Sorry — I didn’t catch your name!

Precisely what he shouted to somebody who was still on dry land.  Somebody he was hoping to recruit. With perfect ease.

For a second, that lasted longer than a second, with my eyelids blocking out the sun, it felt like I was in a paneled board room with a meeting about to start.  Not at all  — I was just an “extra” floating on my back in the Pacific Ocean, and he was executing his strategy for a spontaneous merger with  … Peter…  That’s who called back to him.

“Peter, I’m Nicholas.”  And then they both launched their boogie boards into a well-scheduled wave and carried on as co-captains of the sea.  When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see  how very young they were — and yet already they could tap everything they needed to know.

This knowingness, I guessed, had crossed the placenta at just the right time.  Labor nurses probably stepped aside and watched them independently clear the passage.  Waiters marveled at their perfect pronunciation, and nodded after they ordered off the menu.

I’m sure they swam long before the rest of us waded in.

…  I’ve let conversations go on and on without asking  for names. At campaigns, I’ve called night after night next to the same volunteers, even bringing extra treats from the snack table for my anonymous companions — but oh,  how to ask for a name.  Once I even made one up and waited for a correction … “Cynthia … oh, of course, I meant Nancy.”

A new lesson by the sea, today.  All about catching names.