I’m the reason we didn’t see the Blue Angels when they were in town last year. There’s no possible way I can shift blame or fault to anyone else.
I picked the waterfront location, got out the low lawn chairs (the ones that you can bring to a summer concert because they’re so low, but what the salespeople don’t tell you is that, at my age, they’re not just low, they’re a little injection of humiliation because once you’re down, you can’t get up without tipping to the side (not exactly elegant, nor does it protect your wine from spilling right over the top of the Plexiglas picnic stemware) or staying put until the musicians, roadies, and every other concert goer has left of their own physical volition while you wait desperately for an arm to hoist you up), and assembled an assortment of snacks and activities.
I figured once we got there, we’d get take out sandwiches from an upscale burger place. We’d make a day of it, leaving early enough to guarantee a fabulous spot for an overly long day with little to do except watch waves, chat, and wait for the Blue Angels to zoom and soar with breathtaking precision. I even got my husband to agree to come, although nothing in his nature looks forward to a family day at the beach; perhaps the fact that he’d get to witness one of the finest military precision operations tipped the scales in our favor.
Off we went, car piled with blankets and snacks and balls and books and the dreaded low chairs. We got a parking spot only two blocks from the beach. We hung out until the restaurants opened for lunch. We people-watched, oohed and aahed at adorable youngsters, grimaced and raised eyebrows at dubious fashion styles and over-exposed body parts we’d preferred not to see. We chatted, took pictures, watched waves and boats and swimmers. I picked up the book I’d brought and put it back down on the blanket; it would have been too strenuous to read. We began relaxing, in the way that happens only after you’ve been somewhere long enough doing very little, going nowhere, so the only thing your body can do is slow down. Breath seems to come easier, thoughts come slower, whole seconds go by and you realize you haven’t got a thing to say. My husband and I held hands; my son walked along the water’s edge. As more and more families staked a blanket-sized claim of the lawn and sand, it seemed we were all ready for the show. This was turning in to a fabulous day.
The anticipation began to grow and eventually we heard the tell-tale sounds of 6 Navy fighter pilot jets, creating not just the energy of sound but the impact of physical force reverberating through trees, air, chest walls. The show was about to start!
The engine roar kept coming, planes booming overhead and then continuing on. A glimpse of a plane or two, but they hadn’t started the loop-de-loops and spirals. Another blast of sound. And another. Craned necks. Then a murmur from the crowd as a vague realization took hold – the planes were flying away from us. No, it was just a matter of a few minutes, a few maneuvers, and they’d be overhead. We’d prepared since 7:30 am, been at the beach by 9:00. Surely we were going to see the show. All these other people had come for the show, too. We couldn’t all be wrong. We just had to be patient a tiny bit more, then we’d be rewarded with the spectacular show.
No one on our beach saw the show, the intricate precision choreography that looks, from below, as if the wings can’t be more than inches apart. We saw a few snippets of blue tail wings as they soared to their actual show location, hearing the trail of sound diminishing as they flew overhead and beyond us. They were headed toward a different beach, one that would have provided a complete and perfect viewing spot, if only we’d gone just three miles further south. We had spent one of our happiest and most relaxed picnics – ever – only to realize that the day was ending in crushing disappointment.
One disappointed threesome surrounded by a beachfront’s full of disappointed families. Parents informing their children, attempting to soften the blow that, no, the show wasn’t about to start after all, the show was over. We’d missed it. It had literally passed us by. My son was young enough that a few tears escaped in the car ride home; I was too old to cry at the lost show, but if I’d been alone I probably would have shed a few. I had tried so hard to craft a great experience, and we’d missed the show. Neither my husband nor I could miss the opportunity to turn it in to a teaching lesson (how not to focus on a disappointing/sad/unwanted turn of events to the point where you lose the experience of the whole; the risk of unfairly sullying and ruining an event by privileging the negative over the positive; blah, blah, blah), but I’m pretty sure I needed the lesson more than my son.
Of course, the day was great. Our usual fast and efficient clip of getting a LOT done was replaced with enough time to sit side by side, slowly recalibrating, coexisting and appreciating one another and not doing much else. It was a rare opportunity for us, and we took it. The story of the day we didn’t see the Blue Angels is now part of our family lore, a unified memory we can haul out any time we want to feel bonded.
Flying above most things
(photo used with permission of my son)
Our “the-time-we-went-to-see-the-Blue-Angels-and-didn’t” story will now be modified. It will be a more complex story line, matching the increasing complexity of my son’s entering the tween years. It will be something like, “One year, we went to see the Blue Angels and didn’t because Mom took us to the wrong beach. The next year, Mom and I saw the Blue Angels out our window from a plane, flying high above them.” Let’s hope that each year we miss the Blue Angels we’re having a different kind of adventure, creating synchronized memories and breathtaking moments of gratitude without leaving a single plume of smoke in our wake.
not much to say other than that i am enjoying reading these vignettes. keep it up! xoxo kathy