Navigator

For my uncle.

My Uncle John, a ninety-year-old ingénue, is talking with a surfer on the beach in Santa Cruz.

Something catches his eye- like this ripped guy taking his wetsuit off next to his van, or, just minutes earlier, an elderly fellow sitting on a bench wearing a Boston Red Sox cap- and Uncle John will walk over, start asking questions, cannot get enough of listening.
Within minutes the surfer is telling him he surfs or he cycles, because he loves motion, it brings him joy, helps him sleep. It holds the balance to live his life, to work, to raise a son, to be a son.
Uncle John’s expression is intent, like he’s listening to important instructions. When the surfer is done talking, Uncle John nods. “Well, you’re sure in great shape,” he tells him.
We are making our way to back to our rental car so my sister and I can get on the notoriously treacherous Route 17 through the Santa Cruz mountains back to our Airbnb in Los Gatos before dark. Uncle John is wearing his trademark cowboy hat. Today he’s in a fawn-colored chamois western shirt with gleaming mother-of-pearl buttons. His Levi’s are grubby but his cowboy boots are perfectly polished. Uncle John went to church today, one of the first times since my aunt died, and he is telling us the sermon was about braggarts. “You know who got into heaven?” he asks.

We don’t.

“A tax collector!” he says. “And do you know why?”

We don’t.

“Because he was humble,” Uncle John says. “Apparently God appreciates humility.”
Back in the car, Uncle John is my navigator. I’m at the wheel and my sister and cousins are sardined into the back of the Hyundai and Uncle John is sitting shotgun. “Stay in the second lane,” he tells me, so I do. Of course I do. He is from here.

My eyes are on the road and he asks me about my writing, bent forward in his seat, as intent as he was with the surfer. “Do you ever get to a point,” he asks, “when the story writes itself?”

I tell him that when I’m writing fiction, I feel like the story extends in front of me, and all I have to do is follow it. Like now, with you, I tell him. You put your trust in something that feels certain, truer than yourself, and keep moving. I put my hand on his shoulder, glance over. Under his cowboy hat, Uncle John’s eyes shine. “At the next corner, take a right,” he says. “We’re almost home.”