Into the Very Deep Sea

Sometimes, the only thing harder than forgiving another is forgiving oneself

“There must be something strangely sacred in salt. It is in our tears and in the sea.”

― Khalil Gibran

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There are moments when a song manages to capture perfectly a time or experience in our lives. In its words and sounds we — sometimes suddenly — find a mirror that reflects what we are living through in ways we sometimes cannot express. I had such an experience late the other night, as I lay awake listening to music, when I came across an old song called It’s a Very Deep Sea, by a long-forgotten English band called The Style Council. The song, written by Paul Weller, describes a person pulled by regret to relive the errors of his life, as well as his attempt to fight that sad force and to keep his hope alive. It is a lovely song, by a great songwriter, and as I heard Weller sing about his sea it suddenly captured for me one of the most painful aspects of the road I now travel.

On the day my son Enzo died, he texted me around 3 p.m. to say only that he was coming to stay over for a couple of days. A week earlier we had traveled together to Boston to see the Celtics playoff game — a happy reward for having done well his first year at college. His text surprised me, since the Finals did not start until the next day, and I suggested he might want to wait a day to come over. He did not answer my text. Instead, he did something he had never done in his life: he mounted his bike and started the one-mile ride to my house that would soon take his life. When I recall our brief exchange, the first wave of regret reaches me on the shore: what if I had asked him when he was coming over? He would have said he was coming over early, and I would have told him not to ride his bike on so dangerous a road — something I had told him many times before. “Wait,” I would have said, “I will come to pick you up.” I was working at the time, so I did not think too much about his message, since it never occurred to me that he would leave home without answering me.

No day has gone by since June 1st when I have not opened my phone and looked at his last text to ask myself why I did not confirm that he would wait for me to pick him up and not come over on his own. One simple question from me might have illuminated his plans and changed his awful fate. The contemplation of this lost possibility soon leads me to the car he had for a few months last year, which we sold because his university did not allow freshmen to have cars. Had we kept the car, I ask myself over and over, would he have driven to my house and arrived alive? I know the answer is probably no, since the trip was so short, but he might have and that possibility is enough to move me, like Weller, closer to the waves. Then there is the road itself, which is not really a road at all: it is a six-lane speedway with a narrow sidewalk on either side. On one edge of each sidewalk is grass but on the other side cars drive by at forty or fifty miles an hour. Why hadn't I done a better job of explaining to him the danger of bicycling on this road: that in an accident one side means life and the other death? What did I leave undone or unsaid to convince him never to ride his bike on a street that only a few years ago took another life in much the same way that it took his?

From talking to other parents who have lost children, I know that the waves of doubt and regret that come over me are common to many of them as well, as is the feeling of failure that accompanies the regret. As parents, we feel that it is our duty to protect our children at all costs. From the moment they are born, we know that if we had the power, we would give up our lives to keep them safe from harm. Because parenthood is a solemn responsibility, as the waves of regret strengthen so too does the sense that I let Enzo down and that his death is my life’s most profound failure. So strong is this feeling of guilt that it can slowly draw me into the sea that Weller sings about. In my mind, I stand at the sea’s edge and then step into the frigid water, moving forward slowly, watching it rise above my legs, my waist, my arms, and, finally, my head until I am completely submerged and sinking ever deeper.

It is at this moment that the struggle begins. On one side are the sorrow and guilt telling me to drown myself in the infinite regret of having failed my son. On the other side, reason reminds me that luck, whom the Romans called Fortuna, can spare a boy on one day and destroy him the next and that there is no reason for me to punish myself for my son’s death. This is a hard struggle to endure, and I confess that on some days, the tempting choice is to keep moving deeper, to reject the call of reason and to succumb to sorrow. At these dark moments, I begin to understand why some people in similar circumstances take their own lives: the pain is too much to bear and the sea promises to end it once and for all in its cold embrace.

I also hear the call of the deep, but I also know I must return to the shore. I have an extended family to protect and care for and another son, only fourteen, to whom I owe a life of hope and happiness despite our loss. It is the life force of those whom I love that slowly pulls me back from the deep, like a tired swimmer being dragged back to shore by an invisible hand. Beyond those close to me, I also feel the force of everyone who has supported us during these terrible four weeks: from the neighbors who quietly dropped off food every night, to the church staff who worked to give our son a beautiful farewell, to Enzo’s friends who comforted us with stories of his generosity and grace, and even to voices, some long-lost, who reached out from all corners of the world to share messages of sympathy and sadness. Every gesture of human kindness, no matter how small, reminds me of the wider goodness of humanity.

The philosopher William James once said that “we are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep.” I keep this thought in mind as I lie awake in the dark and listen to the closing lines of Weller’s song, for in the end he returns from the deep, resurfacing to life, and, I think, hope. Like him, I know that I will return to that very deep sea from time to time for the rest of my life, but I also know that love — past, present, and future — will never let me drown.

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I'll keep on diving til I reach the ends
Dredging up the past to drive me round the bends
What is it in me that I can't forget
I keep finding so much that I now regret
But no, on I go down into the depths
Turning things over that are better left
Dredging up the past that has gone for good
Trying to polish up what is rotting wood

Diving, diving
Diving, diving
I'm diving

Something inside takes me down again
Diving not for goblets but tin cans
Dredging up the past for reasons so rife
Passing bits of wrecks that once passed for life

But I'll keep on diving till I drown in the sea
Of things not worth, even mentioning
Perhaps I'll come to the surface and come to my senses
But it's a very deep sea around my own devices

Diving, diving
Diving, diving

Come to the surface and come to my senses now
Come to the surface and come to my senses now
Come to the surface and come to my senses now

Diving, diving
I'm diving

—It’s a Very Deep Sea, by Paul Weller

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