The Lost Boy

the beach. A coat of salty spray covers my glasses.
    On the inside I’m warm. I’m no longer afraid of being alone. I love spending time by myself.
    From above, a flock of seagulls squawks at each other as the birds comb the beach in search of any morsel of food. Moments later a single gull struggles to maintain flight. As much as the bird pounds its wings, it cannot keep up with the flock, let alone maintain altitude. Without warning, the gull crashes beak first into the sand. The bird flops up and hobbles on a single, webbed orange leg. After a short search, the seagull finds a fragment of food. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the flock of seagulls returns, hovers above the beach, then dives to pick on the weaker gull for its meal. The gull seems to know it cannot flee, so it stands its ground and pecks at the other birds with furious intensity. Within a blink of an eye the struggle is over, and the flock of birds flies off in search of an easier victim.
    The seagull screeches at the flock as if telling them that it was victorious, then turns toward me and squawks a warning. As I study the gull’s movements, I recall how its battle mirrored my own challenges while in foster care. Back then nothing was more important than wanting to be accepted and finding the answers to my past. But the more I matured on the inside, the more I realized I had to carve my own path. I also learned to be content in not finding all the answers of my quest. But like most things in my life, my answers seemed to come without effort after I joined the United States Air Force, where I achieved my lifelong dream of flying. As an adult I came full circle. One of the things I accomplished was visiting my mother and asking her the most important question of my life:
Why?
    Mother’s own secret made me cherish the life that I lead even more.
    The screeching sound of the seagull breaks my trance. In front of me my hands quiver, but it’s not from the cold. I wipe a stream of tears from my cheeks. I don’t cry for myself as much as I do for my mother. I begin to cry so hard that my body shakes. I can’t stop. I cry for the mother and father I never had and the shame of the family secret. I become unglued because at times I have doubts about making a difference in the lives of others, and I feel unworthy for the recognition I’ve received.
    I cry to let everything out.
    I close my eyes and say a quick prayer. I pray for the wisdom to become a better, stronger person. As I stand up, facing the dark green ocean, I feel cleansed inside. It’s time to move on.
    After a relaxing drive with the windows rolled down and listening to Pat Metheny’s
Secret Story,
I park my 4-Runner in front of my second home – the Rio Villa in Monte Rio. The owners, Ric and Don, wave as they scurry about to prepare for incoming guests. The serene beauty of the Rio Villa still takes my breath away. For years now Ric and Don have gone out of their way to make my son, Stephen, and me feel a part of their family. To be welcome means so much to me.
    After I wrestle him to the floor, Stephen wraps his arms around my neck. “You okay?” he asks. Even though he is only a child, in so many ways Stephen s sensitivity is beyond his years. I’m amazed that at times he can feel my innermost feelings. As much as he is my son, Stephen is also one of my closest friends.
    The two of us spend the remainder of the day designing multicolored Creepy Crawlers plastic toys, and playing Sorry and Monopoly over and over and over again. I quickly discover that my years of training in military strategy are no match for the mind of a ruthless seven-year-old, who acquires both Park Place and Boardwalk, with hotels. (I still owe Stephen back rent.)
    After several annihilating lessons of Sorry, Stephen and I make our way down to the deck by the Russian River. A thick odor of burning wood mixes in with the sweet aroma of redwood trees. The shallow green river becomes transparent, with only a soft trickling sound that makes the water real. As the sun disappears behind a hill, the reflection of a Christmas tree shimmers from across the river. A blanket of fog seeps down from the hills. Without a word, Stephen and I join hands. I can feel a lump creep up my throat as we tighten our grip.
    Stephen clamps onto my leg. “Love you, Dad. Happy birthday
”
    Years ago, I truly doubted whether I’d make it out alive. In my former life I had very little. Today, as I stand in my Utopia, I have what any person