March 25th, 2009 - a sunny afternoon. 85 degrees matched with 85% humidity feels like we’re tanning in a sauna. “When should I ask her?” I feel like the Cub’s manager calculating my next move when we’re down four runs in the ninth. The mere thought sends a pang of stress through me as if I’ve lost my footing while teetering cliffside. The rhythmic crashing of waves negates my building anxiety while the rich coastline of Playa Herradura numbs the dread of the impending task. Well not the task itself, but her response to it. Several adolescent waves roll through as I teeter on my board working my way towards a solution.
A customized platinum engagement ring, designed by yours truly, pulsates in the pocket of my boardshorts like a secondary heart. The waves are large, too rough for my skill level, so time and time again I find myself tumbling within the whitewash like dirty laundry. Each time my hand darts to my pocket’s exterior, patting the ring shaped bulge for security as anxiety recedes. Eventually I find a wave my size, “Here we go!” A broad smile extends as I find momentarily balance, riding the crest for a few seconds. “Good job honey!” Or a muffled version of what I think Jess shouts from the sideline praises my efforts before I succumb to gravity. I’m beat-up, the sun continues to batter us down, and I decide the beach is not the place to ask. “Let’s grab a bite, then go for a drive? The sun will be setting in a couple hours, so we’ll find a great place to catch the show,” I recommend, she smiles, wrapping her arm in mine as we stroll up the shore.
Two beers later and a belly full of ceviche, we find ourselves exploring the winding coastline in our little rental car. “This looks perfect!” her finger extends, pointing to a clearing just beyond a bus stop. “Here?” I inquire, she nods with delight. I smile in agreeance, tilting the wheel and slowing as I pull over. “You take the blanket, source out a perfect spot. I need to grab something from the back of the car real quick.” We high five, sharing a laugh at how much enjoyment we’re already having. I know it, she knows it, we’re just in sync. As if one spirits has been split, then placed in different bodies. It’s an amazing feeling, and further solidifies my heart, knowing she’s the one. I fumble with some crap in the trunk, “Ring box, check. Ring…” my fingers wrestle with the nylon cord tied around the metal band like a Gordian knot. “Ring? Rinnggg??? RING! Com’on you little bastard!” I growl through a clenched jaw as my fingers negotiate the impossible. “Everything alright over there?” she shouts over to me, “Yup! Great! Be over in a second!” I shout back with a tinge of sarcasm as my hands clasp my boardshorts with the brilliant idea of ripping them off my body. “I can just ask her while I’m bottomless. Perfect, that won’t be weird,” my fingers slacken, “just breathe, relax and stop trying to force it.” I inhale, look to the Heavens and say one powerfully potent and eloquent prayer, “Help?”
Minutes later the knots surrenders, “Thank you.” I point back to the Heavens like a football star, post touchdown. I breathe in - for real, like holy shit this is happening for real. A bus stops, people get off, others on, then retreats from our perfect little sunset location. The colors are glorious, our legs dangle over the cliffside some hundred or so feet up. We take in the horizon to our left, the coastline to our right, the setting sun smack dab in the middle. It couldn’t be more picturesque. Normally I’d divulge some spicy details but - this moment, this memory, it’s mine. To be honest, I don’t know if I can find the words to describe it. Needless to say, upon leaving our bus-side nook; we departed arm in arm, watery eyes, engaged to be wed. It was a homerun - I was ecstatic.
“Did you happen to ask my dad…” she gulped, “for permission?” Jess eyed me from the passenger seat, a hopeful smile extending as we headed back to the rental house. One month earlier I flew to and back from Detroit in the same day to meet with her dad, Hutch. He approved my request to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage (fist pump). Fun notation, I sprained my ankle a week prior, so I was wearing a big obnoxious boot. I didn’t feel quite confident asking permission limping around like Quasimodo. “I promise to take care of your daughter even though I have trouble taking care of myself,” I slur with drool rappelling from my lip. Not exactly the image of strength and reliance I wanted to convey. So I took my boot off, masking my limp, and my wince. Additional funny notation, I forgot that shoe in Hutch’s car, having him send it to my work the next day so Jess wouldn’t get wise. “Joe, my dad sent a shoe, your left shoe… to our house?” “Let me explain… so I wanted to get his opinion on this particular shoe, ya see… and so… ”
Other funny note - he sent it to my work at the time, a luxury jeweler. One which typically received near priceless pieces of jewelry and timepieces. The confusion on our shipping person’s face was priceless when he opened this particular box. “Who sends one used shoe?” a thick Albanian accent rings out.
Okay back to the post engagement car ride, “No. Why? Should I have asked?” I responded. She was visibly upset. “Well it’s part of our culture to request the daughter's hand in marriage.” Sweat began beading across her brow, her eyes bulged with terror, veins riddled her neck. I’m just embellishing of course, but she was worried as hell.
“I’m sure it will be fine, he really likes me babe, we’ll tell him together, okay?” I patted her hand as if everything was just now settled and Jess wasn’t envisioning her father burying my dismembered body in the backyard. Ten minutes later and we’re back home. I immediately call Hutch, giving him the thumbs up. I’m literally jumping up and down with excitement, pressing a hand over my mouth while Jess freshens up in the other room. “Okay, I’ll put you on speaker and get her, hold on.” My heart in visibly beating through my chest like I’m transforming into a werewolf. “Baby! Somebody wants to talk with you!” I growl, Jess walks in with an expression of curiosity.
I hold the phone out, “Is there something you want to tell me?” her father’s voice thunders. Jess physically cowers a little, squeaking out, “I’m engaged?” as if it’s a question. Hutch’s voice immediately softens, “I know Baba… Joe flew out to ask permission a few weeks ago.” She falls to her knees, tears streaming down her face with such elation as she shares this moment not only with me but with her dear Father. What about me? Well I’m strutting around my puddle of a fiancé with my chest pumped out because I just crushed a walk-off grand slam.
And as I scoop her up off the ground, both of us crying within joyous laughter. My arms wrap around her, embracing this beautiful woman, as well as this precious occasion, with my entirety. And in that very moment, I knew this was a fairytale. Because fairytales exist, we just need to find the right inspiration as to create them.
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