Personal Narrative: I Walk To The Beach

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After five days of nervous energy, at last, Malcolm is here in my apartment. I’ve uncorked a bottle of wine and prepared pasta with pecorino cheese and sausage for dinner. I pour two glasses of wine while he talks of how great it felt to drive the coast route. Something he hasn’t done in a while. And that he would have arrived earlier. Except Emese insisted to fix breakfast, and while eating, initiate him into the art of writing a screenplay.
After dinner, we walk to the beach. “You seem different here.” he says, “Happier than in Berkeley.”
“I am. It’s familiar territory. When I was a teenager I’d watch the surfing championships on television held in Huntington Beach. I dreamed of moving to Los Angeles one day. At the time, I had no idea
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I can’t, since my relationship with our dad had been no “Ozzie and Harriet” either. My father and I felt awkward in each other’s company. Unlike Tracy, he seldom encouraged me to do well in school with the hope of college one day. Since, she was the one that had report cards with all aces. While Bobby and I were “B” students, except for the fourth grade. When, I became a “C” student. My parents were disturbed when I showed them my report card. They met with my teacher who described me as a “backward” student who never raised my hand in class. The name stuck. And my parents were left with no clue how to fix me. But Tracy did. She helped me with my homework, and got what the real problem was. It wasn’t that I had a “lack of brains,” as she put it. Rather, “It’s dad, duh!” She was right. How could I concentrate on school work, when I feared for my life at …show more content…
“It’s a perfect day,” I say. When his eyes light up, I ask, “Do your kids surf?”
“They did in Hawaii when they were young. We’d go there during their summer vacation,” he says. “Now they prefer to spent time off with their friends.”
We eat fast. And once we’re done, Malcolm goes to get his surfboard. While I grab two towels, and several bottles of water and trail mix from the kitchen refrigerator for a snack, and a backpack for other essentials. Then, we’re off to the beach. The weather is ideal when we hit the shore. We find a spot on the sand close to the water. I sit and settle in on a towel. While Malcolm grips his surfboard. “Wish me luck,” he says, and heads to the water.
I watch as he paddles out beyond the breakers to the other surfers. Before long, they and Malcolm ride a 4-foot one into the shore. I anticipate this routine to go on for a while. So, I grab my backpack and his personal belongings, and walk along the shore. With no worries, I put one foot in front of the other. An hour later, I return and find Malcolm’s sitting on a towel, his body wet with salt water. “How was it?” I

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