Article by Chris Lynch
While I do not know any one of them, the Gudelski family is owed an eternal debt of gratitude by recent generations and newcomers to the neighborhood alike. The reclamation of “Stinky Beach” to the lush, white, sandy enclave that exists today is rivaled only by mere amateur endeavors like that of the Sistine Chapel's ceiling. Long before their generous work produced this wonderful park we all benefit from today, the original automobile bridge had fallen into the bay and was drifting like the tide from our thoughts. I have many memories that I am not sure I could characterize as “fond”, of gingerly navigating the deteriorating causeways mangled remains.
The company of my father and whichever of his closest friends was always welcome, any time with dad was, but the rusted structural steel, ragged concrete abutments and scabs of macadam clinging dearly on to some semblance of usefulness in the world seemed moderately depressing. This coupled with the leftover baits that had been discarded on top of a piling in the hot summer sun, or the exposed fishing rigs left hanging from the barnacles as the tide receded only made the longing for the bright lights of those amusement rides just across the bay seem all the more distant to my seven year old heart. None the less it was part of a young boy's experience in life to join his dad and “the guys” on an adventure. Through the marsh and bugs we'd trudge with coolers, one for drinks and snacks, one for bait, chairs and what even at the time seemed like antique poles. The contents of the cooler were typically twelve Schlitz beers and one Grape Nehi, two large bags of chips and one moon pie, the math of this I have yet to reconcile and may one day lead me to therapy.
As we found ourselves a good spot to get entrenched for a few hours, like so many things that bring people here, the magic settled in. The breeze would change off the ocean and become sweet. The rustle of the anxious phragmites would prepare itself for a busy night and the hum of the traffic crossing the new bridge would serve as a background lullaby for pop's reminiscing and before long I'd find myself comfortably, peacefully and soundly asleep.
Four decades have passed and I find myself a father of two beautiful special needs sons. Yes at times you admittedly struggle with the lazy temptation to feel sorry for oneself, but then I realize, they are perfect in every way and have taught me life lessons no other being of earth or the heavens ever could. Patience, unconditional love, how to smile at the most difficult of situations, and how to find humor when your every impulse is to cry.
I want to introduce you to my boys, Henry Lee, 12 and Samuel Arden, 10, the little Lynch boys, my “Hooligans”. Henry, “Hank the Tank”, “Hank” or “Tanker” is on the Autistic Spectrum and experiences social idiosyncrasies. You would never say “suffers”, because what he is, is blessed with the ability to be painfully honest and say what we all are feeling, but are just too cowardly to share. Lord forbid you need dental work, ugh! The boy has a huge heart though. Not a baby carriage that passes or a dog on a leash when he isn't compelled to hug or pinch a cheek, and not necessarily in the order you'd imagine.
Samuel, “Sammy”, “Ham Man”, “Hammer” or simply “Sam” is a more traditional spectrum diagnosis. He has “stimming” behaviors where by he will spin, flap his hands and “puppets” things he will hear.
Sam cannot be engaged in conversation but will “parrot” a response to acknowledge his affirmation or abruptly offer “NO!” whenever the suggestion doesn't suit his disposition for the moment. Not that any of us would understand him, but the educational term is “jargon” for the sounds he will recite in what seems to be sentence structure. He certainly understands himself, and someday when the martians arrive he no doubt will be our envoy. I just wanted to add some color to the pictures we will paint and stories we will tell about the experiences I share with my wonderful sons, my gorgeous boys, the chicken soup for my soul, my “Hooligan Stew”.
So back to “Stinky Beach” or Homer Gudelsky Park to those who were not raised here, are just too young to remember and even in some cases, those who prefer to just plain forget, especially those whose teenage virtues were uncomfortably left in it's dunes. My sons love the place and I make every effort to introduce them to “normal” boyhood activities, days at the beach and fishing being among those. First of all explaining the premise of a day at “Stinky Beach” to Tanker was initially met with skepticism, a furrowed brow, wrinkled nose and then typical pre-adolescent humor as he became more comfortable with the notion, “wudda tha seagulls fart daddy” accompanied by an impish grin. It didn't take many visits before it became a regular after school stop as the water temperatures elevated to the point the water was tolerable to wade in and the sun stayed high in the sky late enough into the afternoon that it seemed reasonable enough to bring along angling equipment.
Hammer is not a fisherman, really very little keeps his attention for long other than an I-Pad or quite honestly the water. He spends hours mesmerized by videos on the internet of a variety that has no real symmetry to me and whenever he is near the water, regardless of season, he wants to be in it. That being said, my boy Henry will attempt most anything and truly loves hunting and fishing, or at least in practice. So properly equipped with tackle and everything needed for an afternoon excursion we landed ourselves on the pristine sands of modern day “Stinky Beach”. A smattering of older folks with visors shading the books they attempted to read, the odd outdoorsman with his lab and tennis ball and the ever present young mother with her multiple small children, well organized with toys, lotions, snacks and juice boxes adorned this quilt work of mankind and dune line.
Even with the social challenges he can face at times I try to give Henry some latitude to venture away a few yards when engaged in corralling his brother or preparing our related fun, in this case setting up the rods and baiting the hooks. Early as it was, although the temperatures would have indicated different, I hadn't any real hope of catching anything, but I came armed with the bait and line class I thought would most appropriately do the trick for a small bluefish or flatties on a heated up outgoing tide. Attending to my tasks as mate on the good ship “Sun and Fun”, I kept Hammer in my peripheral vision as there was one of those young families with a toddler and playpen nearby with the remainder of their brood very militarily attending to their pb&j's, of course with crust removed.
Now another thing I failed to mention was that Samuel does not recognize possession, unless it is something he currently has, otherwise all is fair game. Be it a coffee that an elderly gentleman has in his lap that Hammer wants to taste, a slice of pizza a teenager just sat down with or the juice pouch he had just snatched out of the clutched hands of the small child with family about 20 feet from where I was. It's all his in Sam's world. Not entirely certain who was more in shock, the child, it's siblings, his mother or grandmother, as Ham Man drained the pouch then dropped it back in the playpen.
Fortunately they did not have time to register their disbelief and translate it into anger as he immediately picked up one of the other children's well groomed sandwiches and took a bite. Apparently he did not care for her brand of peanut butter, or his sensory perception issues didn't allow for “crunchy”, so he spat it out and threw the remainder aside, strolling back to the water's edge. Wailing ensued, tears rolled and I was left as always in the roll of diplomat. Nothing new to me in recent years. Having done my best to all I have explained here, as dismayed as the offended were they seemed willing to accept my apologies and proceeded to pack up and move a few more dozen feet away. Little did they know they would miss the real entertainment.
Apparently in the midst of my minor dilemma, Henry had wondered a bit further down the beach than I would have preferred and made the acquaintance of a gentlemen who was obviously of Asian decent. Tanker does enjoy hunting and fishing, but he really LOVES animals. Any one of them presents the opportunity for a pet. Many a discussion has been had during hunting trips where my boy tried to convince me to “just shoot it in the leg daddy”, so rather than take it home and dine on it, he could put it in a cage. Evidently this man had a minnow bucket with several chubs in it and Henry was in the process of negotiating their release, a notion that apparently confused and angered the frail figure next to my burly twelve year old. Against my better judgment I began to sprint the thirty or so yards to intervene before matters got worse, momentarily looking back over my shoulder to ensure Sammy wasn't into someone else's juice. Now as gentle as my big boy is, once he is past “go”, mitigating the situation becomes a challenge. In a very animated state of dishevelment, the man began to squawk at me, to which Henry exclaimed “Samuel speaks better english daddy!!!”.
Having narrowly avoided a melee between Henry and his fellow combatant, I returned my attention solely to Sammy. Fortunately my son had satisfied his snacking and sipping needs at the expense of the horrified family next to us, so now he needed to relieve himself of the fluid and was on to other bodily requirements. Now when most civilized folks need to tinkle at the beach, they just do their best to unassumingly stroll down to the water, seem aloof, wade out a few feet and swirl their hands at their sides to dilute the offending urine. Not my boy! Sensory issues take precedent and there are no holds barred. To his ankles the shorts went, the family pride was presented at full mast and he cuts loose an arc that would make most any brother at a fraternity keg party proud. Truly offended now the grandmother of our recent victims huffed audibly “WELL I NEVER”, to which Henry, whom had rejoined our fun responded inquisitively “PEED?!. Daddy, that lady doesn't pee!”, as if he were truly concerned as to how this was possible.
Samuel's pants back on, Henry distracted sufficiently from attempting to diagnose this poor woman's inability to take go to the bathroom, we gathered ourselves and sanity seemed almost a possibility when it occurred to me, the fishing pole was gone. Looking frantically along the shoreline I saw it dragging frenetically through the sand headed towards the inlet. Racing as best I could I was able to retrieve it and begin to gain line on what was no doubt nothing more than a big ray. As I began to concede myself to this fact, I sensed the familiar sensation given down the rod with the head shake of a sizable red drum. My heart starting to pound a bit and I excitedly encouraged Henry to bring his brother nearer and be prepared to be impressed explaining the species and specimen I was anticipating would reveal itself any moment now. Certain I had licked the beast, he made himself apparent and my greatest ally, my bestest of buddies began to guffaw uncontrollably. At the other end of my line was a frisbee attached to an enormous Golden Retriever that was not about to give up the fight. Thank goodness he was only clinging desperately to the disc by his own fruition, and not because I had actually managed to hook him. Satisfied he had conquered me, and anxious to enjoy the game again, he dropped it at my feet. Henry grinned and, Sammy flapped his hands in approval and all I could do was sigh in true relief. Well boys, not sure what the size limit on excitement is, but we sure as heck filled our creel limit for the day.
Till next time, counting our blessings!
