PERSONAL NARRATIVE
short way into the ocean, he would quickly dowse
them to remove the sand. He would also sit on the
dry flat rocks only 10 feet from Ms. April’s camp and
play with ocean twigs, seaweed bundles, and other
items he had collected from his morning pursuit.
Brady loved the sensory aspect of the ocean and its
treasure trove of creatures. The waves delighted him
as they exerted calming pressure on his young body.
To dive under the waves was lovely and to be swept
up in one that brought him to shore was sensational.
When he was a young toddler, Brady didn’t speak
more than a few words, and they weren’t clearly
enunciated. At the age of two, Brady was diagnosed
with “developmental delays,” and his family lived
with the uncertainty of just how disabled he would
be as time slowly marched on. Even as a baby, he was
terrified of strangers, crying if they dared to make
eye contact and approach his mother while he was
swaddled very tightly across her chest.
His autistic brain experienced the world with height-
ened sensory abilities that caused meltdowns and
undue stress on his family. Although body pressure
felt soothing, he was anxious and often afraid of peo-
ple, sounds, and sudden changes.
And yet, one sunny day, Brady crossed over the
rocks to show Ms. April some findings in his buck-
et. What led him to her, I do not know. She did not
give off the ambiance of a woman who wished to be
approached—sitting in the hot sun, smoking occa-
sionally on her thin cigarettes, watching the birds or
reading her book, even napping for bits of time all
sun-exposed—never once under her umbrella.
But she was the one closest to Brady’s daily explo-
ration site, the large beach rocks on the shore that
separated the two beaches.
“Look! See what this is? It’s a crab!” Brady exclaimed.
“What?” she asked, forced to peek into his bucket.
“It’s dead. Go toss it,” she responded practically.
Brady sat down at her feet, examining the other
items he had found.
“Do you like this shell?” Brady asked. “It’s broken.”
Ms. April responded: “Oh but look at that purple
streak that runs through it. It’s gorgeous.”
“Here, you have it. I’m keeping the crab,” Brady put
his hand out, and Ms. April tucked it into her cream
bag.
She pointed to a nearby seagull.
“Look at that seagull, son. He comes here every day.
His name is George.”
She continued, “I feed him, and now he’s very com-
fortable around me, but you must be STILL. Be still
because I’m going to give him one of my boiled eggs.”
Brady went to visit Ms. April’s camp every day she
was there. She taught him to be still. She gave
George small bits of egg, and then just sat back and
observed.
“See how he has his beak open? He’s claiming his ter-
ritory, Brady. There are other seagulls around. Keep a
look out!”
“What happened to his foot?” Brady asked one day,
noticing the left claw was completely turned under.
“That’s how I’ve always known it’s George. Who
knows what happened, Brady! He can fly; he’s been
my friend for about five summers now. He’s a special
bird who even rests under my umbrella in the after-
noon when it’s so hot.”
She paused and looked over at Brady.
“Now, just LOOK at YOU! You are a SANDY MESS,
Brady! You ROLL around in it, and it even gets on
your eyebrows.” Ms. April chuckled. “Go wash your
filthy self in the ocean.”
Brady got up and went mid-body into the ocean, on
the safe side of the danger flags, and returned right
at her feet.
Autism Parenting Magazine | Issue 87 |
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