The Relentless Rhythms of the Waves

We Had It All

We met when we were sixteen. I was closer to seventeen, she was closer to fifteen. She liked to tell people that ours was a May-December romance, just to hear my reaction. I’d say, “I’m only seven months older! We were born in May and December of the same year!” Then we would both laugh and laugh, like it was our own private joke, which it was. Gosh, she was funny.

I knew from the first time I saw her that she was out of my league. I was not particularly handsome at sixteen. Nor was I particularly athletic. I may have been slightly above average in the classroom, but I could not keep up with the really smart kids. I had friends, some of whom were quite popular, but I was never the hub of any friend group. I was always a spoke in the wheel.

She was the new kid in school, having moved with her family from Rochester, New York. Her dad was a big shot with Kodak, her mom was a lawyer. Kodak was huge back in the day, but her father recognized that Kodak had already begun a slow slide into oblivion. He resigned and found an aerospace job in my town, which is why I celebrate the decline of Kodak at every opportunity.

She was pretty, smart, witty, down-to-earth, and charismatic. People were just drawn to her. She could make whomever she was with feel like the center of the universe and was incapable of insincerity. I loved that about her.

I wish I had had the confidence to walk up to her and ask her out. But, I didn’t, so it took a while for us to get together. As I said, she was the new kid and she was a little bit unsure of where she fit in, and I had my own issues.

Eventually, she became more comfortable, and her light really began to shine. In class, in extracurriculars, whatever it was, she was a star. And I was, well, me. A spoke in the wheel. We had some classes together, so we talked a little bit, but I figured the best I could do was admire her from afar.

Near the end of our junior year, she shocked the living hell out of me. She walked right up to me and said, “I think we should go on a date.” Given that I had fantasized about that moment practically since we had first met, you’d think I would have had a snappy comeback all prepared. I didn’t. I said, “Uh, are you, uh, talking to me?” She smiled that smile of hers and said, “Do you see anyone else around?” I acknowledged that, in fact, I did not. “Well?”, she said. “Uh, okay.”, said me. I wasn’t exactly Mr. Smooth. Looking back, I think of that as the day my life really began.

It was a little difficult for us at first. I had her up on such a high pedestal that I couldn’t help but feel unworthy. After a while, she sat me down and said, “Look, I think we can be really good together, but you have got to find a way to relax. I can’t possibly live up to the image you have of me. We have to see ourselves as equal if this is going to work.” She was right, of course.

I took her words to heart and started to assert myself more. It was no coincidence that our love began to blossom. I remember our senior year of high school as a big blur of happiness. We studied together, went to football games, school dances, and did all the things that high school sweethearts do. It was fantastic. We fit together like two puzzle pieces. But, it was not to last.

Her dream was to follow in her mom’s footsteps and go to Princeton to get a law degree. When she received word that her application had been accepted, well, the writing was on the wall. We both were aware that I would not have the grades or the funding to go to Princeton.

She knew for quite a long time about being accepted into Princeton before telling me. She was well aware as to what it could mean for us, and was afraid of my reaction. But, she had to tell me eventually. When she did, it did not go well. I was angry at not being told, I was angry that she was moving away, I was angry that she was causing us to break apart. We were mature enough to know we had something special, but too young to know how to keep it, I guess.

I desperately wanted her to stay, but I knew she had to go. She offered to rescind her application to Princeton and go to a nearby state college, and I believe she would have, if I had asked her to do so. As painful as it would be to let her go, it would have been worse to force her give up her dream, to stay with me. How could she not resent me, sometime down the road? So, we said our goodbyes, and as she got in her car, I called out, “Have a nice life.” I didn’t know if she heard me or not.

We made a clean break and went on with our lives, but, man, it was tough. She went off to Princeton, I felt adrift. I decided to go to the local junior college for a year, then I applied to the state college about an hour away from home. I got a job at the campus radio station, mainly because I needed employment and they needed a warm body.

I liked working at the radio station. After a while, they let me do some voiceovers, not only the actual speaking parts, but the producing and technical aspects of them, as well. Then they asked if I would be interested in doing an overnight show on the weekends, in the style of the early days of FM radio. I would pick the music, and do basically whatever the hell I wanted. As the station manager said, they did not expect much of an audience, anyway.

Surprisingly, the show became quite popular around campus and they expanded it to five nights a week. It seemed as though I might be finding my niche in the world. Radio. Who’d have thought? But, with graduation looming, I was unclear about my future.

One day, out of the blue, I received a call from a program director for a radio station in Philadelphia. He said he had heard my show and wanted to do the same kind of thing in Philly, and would I be interested. I told him that I most certainly would be interested, but only if I had complete control over the show and its content. He did not like that at all, coming from some punk college kid. We ended our conversation cordially, but I thought I may have blown a chance at a great job in the big city.

A couple of weeks later, the guy calls and says they will give me basically whatever I want to come to Philly and do my show. Couldn’t really turn that down, could I?

So, off to Philadelphia I went. And it was great. I quickly built a loyal fan base that continued to grow. People were responding to my “groove,” as an FM jock from the 60s or 70s might have said. I was doing what I wanted, and I was being compensated nicely to do it. Life was good. I had done what adults do - I had moved on.

One morning after I had finished my show, I walked out to the parking lot and I saw someone leaning up against my car. It was my long lost love. Talk about a shock. We hadn’t seen each other since we broke up. As I slowly approached, she saw me and walked toward me. When we got within a couple of feet of each other, we both stopped and she said, “I think we should go on a date.” I said, “Uh, are you, uh, talking to me?” She smiled that smile of hers and said, “Do you see anyone else around?” I acknowledged that, in fact, I did not. “Well?”, she said.“ And I said, “No.”

It obviously was not the answer she was expecting, but she said, “Okay, I get that. It has been a long time, and I know you have a life here that maybe you do not want disrupted by the past. Maybe we could just go get a coffee somewhere and catch up a little bit?” I said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She said, “Okay. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I said, “What?” She goes, “I’m going to meet you out here tomorrow and ask you again. And if you say no, I’m going to be out here the day after, and the day after that, however long it takes for you to agree to meet with me.”

Which is what she did. She was by my car every morning for the rest of the week, asked me to meet her for coffee and when I’d refuse, she’d say, “Okay, see you tomorrow.”

By Thursday afternoon, I began to think that perhaps there would be no harm in meeting for coffee. Friday morning I said yes. Once we got over the initial awkwardness, the words and feelings flowed like a raging river after a torrential downpour. We talked and talked and talked. We talked about anything and everything. The love we had for each other was still there. Strong as ever. The powerful emotional connection was still there. Strong as ever.

Turns out, she graduated from Princeton with honors, naturally, and was recruited by an important Washington DC law firm. She was in Philadelphia on business and happened to hear me on the radio one night. When she got back to DC, she quit. She was on the fast track to a partnership in a big deal law firm, and she just up and quit. And, moved to Philadelphia.

She had no trouble getting hired by a downtown Philly law firm. She revealed that she listened to me on the radio for months and months before summoning up the courage to contact me. She felt compelled to find out if there was anything left from what we had as kids. Spoiler alert: There was.

We were not going let this special thing we had get away from us again. The following year, we married on the beach at Cape May, on the very southern tip of New Jersey. I stopped doing my overnight radio show so that we could sync up our schedules and spend more quality time together. Eventually, I became the program director and general manager at the radio station. I’m not bragging when I say we had it all. Because we did.

When we were together before, we were young, yet we were both aware of our unique connection. The chemistry was undeniable. And, as grown-ups, we both knew it was the best part of our relationship. We shared a lot of the same interests and had loads of fun, and the sex was wonderful, but for us, it was never about any of those things. It was about the unshakable emotional connection we had that neither of us could have with anyone else.

As adults, we realized that the glue for our uncommon bond was trust. We could tease and joke around with one another because we each trusted that the other would never intentionally say anything hurtful. Never. This was especially important when we had disagreements. With that level of trust, there was no reason to take offense. And, we had a unique way of dealing with it immediately if either of us inadvertently stepped over the verbal line. If I said something out of bounds, she would say, in a snooty kind of voice, “Just what do you mean by that, big boy?” Then I would explain and/or apologize, we would both giggle and it was over. Just like that. If the roles were reversed, I would say, “Just what do you mean by that, little miss?” Then - explanation and/or apology, giggle, it’s over.

Describing how great we were together sounds like a fairy tale, doesn’t it? And, in many ways, it was. Our extraordinary relationship was not perfect, of course, but it was pretty darn good. That unshakable emotional connection was very powerful. It allowed us to overcome any obstacles that life put in front of us.

As we entered into middle age, we still felt like the lovestruck teenagers we used to be. We had the kind of relationship that made other couples envious, like “We want what the two of you have.” We shared love and trust, humor and honor. We were so lucky, so damn lucky. Until we weren’t.

It was a Friday night. She was coming home after working late. A car load of teenagers crossed the center line and crashed into her head on. She didn’t have a chance. She died at the scene. The kids had been drinking; the driver was three times over the legal limit. He died too.

Someone else also died that night. I did. Technically, I still had life, but everything else about me was dead. My life imploded into nothingness. I did not see how I could possibly go on living. I had to, though.

We had a conversation about dying one time and I said something about how I would not want to go on living if anything ever happened to her. She got really angry and said, “Don’t say that! Don’t you ever say that again! I want you to promise that if something happens to me that you’ll go on living your life. Promise me!” I said, “Okay, okay, I promise. Geez, why are you so worked up about this?” She had tears in her eyes and said, in a quiet, gentle voice, “Just promise me, okay?” “I promise”, I said. No matter how much I wish I had not made that vow, I will keep it. I would never dishonor her by allowing my grief to break my promise to her.

The pain is always there. It never goes away. It has been twelve years and it is still with me. Sometimes it is right out there for everyone to see. Sometimes it lurks under the surface - still there but allowing other things to happen before it takes over again. If I had the opportunity to live my life over, knowing what would happen and how almost unbearable pain would be my constant companion for the last half of my life, would I do it? Of course I would. No doubt.

The wounds will never totally heal. What time does, however, is to provide perspective. Sure, life can be unbelievably awful and unfair, but time gives us opportunities to remember that life can be joyous, as well.

Several years later, I was fortunate enough to meet another special person with whom to share my time on this planet. I met her through a mutual friend. We had each lost the loves of our lives and were both in a kind of purgatory, not knowing how to go on.

We have had an understanding from the very beginning. Neither of us could ever replace what we each had lost. But we did not have to spend the rest of our time on Earth wallowing in our grief, and all alone.

We have fun together. We travel, go to shows, and enjoy each other’s company. And, we each completely understand if the other needs private time, or a shoulder on which to cry.

I know my first love would be very happy for me.

Several times a year, I get in the car and drive to Cape May. I find that special spot on the beach, unfold my chair, and just sit there for hours. I allow the relentless rhythms of the waves to wash over me again and again. Sometimes, the tears flow. Sometimes, I close my eyes and listen to my still beating heart.

Cape May, New Jersey. A very special place.