Polio and the Ocean
MAY 2, 2020
You would think that after contracting the polio virus “down the shore” at age 12, my mother would grow up to become a lifetime ocean-hater. But thankfully she managed to remain an ocean-lover. I’m not sure that she ever went back to that Jersey shore after her year-long recovery from polio, most of it spent being paralyzed and in an iron lung.
By the time she had married my father, at age 20, she was back in boats with him and back on the water. Her love and her trust in my dad was so evident by her return to the beach, to the water and eventually to them buying a small sailboat.
My own earliest memory of the ocean was summer of 1962; we had just moved from New Jersey to California. I was 5 ½. My sister was 2 ½. My mother was 25 ½. And my dad a few years older, 32!
Although I never felt poor, I know that we were not rich. It took my dad over three months of being here without us, to save up enough money to send for my mom, my sister and me. He wanted to make a better life for my mom, one that was void of snow and ice. And it took my mom selling nearly all of our furniture and toys, leaving her parents, her friends and family, and lastly leaving her beloved baby grand piano - to pay off all their debt. She bravely boarded that flight to LA alone, with two little kids and $16.00 in her wallet.
After we were settled in to our new apartment, we took a lot of car rides on the weekends. Exploring our new home and what seemed like paradise, especially to my parents who were born and raised on the east coast. California was so clean my parents would often say. I was allowed to play outside barefoot, and my summer shoes now consisted of what we called “stickin’toes or zories”. Thin vinyl flip-flops in bright colors, bought cheap at Fedco.
I remember very distinctly our first ride to see the beach. We drove from Baldwin Hills to Santa Monica. I held my dad’s hand for that long walk from the parking lot to the sand. I’m sure my mom stayed in the car with my little sister. The walk would have been too much for her. I wasn’t wearing a bathing suit, but I was wearing shorts, and my stickin’toes. Walking towards the water, I can remember the bottom edge of my dad’s blue beach shorts, and the side of his thigh in my peripheral, and me keeping one hand on the hem of those shorts as we walked down towards the ocean.
When the parking lot and car were no longer in waving sight, I put my hand in my dad’s hand and I can remember being quiet for once, and taking it all in. He was silent, too. When we got to the wet sand I stopped to dig, to feel it, he said “come on bubby, let’s go down to the water”. I remember the smell of salt in the air and the power of the waves and the roaring sound with the spray as they crashed in front of us. We walked a few more feet, to stand in the water, and my grip on my dad’s hand tightened.
Standing next to him in the water, the strangest thing happened; as the waves came in they passed by us fast but calmly. But when they pulled out going very fast, I experienced the weirdest sensation of motion and I felt like I was moving sideways, away from him, and going very fast! I could feel the sand moving under my feet, but was I moving, too? I didn’t understand what this flying on the sand was all about! I was both terrified and in love, I screamed and grabbed my dad who started to laugh.
I watched a few more waves trying to figure it out. Each time I tried to keep my eyes in a place so I would know I wasn’t really moving. The water was not past my calves. I felt safe, until I was sure I was moving and I’d scream and grab onto my dad with both hands wrapped around his legs.
Again, my dad laughed, “don’t worry bubby, it’s just an optical illusion”. This explanation seemed to satisfy me, although as I grew up I realized my dad knew two technical terms. One was “optical illusion” - I’m sure due to his love for all Las Vegas-type magic shows, and the other was “super-imposed” due to his love of TV watching.
We must have headed back up to the car soon after the sand-flying, because my mom would have been waiting with my sister in the car all this time. She was physically handicapped from polio, so it would’ve been very difficult for her to walk so far in the soft sand.
Because of their love of the ocean, we wound up finding Mother’s Beach in Marina Del Rey. Back then in the 60s, before ADA and ramps and accommodations, you could park curbside at Mother’s Beach and the walk to the sand was short. Plus, that sand was densely packed and easier for my mom. My sister and I were happy playing at that little beach. My parents sitting on lounge chairs and reading the Sunday paper, I have such nice memories of our early days in California.
To this day I love being at the ocean; it is the only place I can truly relax. It’s where I can finally breathe.
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