did next. I raised my hand and said, "because it makes them happy". I knew it sounded stupid the moment it left my mouth. Every one in the class laughed at me. I felt like such an idiot. Mrs. Merrill quieted the class and asked me to explain. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't say I got the answer from a hippie and a rock that looked like a happy whale. Instead I said science can't answer everything. I said that sometimes there are things that happen that have no explanation. Things that science will never understand. The class laughed again. Mrs. Merrill tried to quiet them down but the bell rang and every one ran out, some still laughing at me. Mrs. Merrill stopped me on the way out and sat me down in one of the desks at the front of the class. She told me not to worry about the other kids. She said it is okay to believe in things you can't see or prove. She told me that she is a scientist at heart, but even she knows that there is so much in this world that science will never understand. And she said that sometimes we have to look at the cues in nature, people, and even within ourselves to find the truth. She made me feel much better. I almost told her about my day with the hippie and the whale rock, but I had to go to my next class. Still though, I felt like she understood what I meant. I felt a little like that day at the beach. I looked at her as I walked out of the room and I noticed something about her that I had never noticed before. She had on some of the oldest and ugliest sandals I had ever seen. I glanced up at her again and she winked at me. I walked out of that class feeling like the smartest student in the school.

Over the next several years I ran into the memory of the hippie and the whale a few times. Several things trigger it, and it always brings a sense of peace and joy. I find that I remember that day when I need the world to go away. I find that day when things go wrong and everything is so confusing. I go back in my mind and try to find that spot on the beach where I told this stranger everything I felt and wanted in this world. The spot where I expressed more in words than I ever had before, or since. I want to find that spot and talk to him again. Ask him why everything was so right that day. 

But there is something about those memories in your life, the ones that you never share with others. They are yours alone. And because they are, they fall prey to your doubt. And as I get older and the memory gets further from me I begin to wonder if any of it was real. I don't know. But us old folks are like that. We begin to doubt our memories, even the good ones. And the more we do, the further we get away from who we once were.  I think sometimes, that maybe one day when they tear down the old house, I will go look for the pieces of my whale rock and see if I can find out the truth about that day. I want to know why that day has followed me my whole life. But sometimes I think, maybe not. Sometimes I think that my answer lies in the fact that the hippie and the whale never left me. Even to this day. And that is all I need to know.