Missing in action — forever

Albert John Blasi through the years

"He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it."

                                   ~Clarence Budington Kelland

CAPE ELIZABETH — Lingering grief is like being buried alive in a shallow grave.

Melancholy is grief’s best friend, and if you immerse yourself in endless desolation, you will be consumed by your own sorrow — like a rotting corpse resting in the deep earth.

I won’t allow that kind of emptiness to rule my life. My father wouldn’t tolerate it, either. And I don’t have a choice — I have a family that still needs me despite my sadness.

My father, Albert John Blasi, died this weekend on Nov. 8, 2014 — another casualty of a cruel disease known as Alzheimer’s. He was buried with full military honors after serving a tour of duty during the occupation of Germany in 1954. Actually, he played baseball for the U.S. Army’s post teams. It was a good gig, and instead of lugging around an M-1 Garand rifle, he carried a bat and donned a glove on a baseball diamond somewhere in Europe.

I have this great picture of him playing catch at Zepplin Field where Hitler’s Nazis rallied during World War II. Behind my father is a destroyed, concrete swastika — remnants of the Third Reich.

There were hundreds of mourners at his wake and a police escort accompanied the hearse to the cemetery where he was buried in Peabody, Mass.

I still have the flag which was draped over his coffin on that cold day. It sits in a case that rests on top of a curio cabinet that I bought for my parents long ago. Call it a shrine, if you like, but it doesn’t alleviate the pain that goes along with my father’s loss.

That takes time, sometimes counseling, and a begrudging acceptance, and there is no closure — just a deep wound that never heals.

He was a teacher, coach and father whose integrity, loyalty and compassion made him a respected member in a city just outside Boston, and his reputation as the Revere High baseball skipper for 42 years extended well beyond the borders of the Greater Boston area. Boston Globe writer Martin Pave did a wonderful job with his half-page article about my dad.

It is an anniversary that no one in our family cares to celebrate. The memories are painful and his permanent absence has left us all with a sense of longing and sadness.

The new normal is impossible to get used to, and there is not a day I don’t think about him or my mother. The house at 17 McClure Street has been sold, and that’s a different kind of sadness.

I knew hanging around my home recalling his last moments on earth would trigger paralyzing grief and a strong bout of depression.

That wasn’t going to happen. I did that for four years as I watched his beautiful mind and precious memories slip away as the Alzheimer’s slowly progressed.

So I spent this weekend visiting the ocean and walking trails along the coast with my son who came home from college for the weekend. He made these past few days bearable.

I grew up in a seaside community and I have always found the turbulent waters of the Atlantic a calming force in my life. We are all connected to the sea. 

The late President John F Kennedy said, “We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea — whether it is to sail or to watch it — we are going back from whence we came.”

Maybe that is why we headed south to visit one of our old stomping grounds — Fort Williams in Cape Elizabeth. It offers stunning views of the coastline and made me feel a helluva lot better to see the cold salt water lap against the shoreline and breath in the sea air on a chilly, windy November day.

For the next hour, I thought about my father, but in a positive way, avoiding the misery that accompanies grief.

Somedays are harder than others, but I have come to terms with his death, and although I miss him every day, I feel I was lucky to have parents who gave a damn about their four kids and put them first in their lives.

That feeling of loss never goes away as my grief subsides and acceptance takes a firm hold.

I see my father in my son and in my sisters’ children, too.

He lives on in all of us, but I still miss the man who stood for something good.

That will never change.

Surf's up

"We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch — we are going back from whence we came."

                                                — President John F. Kennedy

OLD ORCHARD BEACH — Anthony and I have always been on the same wavelength when it comes to the ocean's tumultuous surf.

You could say we enjoy making waves at the beach.

Before Anthony reached the age when building sand castles was no longer a priority, my son loved constructing forts made out of the beach's moist, white sand. He also spent hours watching his boats get tossed around in the surf. He studied how his toy vessels capsized by the force of waves.

A decade later and Anthony's fascination with waves continues, and he literally dives head first into the topic whenever we storm Maine's beaches.

Unlike a majority of beachgoers, this father-and-son team refuses to sit on the hot sand and baste in the sun. I understand this is America and its citizens are entitled to develop skin cancer, but for us, tanning is a damn waste of our precious time. You can get all the vitamin D you need while you are floundering in the heavy surf.

A soon as we find a spot on the beach, we disappear into the Atlantic's cold waters like a nuclear submarine and ride waves for hours. We only drag ourselves to dry land for a towel — or when our empty stomachs demand a sandwich and a cold drink — and the occasional trip to the men's room.

Old Orchard Beach was crowded on a steamy Saturday, and the sea was angry that day my friends. The storm that lingered over Maine for nearly a week moved off shore but was still stirring the pot out at sea, providing eye-opening waves and a powerful undertow at OOB.

The surf was up and the dynamic father-and-son duo threw themselves into the fray. The water was warm, towering waves were plenty and the hazy sun was strong. Conditions were perfect for two surfer dudes who wanted to take Old Orchard's monstrous waves out for a spin.

The ocean generated huge waves nearly every minute, but when one of these tsunamis came our way and blocked out the horizon — look out — because you were in for one helluva a ride. Anthony and I dove into the water just as these waves crested, driving us about 50 yards toward shore. The force was so rough that there were moments where we seemed lost and feeling punch drunk when we surfaced from the shallow water.

We ran toward each wave, hopping aboard each time for another reckless ride that sometimes drove us into the murky bottom of OOB. We were patient when a brief calm on the high seas interrupted our frenzy of body surfing. But when the Big Kahuna, and I am not referring to actor Cliff Robertson who starred in a "Gidget" movie, came barreling ashore, we leaped into the water for another lift.

It never gets old and each wave is a challenge.

Riding a monster of a wave is a privilege, and as you hear it roar over you when you are shot through the surf like a torpedo, there is this wonderful feeling that you have left the planet. For me, it is like an out-of-body experience even though this feeling of ataraxia lasts for a few moments.

For the next two hours, Anthony and I tackled wave after wave before exhaustion, humidity and an unrelenting sun drove all three weary surfers off the beach. We had enough, but we can never get enough of summer and Maine's spectacular beaches. 

I have been drawn to the sea since I rode waves at Revere Beach as a boy, and I believe I have passed on my love and respect of the ocean to my son, whose passion for the sea and all its wonders grows stronger each summer.