I had a birthday this week. My Faithful Reader and I attempted to celebrate the day with a trip to Newport. The goal was to enjoy the afternoon on the fabled Cliff Walk, a paved 3.5-mile path that runs between Newport’s mansions and its craggy, surf-pounded coast. We also planned to have dinner at one of the town’s many fine restaurants.
We parked near First Beach, which is rather remarkable in that the waves crashing on it appear to be red. I called them “bloody waves.” My Faithful Reader, who knows the area well, explained that the phenomenon was caused by a red seaweed. Nonetheless, it gave me a feeling of foreboding.
Along the Cliff Walk, there are several steep paths leading down to the water. These paths are obviously the creation of adventurous souls who want to get closer to the beauty of nature and refuse to stay on the paved way. FR and I like to explore, so of course we tried a couple of them. One led to a section of rock where we sat for a while enjoying the sun, the wind, the smell of the sea. It was so good to be near the ocean again!
Another path led down to what looked like a small cave, but the approach sloped toward the water, and it was slick with spray and algae. I declined the challenge, knowing that my sneakers are virtually tractionless when wet. My intrepid FR made it to the cave, but on the way back, a wave crashed high upon the rock, wetting his shoes. He lost his footing and fell, head hitting rock, and as he slid down the algae-covered stone, I thought for a second that the waves were going to pull him into the water where he would be dashed on the rocks. He pulled himself up, nearly slid again, but held on and regained his footing.
My relief was short-lived. He was bleeding. Both of us, separately but simultaneously, lost little moments of time in a daze, shocked and fascinated by the way the fresh red drops contrasted with the algae. The spots were multiplying but I wasn’t sure how he was hurt. I didn’t dare walk over to where he was and risk falling myself. People were watching us from the path above, calling down to ask if we needed help. I shouted back that we were OK, hoping that it was true.
It wasn’t until he made it back to dry rock that I saw the source of the blood—a large gash in his eyebrow. There was no chance of salvaging our plans. He was going to need stitches and that meant we needed to find a doctor, and soon. A kind bystander gave him a facecloth, which he used to keep the bleeding under control as we trekked back to the car. I wanted to cry as we walked, but I had to smile at everyone we met on the path to let them know we were OK.
Thank goodness my Faithful Reader knew where to find a doctor and that it was only a short drive away. The doctor was a nice woman who didn’t seem very happy with the idea of doing stitches. I suspect that at this particular walk-in center they deal mostly with colds and rashes and other less immediate, less gory problems. Still, she stitched him up and we were out of there in under forty-five minutes, much faster service than we would have received at the hospital.
So on the day that was my birthday, instead of being pampered, I took care of my wounded man. I drove him home, fetched him medical supplies, found us some dinner. He kept saying, “I’m sorry I ruined your birthday,” and I can’t tell him enough times that he didn’t ruin my birthday. It was good for me to take care of him instead of focusing on myself, and I’m grateful that he wasn’t hurt worse. If he had hit the rock harder, or lost consciousness, or fallen into the water, who knows what might have happened? I guess you could say I received the best present ever. I got to keep my Faithful Reader.