| A Tribute
to Frank the Beachcomber
Erin and I were going through a bucket
of seashells we found on the black sand beaches of Paama Island, and among
the spotted cowries and the giant Pacific clams and the sea urchin spines,
I found nearly 30 years of memories. Grandpa Zuiker, the one and only Frank
the Beachcomber, introduced me to shells. I remember standing on the earthen
dock at Raven's Roost, looking into the water to see a pile of shells that
some raccoon had left. I wanted to reach in and claim those shells as my
own. Instead, Grandpa walked me up to his camper, dug around in one of
his many coffee cans, and pulled out a shiny olive shell. For the next
20 years he was always giving me shells. In Vanuatu last year, I finally
got the chance to repay him in trade goods, bags and bags of seashells
- limpets and cowries and even a paua or two - that Enna and Mereva and
the other village girls helped collect from the beach. Once, Mereva put
a clamshell to her ear and looked up at me. "Halo. Halo," she said. I imagined
she was answering a call from Frank the Beachcomber. He would have liked
to have been on the beach with us at that very moment.
- Anton
And a short tribute from Conchy Joe:
As a kid you live for the days when your
dad is taking you out fishing to a slough, a pond, or Tomahawk. Now,
as an adult I live for the magical days when my dad finally agrees to go
outside the house in his wheelchair to inspect his tomato plants. That
was my week long goal and my joy this morning. Dad got dressed and we wheeled
him out to see the strawberrries, the tomato plants and all the flowers.
We were outside 20 minutes and he got the first sun on his skin in months.
It was a special moment.
-Joe
A Father's Day Memory
It was probably about 30 years ago, maybe a little less. We had
gone up to Tomahawk in the days before such things as sonar, and water
temperture and other gismo's. The Wisconsin river was still
a river we seldom fished on, and for that matter we didn't really fish
the "Bay of Pigs" yet either, (this was before I believe dad's famous Bay
of Pigs battle with the huge musky or pike. We were fishing Lake
Clarire of something like that and Dad, John and I were in boat drolling
back and forth. Suddenly I felt a tug on the line far below and thought
"o great another stump." But this was on stump. This was a
fish. I set the hook as dad said I should and began ot reel
this fish in. I was all excited and freaking out as Dad as usual
was calm and collected. He told me make sure I had set the hook and
relax. Sure enough we managed to get the fish to the side of
the boat and netted him. Not a huge northern pike but my first none
the less. And yet some 30 years later it is not the fish that
I remember most about that day, rather it was the way Dad stayed calm and
focused on the task at hand. Because while I freaked out trying to
bring this fish to the surface, Dad was lifting the oars out of the water
and lifting the motor up so I did not lose my fish near the surface. This
is what I remember about that day; a father spending time with his sons,
and a father who always displayed compassion, wisdom, and common sense
in every situation he found himself in.
-Terry
Do you have a memory you'd like to
share in tribute to Frank the Beachcomber? Send it to Anton at azuiker@gwis.com
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