Free Chicken Soup for the Beach Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield Page B

clapping and cheering we were so overcome with the sight. The next thing I knew, Harry came flying down the wharf, barking his big golden head off. When he was finally quiet, the dolphin looked the dog straight in the eye, said something in Dolphin, and swam away.
    In the excitement, I had dropped Mama’s sausage. Harry gobbled it up. The Captain and I took him back to the house and fed him a giant bowl of dog food, then loaded him up with doggie treats.
    The next morning Harry was waiting, and sure enough, the dolphin came by. She blew air out of the top of her shining gray head and smiled her dolphin smile. Harry began to bark like he had the day before and got a quick dolphin reply. Then off she went, the smiling silver rocket.
    From then on, for as long as I can remember, the dolphin stopped by to see Harry every day. My sister decided that this qualified the dolphin as a pet and decided to name her Fishy. But I had a better name. I called her Angel.
    Margaret P. Cunningham

Summers at Rockaway Beach
    G oodness is uneventful. It does not flash; it glows.
    David Grayson
    If you spend any length of time at the beach you acquire stories. But the beach is not a story; it’s an experience. Time at the beach affects people’s lives. My dad affected people’s lives at the beach.
    In the late sixties and early seventies my dad would take his vacation during the month of August because the waters off of Rockaway Beach, in New York, would finally warm up. We would spend anywhere from three to five days a week on the beach. We would never go on the weekends or on a holiday because of how crowded it was, but we would go most days during the week. My dad would take me, my older brothers (Gene by twelve years and Eddie by six years), and one or two of their friends.
    It was funny. Dad told everyone he would take other kids on the block, but they had organized it themselves. They had to make sure everyone had a turn, and the rule was “no fighting” or neither person would go to the beach.
    One day the battery on the car was dead.
    â€œSorry, boys, no beach today. I’ll get a battery this afternoon, and we will go to the beach tomorrow,” said Dad.
    One of the boys sitting on the front steps to the house, with his towel and lunch in tow, said, “Mr. Mac, does that mean we lose our turn, or does everyone get pushed back a day?”
    Dad turned around and saw the look on this kid’s face and went right away to get a new battery and head to the beach. “Better late to the beach than not going at all,” he said.
    We got to the beach by ten in the morning. My dad was very fair-skinned and liked to arrive early. We would float, swim, and “ride the waves,” our phrase for body surfing. Around twelve or twelve-thirty, Dad called us out of the water. He set us up with sandwiches, chips or cookies, and ice tea. He told us we could play cards or catch with a rubber ball. He then went in the water and swam from 121st Street to 98th Street and walked back. During the walk back he passed many of the kids from the neighborhood. He knew more about who was doing what from those walks on the beach. Many times some of the kids walked and talked with him for a while. It never seemed to fail; he always knew what was happening in the neighborhood.
    Now this probably does not seem all that special. But here is how the beach affects lives. We had all grown up, and my mom and dad had retired. One of the boys came back to the block to visit his mother and father, and he had his infant daughter with him. My mom and dad were so happy to see him and his baby girl. As he walked out of the house, the young man said, “This is the man I’ll think about when I teach you to swim.” His voice cracked with emotion as he quickly walked out of the house. I asked my dad if he heard what he said. He said no, but I think he did.
    A few years later my dad passed away. The same man could not bring himself to