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Show captain noticed that this sleepy girl was also a smart one. Dolphin were also large fish, mahi mahi in Hawaiian. They, not Flipper, were the symbol for the Naval submarine fleet. When a sailor became a submariner, he earned his dolphins. Recognition that he too now had the right to swim below. What appeared initially empty, landless stretches of water interrupted only by wave, was actually quite full, full of bodies, of subs, of sailors, of fish. Bored with waiting for the first strike of the day, I peered over the side of the boat as we trolled around in sweeping circles. Water splashed me and I thought of sliding smoothly into the sea, joining the dolphin and tuna. How deep the water must have been here, deep enough to conceal entire mountain ranges, canyons, channels, and trenches. Deep enough to conceal the Pacific Fleet. Twenty years after having my picture taken on her father's submarine, I would write to Stacy, having learned that Mr. Kaup had died from brain cancer at the age of 55. I wrote to her about trips to the beach, and snorkeling, and the way her father always carried giant loads of body boards and beach chairs to and from the car. I wrote about his vibrancy and his laughter, his place in the world and in our lives. In deepest sympathy, I told a lie. For when I did think of Mr. Kaup, it was his absence that I recalled mostly, not his presence on a family outing. More often than not he would be "at sea" with his crew on the Tunny, leaving Stacy and her mom and her sisters a series of cold dinners while planning for his return six months down the road. Mr. Kaup must have lived half his life deep in the sea, fathering from a space without sky or land. Far from family and country, 171 |