An Elephant Memory (1976)

by Anthony Agotha

The cling-clang of the wires up the aluminum masts of the yachts in the river fade away as

we walk up Acoaxet Road. It’s morning, but already hot, and the softened tar of the street

burns the soles of my bare feet as we are on our way to Elephant Rock Beach on the

Atlantic.

On the left, as we leave our house I see the imperious Charlton House. I smell the sweet

honey suckle, it’s branches beetling over the New England stonewall.

A bit up the steep road we pass the old gas station of ‘The Habor Inn’ with its pre-historic

rock on the right that I can never climb. And then downwards where I can see the sea ahead,

over the swaying dune grass that marks the border from land to sand.

My mother scolds me for walking bare foot. I put on my flip-flops though the hard plastic

line strap irritates the blisters between my toes.

I squint my eyes against the sun. My white-greyish turk’s head knot bracelet, shrunk by the

ocean water to an exact fit, reveals that I’m an Acoaxet local.

The utility poles follow the road and give off a pungent oily smell and are sticky when you

touch them. I can’t help but touch them.

We pass the romantic shingled houses. white, black, or pastel green, and finally cross

Atlantic Avenue to the entrance of the Elephant Rock Beach Club. A wooden structure,

resting on broad beams; dulled by rain, battered by sand, greyed by sun, its white paint

blistering at the corners.

The air smells different here, salty wafts of seaweed and fish.We walk up the wooden ramp

to the entrance to be welcomed at the register by handsome tanned teens of Westport and

some imported from afar for the summer, who horse-play with each other, their peeling

noses covered with white sun zinc cream; a modern warriors’ mark in Wampanoag country.

To the left the blackboard welcoming visitors provides the essentials: sea: rough, water

temperature 69,8 degrees, weather: sunny (here a smiley sun face), and the warning:

Portuguese man of war spotted.

My styrofoam surfboard squeaks in sync with my steps as it taps the deck planks of the

beach house. I take my flip-flops off and walk carefully to avoid the splinters. Ahead the

vista of the Atlantic Ocean, light to dark blue, crested with white fresh frothy brows,

welcoming and menacing at the same time.I peer down the broad wooden stairs to the hot

sand below. At times me and my friends dare each other and show our prowess by jumping

down over all the stairs onto the beach, avoiding if we can the large, sea sanded pebbles that

lie below.

Further down still, a sturdier flattened belt of sand, still moist from the high tide hours ago.

This is the best place to dig holes, construct drip castles and run like the wind. Dig deep

enough and you’ll be surprised by the sudden appearance of sand crabs with their oval

shaped speckled shells. If you hold your hand below them you feel the tickle of their legs in

their quest trying to get away. I hate it though when my fingernails suddenly scratch a

sanded rock, and a nail flips backward for a split second.

A little to the right, there she lies, Elephant Rock, majestically. Her back dry and light, deep

veins carved out by centuries of water toing and froing. Her belly a shining dark sheen, the

green braided seaweed rocking back and forth with the waves. Her head is facing North-

West, one eye on the beach, one eye on the Atlantic. Gently bathing in the water, ever

watchful. All those ages, all those different generations that have visited her, mounted her,

dove off her. Whalers, fishermen, beach guests. Many a boat has sunk, many a fisherman

drowned. The tales often forgotten, but she has seen it all. To reach her is one thing, to

climb on her another. The best time to go is at low tide. Once at her front leg, let the wave

carry you a bit up, just enough to grab hold and quickly clamber up, all the while minding

her slippery hide and the treacherous barnacles that can cut your skin.

On top of her head, straight ahead you can see The Nubble marking the entrance to

Westport River where many buccaneers hid after a hit and run raid in the Atlantic. The kids

close to shore are masters of the waves. Bobbing in between them, shouting out: “whoa,

look a big one!” “Whoa, a bigger one!” There is always a bigger one advancing.

When I have had enough of the water I jog parallel to the beach on the hard sand, slowly

increasing my speed, imagining I’m a super hero, my feet hitting the sand briefly, making

but small prints as I speed up. I’m flying as more and more rocks appear like islands before

me. My young, light body nimbly avoids them as it arrives at the rock puddles where the

crabs are. It’s low tide. I spot a green crab, push it down on its back with my middle finger,

and grab the sides with my thumb and fourth finger to pick it up as it frantically applies its

legs to pick off my fingers. No use, I’m too practiced. I study its eyes, antennae and mouth,

as it watches me back.

I’m far away from the Elephant Rock Club House now. Suddenly I notice some ruins, the

foundations of houses. Once the homes of families who enjoyed sunny days like this.

Concrete stairs leading to nothing, mangled wrought iron, a reminder of something horrible

that has passed. I have been told that there used to be many houses on the beach, here but

also on Horseneck beach. Only to be lifted up by the Great Hurricane that battered the New

England coast. Houses disappeared down the river or into the sea. People drowned. No one

ever built here again.

It disturbs me and I run back to my mother who is calling out to me in her native Dutch.

She gives me a big peach which I eat as I cannot contain its juice that sticks everywhere.

She puts suncream on my back, and lathers my face. There is still sand in her hands and the

cream stings my eyes. “Sit still” she says. I want to get back in the water.

All the while the see-sawing rush of the waves fills the visitor’s ears, beckons the kids, and

soothes older souls. I look at the Elephant and I know she never forgets. I’m thoroughly

happy to be alive and to be here where there is no time. Now, 48 years later, sitting on my

front porch in Tervuren, Belgium, while my four screenagers are cooped up in their room.

Both mother and father have passed away, as have all their problems, and my mind wanders

back to Westport. I have a sudden strong desire to meet the Elephant again.

– Anthony Agotha