“Sail the Pacific with me, boys,” he said. “We’ll see exotic places. Places you only dreamed of.”
The old man always talked of such things, but in 1982 we took him up on it. My cousin Randy and I set off on Gramps’s fifty-foot schooner.
I thought it meant snorkeling the legendary Jellyfish Lake in Palau. I thought it meant climbing to the lip of Bromo in Java. I thought it meant long, lazy afternoons sipping umbrella-shaded drinks on black sand beaches on Maui.
Instead it meant days spent staring mindlessly at featureless expanses of marlin-blue ocean, the sea air rustling past my sunburned ears—interrupted only by Grandpa’s tours.
“That, boys, is a genuine M3 Sherman tank,” he said. He spryly climbed aboard the rusting piece of machinery and proceeded to explain how it worked.
Randy nodded, red-eyed and completely stoned. I was going to start getting stoned too.
This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories or to submit your own, .