Empowerment: Finding a Voice in a Language Left Unspoken
“Dogs do speak, but only to those who know how to listen.”
Orhan Pamuk
“You want to take West where?” asked Lauren Chavez.
“To the beach. To see a dog named Ricochet,” West’s grandma replied.
“Mom, I’m sorry, but that’s crazy. By yourself with the two kids at the beach? West will have a meltdown for sure. He’ll probably take off and chase after a bird, and you’ll never find him. You know how he gets.”
West’s mom, Lauren, often found herself having such conversations. Checklists and routines were the norm. Spontaneity was not. A day at the beach required planning and preparations.
Eight-year-old West was born in February 2006, after two excruciating days of labor and an emergency C-section. Lauren had lost a lot of blood, and when she finally gazed at her newborn son, she was in awe of his preciousness, but she also felt intuitively that something was wrong.
When the anesthesia wore off and she visited with West longer, something still seemed wrong to her. When the lights were on, her baby wouldn’t open his eyes. She told relatives that if they wanted to see his eyes, they’d need to turn off the lights. To her, he seemed lifeless, like he wasn’t ready for the world. Yet he had been diagnosed with severe jaundice, and it was no doubt taking its toll on his tiny system.
After being released from the hospital, a nurse came to the house every day to monitor his condition. Within a week, the nurse felt he was strong enough to be released to his parents’ full-time care.
“You can relax now, Lauren. There’s nothing to worry about,” her mom assured her.
But as a new mom, Lauren couldn’t stop worrying. She knew in her heart that something was wrong. West was a happy baby most of the time. And so incredibly cute. He walked and crawled on time but didn’t babble or talk at all.
Most alarming, when Lauren tried to cuddle him, he’d scream, recoiling from affection unlike other babies. Even when he teethed, he didn’t want to be comforted by his mother. Once when she attempted to cuddle him, he head-butted her so hard that he bruised her lip. When someone asked why her lip was black and blue, she was ashamed to admit what had happened.
She knew this wasn’t normal behavior for a one-year-old. Oftentimes, she’d find him standing by a window staring blankly outside. This could go on for quite some time if she didn’t redirect him. If he got angry, he threw toys at the nearest person. Even if he hurt them, he didn’t show any of the age-appropriate signs of empathy. But he was still very young, and Lauren hoped he’d outgrow his quirks. Nevertheless, she had a suspicion that her son had autism and shared it with the other moms at the playground. They assured her with a laugh that they didn’t agree. “He doesn’t have autism. He doesn’t flap his arms or walk on his toes.”
One day West injured his hand. As his inconsolable shrieks pierced through the ER, a doctor asked Lauren to talk to her son, calm him down, and explain what they needed to do. Lauren looked at him like he was crazy.
“You mean you can’t reason with him?” the doctor asked.
“No,” she said. “Can you reason with other kids this age?”
“Absolutely yes,” he answered.
Another red flag. Lauren shared her concerns with family members who told her she was making too much of it. She heard statements like “Boys take longer to do things,” and “My son didn’t talk, either; you should read to him more often. Then he’ll start talking.” So Lauren bought more books and tried to engage her son.
“West, get the ball! Get the ball for Mommy.”
West stared flatly at her as if she had twenty heads. He didn’t seem to understand what the ball was or who Mom was either. He didn’t even point at things.
As time passed, his differences became more evident. At the playground, he didn’t play like the other kids, preferring to pour sand on their heads instead of into the sandbox. If they took his toys, even his favorite one, he didn’t care—he’d just walk away.
Lauren kept repeating, “I think he has autism.”
This time, the other moms didn’t refute her comment, and their silence spoke volumes. Perhaps they felt something was amiss, too, but didn’t want to voice it out loud.
When West was fourteen months old, Lauren took him to the doctor, who assured her that he was fine: “Boys talk later,” she said. The doctor pulled out a tongue depressor for West. He grabbed it. “See?” she offered. “Look at that. He grabbed it. Kids with autism don’t do that.”
Lauren wanted to believe that the doctor was right. She hoped with all her heart that West would outgrow these behaviors, and she rationalized that maybe she was making too much of them. Then she asked her Grandma Ginny, who had raised two kids of her own, if she thought something was wrong with West.
“Yes, Lauren, I do,” she admitted. “I think something is very wrong.”
Lauren and West’s dad, Steve, brought West to a psychologist for a full evaluation, which included a speech exam. Some of their friends’ children were in speech therapy, so they assumed the recommendation would be speech therapy a few times a week. They had no idea that West’s speech was the last thing that would concern the doctor.
“We are not recommending speech therapy at this time.”
“What do you mean?” Lauren gasped.
“We’re not recommending speech therapy because his cognition is the problem. Ms. Chavez, he has the cognitive level of a six-month-old.”
Six months?! Lauren was floored. Her son was twenty months old!
“What happens now?” Lauren stammered in shock. “How bad is it?”
The therapist handed her a pamphlet with the word “AUTISM” in big bold letters across the top.
“My son has autism?”
“He’s exhibiting the traits of being on the autistic spectrum.”
What does that even mean? Lauren thought. English, please. “That’s not what I’m asking you. Does he have autism?”
“We can’t diagnose him, but he’s at risk.”
The therapist recommended intensive intervention on a daily basis for the foreseeable future. With her fears confirmed, Lauren marched back to her pediatrician who gave her a referral. She wasted no time in scheduling an appointment.
After a fifteen-minute exam, the neurologist turned to Lauren and Steve, and said, very matter-of-factly, in the same monotone voice one might use when giving directions, “Your son has autism.”
“You think he has it?” Lauren asked.
“No,” she said, “I know he has autism.”
Even though Lauren knew it, too, she still couldn’t process it. As she struggled to wrap her mind around the diagnosis, the neurologist delivered more bad news. West’s case was not only severe, but it was compounded by a motor speech disorder called apraxia, in which the brain has difficulty coordinating the muscle movements necessary to say most words.
“Will he ever talk?” Lauren asked.
“Not likely,” was the doctor’s response.
Lauren, Steve, Reese, and West drove home—their family forever changed, their hopes for a bright future bleak. Steve and Lauren’s shared dreams for West were shattered. He may never speak. And time was not on their side. The neurologist warned that they had a small window of time to make a connection with West. If he wasn’t speaking by the time he was four, he likely never would. They risked losing their son to autism before they even knew him.
Lauren retreated into West’s bedroom and lay on the floor. In the shelter of the room, surrounded by Legos, blocks, and toys he may never learn to play with, she found the reality of the situation all too much to bear. With the door closed, she broke down crying for the first time since West’s birth. Then, looking at the baby pictures of West and Reese—seeing their eyes, their smiles, and their potential—she found her resolve. West and Reese needed her to be strong.
Okay, she thought, that’s the only time you’re going to cry about this autism thing. Pull yourself together and get a handle on it. Do what you need to do.
She knew that West had been born for a reason. Faced with this crisis, she didn’t question where God was or wonder why he left her. She knew that God was there that day perhaps more than any other time in her life. In fact, she was sure that he himself picked her up and carried her out of the room.
But then the hardest road began. Daily occupational and behavioral therapy were extremely frustrating for West. When he was two years old—a month after Ricochet was born—things got drastically worse. West’s “terrible twos” manifested in angry, violent, and aggressive outbursts. One night he grabbed a heavy toy and smacked his father in the face with it. Still reeling from the shock, the next day the family took a walk while a therapist was working with West. When they returned home, the therapist was outside with all of her things packed up.
“I’m sorry,” she began. “I really like West, but he’s the most aggressive child I’ve ever worked with.”
Ever? Lauren thought. He’s only two!
“I simply can’t work with him until you get his aggression under control,” she said.
The doctors recommended medication, even though they had never prescribed it for someone so young. But West’s case was the most extreme they’d ever seen. Lauren and Steve resisted; medication would be their last resort. Yet soon they couldn’t afford to ignore the problem. In a rage, West whipped a light hand weight at his sister’s head. Luckily, she wasn’t hurt. But what if something had happened or lay ahead? They had to protect Reese—and protect West from himself and the grip of autism.
“If you don’t do this, you’re going to lose your son,” the doctor urged.
With no other options, they reluctantly agreed. And then they waited . . . and watched. They’d know within six weeks if the medicine worked. And yet, after a mere four days, West’s aggression subsided. No more hitting. No more kicking. It was like a new West. The real West. For a brief span of wondrous time, Lauren almost let herself believe that West might start talking, that the medicine might magically revive something inside his brain. It didn’t. But even so, they had their sweet son back. Now they could begin his therapy in earnest on a physical level and give him the love he so desperately needed on an emotional level.
While I was busy introducing Ricochet and her littermates to beams, planks, and moving obstacles, West’s therapists were trying to introduce those types of things to him, too. Part of his therapy meant pulling him out of his comfort zone and putting him on things that moved—platforms and swings. But West despised it. He craved control. He hated his legs being off the ground for even a second and would scream and throw himself on the floor, refusing any part in the much-needed work.
At three years old, he was still not talking, but he could make certain sounds. With much struggle and repetition, one day he said the word “Bye.” It was a glimmer of hope, but the critical fourth year was approaching, and time was running out.
West’s school suggested placing him in a very low-functioning class, which Lauren asked to visit. When she entered the room, she knew instantly it was not the right place for him. The kids didn’t react to people the way West did; they were on a much lower level cognitively. She begged the principal to evaluate him.
“On paper he is like that, but that’s not who he is as a person,” Lauren pleaded. “Please at least meet him before you put him in that class.”
Upon meeting West, the teacher noticed his spark and agreed that he needed a different class. They placed him in a higher-functioning class, but he didn’t fit there either. While he could communicate thirty words through sign language, he refused to potty train and dumped his fruit on the floor every day.
“I’ve taught here for twenty years, and he’s the first one who’s ever broken me,” the director said. “When West doesn’t want to do something, he won’t do it. He just shuts down.”
Sadly, West didn’t quite fit in either world—and he was retreating further into his own. He cried every day for two years but was unable to tell his parents why. Then, right around his fourth birthday, West found his voice. As he struggled to force his mouth to make each sound, it looked painful to Lauren.
“Why does he look like he’s in pain?” she asked.
The therapist assured her that West was not in pain, but that he would struggle to form each word because of the apraxia.
At five years old, he had the vocabulary of a three-year-old, and if people didn’t know him, they had trouble understanding him. Because of this, West didn’t have many friends. He spent a lot of time alone in his room, which he preferred. He didn’t like going outside. When Lauren would open the door to the yard, he’d get anxious.
“I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go,” he’d cry.
Unless West knew exactly what would happen, he didn’t want to take any risks. The outside world was too overwhelming for him. He needed complete control of his environment or he would simply shut down.
Hoping for some positive stimulation, Lauren’s mother took West and Reese to story time at the library where kids could read to a therapy dog. West sat on the other side of the room, afraid and unsure. A few weeks later, Lauren’s mom saw Ricochet’s SURFice dog video on the Internet and decided to take the kids to meet her.
“That’s crazy, Mom. First we have dogs who read—now a surfing dog?”
But her mother was undeterred; she was determined to take Reese and West to the beach to meet Ricochet.
“You’re going to take two kids to the beach by yourself?”
Lauren listed a litany of reasons why it was a bad idea: West might have a meltdown. What if he runs away? Ever since he was little, he loved to chase birds. He would see a bird and take off. She recalled the horror of watching West once fall down some concrete steps while tracking a bird, and how she and her brother had to chase after him in the park one day for a good quarter of a mile. He just kept going after the birds. But birds or no birds, her mom took the kids to meet Ricochet.
As Ricochet and I stood in the sand, Nana Cindy approached with Reese and West in tow. I was struck by Reese’s natural beauty set off by her sense of style with her horn-rimmed glasses and a crocheted pink cap.
“Say hello to Miss Judy,” Nana Cindy said.
West was a bit reserved, but as soon as he saw Ricochet, his confidence perked up. “Nana, it’s Wicochet!” he pointed, darting over to her. “Hi, Wicochet,” he said.
While the beach was busy with people milling all around, West stayed for quite a while, patting and talking to Ricochet. She looked into his eyes, her eyes crinkling, and then lay back to enjoy a rub as he stroked her belly. It was pure relaxation for both of them.
Hours later, their grandma returned home with two sun-kissed, grinning children wearing matching pink Paw It Forward wristbands. West, with an unfamiliar glint in his eye, ran up to his mother, eager to show off the photo on his grandma’s cell phone.
“Look, Mom, look!” West exclaimed, jumping up and down.
Peering at the screen, Lauren saw a picture of West and Reese sitting beside this dog named Ricochet. What struck her the most was that her son was not a full arm’s length away from the dog like he typically would be. He was sitting cross-legged right next to her in the sand, leaning in and looking relaxed, with an easy, happy smile. The face reflected back at her wasn’t West’s typical look of trepidation that he wore around other dogs.
“When we go again?” West asked Lauren.
The boy who was so afraid of dogs and never wanted to leave his house was suddenly interested in something beyond the confines of his room and routines. He wanted to see Ricochet again! Reese was just as enamored. She told all of her friends at school that she and her brother had met the surf dog named Ricochet.
When the kids were naughty, Lauren discovered she could use Ricochet as the bad cop: “We’re gonna tell Ricochet,” she’d warn, and the problem behavior would stop immediately. If West was getting frustrated or a meltdown was imminent, Lauren would play a video of Ricochet, and West would calm down enough for her to talk him through the problem. Some kids had security blankets to comfort them; West now had Ricochet.
With Ricochet becoming a furry surrogate member of their family, Lauren wanted to meet her in person, so she took Reese and West to another charity event. Lauren approached me to say hello, and I was struck by her warm smile. She was a mirror image of Reese.
“Hi, West, how are you, buddy?” I asked.
But West’s attention was elsewhere. He was off to say hello, his face lighting up along with his voice. His reaction was typical—I was used to playing second fiddle to Ricochet.
“Wicochet!” he beamed.
Ricochet trotted straight to him and sat down, gratefully accepting his pats and hugs. His affection for her was obvious. Shaking her head and smiling as she watched her son, Lauren told us how much Ricochet meant to West and how he was now opening up because of her. Before they left, we exchanged email addresses.
When West got home, he was so excited by his time with Ricochet that he went to fetch his boogie board, which had been collecting dust in the garage. “Take a picture of me surfing. Send it to Wicochet!” This from the boy who wouldn’t dip his leg in water and who despised wobbly surfaces.
Elated, Lauren snapped a photo of West’s therapist steadying the boogie board with West standing proudly on top. Here was her son, in the water, balancing on a jiggling boogie board, with a snorkel mask obstructing his face. Because of Ricochet.
After that, West asked if he could try taking swim lessons—“for Wicochet.”
Ricochet was pulling West out of his world and into hers.
Several months later, in May 2013, I received an email from a producer at ESPN who wanted to film a segment about Ricochet’s one-of-a-kind SURFice dog work. I remembered how West’s face lit up when the two met and how his mother told me she had eased his fears. I emailed Lauren to see if she’d be open to having West surf with Ricochet for the piece.
Intrigued, Lauren agreed, but she didn’t want to tell West because she didn’t want him to get too excited. It was hard for him to understand time and space. He didn’t grasp “when” and “where.” Also, the cameras would worry him. He hated people taking his picture, and video recordings were out of the question. Lauren had no idea what to expect. As the day approached, Lauren’s concerns ran the gamut: They’ll need to put a microphone on him. There will be strangers there. Will he be overwhelmed? West has never surfed before. He’s the only one in the group who will be doing it for the first time.
The night before, Lauren and Steve helped West try on his new wetsuit. His excitement was contagious.
“I’m gonna surf with Wicochet!”
Steve, an avid surfer, had always wanted West to surf. They had gone boogie boarding once, but a wave knocked West off the board, and he went under for a second. He never went in the ocean again.
“He’s gonna surf with a dog but not with me?” Steve half-joked, but with the progress his son was making, he was looking forward to the experience. He expected Ricochet to be a brawny, 100-pound dog. When he first saw her, he was surprised at her small stature. “That’s the dog?”
West was nervous when they arrived at the beach, but Lauren told me that she knew as soon as he saw Ricochet that everything would be okay.
“Ricochet is so intuitive; she knows what West needs. As soon as they see each other, West will relax. She knows exactly how to work with him and has a calming spirit. She waits for him to see what he needs; she never pushes him too far. I trust that it will take care of itself.”
And it did.
West ran to pat her. “Wicochet!”
Knowing West’s fear of water, one of the volunteer water helpers named Patti walked to the shore with him to build a sandcastle. West’s head was down; he didn’t speak a word, but he crouched to help build it. As he dug his hands into the gritty sand, the water streamed in, dousing his feet and legs. He didn’t seem to mind. He was busy helping Patti make walls to protect their castle from harm. West was good at building walls, at protecting his environment. But today, the tide was turning and the ocean’s unrelenting waves were slowly seeping in, crumbling his walls faster than he could make them.
As the castle slowly melted away, I called out to West, “Ready to surf with Ricochet?”
“Weady!” West chimed.
Dave, Patti, and Deb, another volunteer, chatted with West as they walked out into the breakers, which was chest high for West. Yet he didn’t hesitate. Giving words of encouragement, they helped him onto the board where he lay stomach down, the board rocking and swaying, the cold waves slapping his face.
Ricochet and Dave were now behind West—out of his line of sight—and his parents and sister stood hundreds of feet away from him on dry land. West was now completely out of control, completely out of his element, yet his smile was wide.
“Ready, Ricochet?” Dave asked, spying an upcoming wave. “Ready, West? One, two, three!” Dave pushed the board into the cresting wave.
West held on. And in a flash, he did something that most people who are new to surfing don’t do as they struggle to keep their grip—he turned his head to gauge Ricochet’s reaction. Then, and only then, when West saw that Ricochet was happy, did he smile a smile that shone brighter than the sky. The boy who craved control, and was afraid of water and dogs, was now gliding, his arms fully outstretched into the sky, with a huge grin—as he coasted into shore with Ricochet.
When Reese saw his face, she clapped wildly. “Yes! You did it, West!”
Cupping her hands to her mouth, Lauren laughed and then exhaled a huge sigh of relief. “Good job, West!”
His dad chimed in with whistles and cheers.
West’s screams of excitement could be heard across the beach. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched them, Ricochet and West—their souls connected—both with a penchant for birds, both who shut down when the expectations of others became too much to bear, both born with sensitivities just beyond most others’ understanding. They were communing together in a special place in time, embracing the feeling of spontaneity and the love between two beings.
When they reached the shore, West hopped off the board to make sure that Ricochet was safe. Then he skipped through the water, kicking up spray, and ran to share his accomplishment with his family.
“I did it! One, two, free!” He held up three fingers, signifying his three rides with Ricochet.
His fears had dissolved, evaporating into the waves beyond. The family hugged, embracing the moment in a huddle of electrifying energy and radiant smiles.
Lauren turned to me. “To see him surfing is beyond anything I could ever imagine. He’s completely out of control; there’s a dog in control. It’s so outside of his comfort zone, but it’s obvious he loved it. Ricochet took him to a new place. She found that middle ground.”
As Lauren watched West race into the waves for another ride, she continued, “Today he was the most lit up I’ve ever seen in his life.”
I had to believe her. Everyone, from the cameraman to Dave, Deb, Patti, and a host of other volunteers, said the same thing: “West is pure joy; he just comes alive in the water.” Ricochet brought out his true essence that autism had kept hidden for so long.
When we were done with the surf session, the videographer went to West’s house to do more filming. West was hamming it up, showing him all of his toys and his room. Lauren was amazed at the transformation.
“Here’s the kid with such a severe diagnosis, who couldn’t speak, and now he’s talking—on camera—with a videographer!” she explained. “He’s completely changed because of Ricochet.”
In June, we met West again for a surf session with a few families. West hadn’t been in the water since the last time he was with Ricochet. This time, he didn’t just lay on the board. With Ricochet positioned in the front, West used her body to steady himself as he stood up on the board and coasted in. With Ricochet’s help, West was now standing on his own two feet, both literally and figuratively.
Bounding back in the water with a splash, West took charge, signaling to Dave, Deb, and Patti. “Hey guys! Hey guys! This time I want to kneel, okay?”
We all laughed that the boy who didn’t speak was now telling the handlers what to do as he directed the surfing session! He was taking over Dave’s job!
I watched him kneeling on the board as he held on to Ricochet, gliding into shore with spray shooting around them. As he coasted in, he approached Patti, who was ready to give him a high-five. Swatting her hand as he passed her, he shouted with excitement.
“You got the high-five?” I asked, impressed at West’s ability to let go on the board—in more ways than one. With his trusted companion by his side, West had become a new person—his real self.
In September, ESPN returned to film more footage, and West was once again excited to surf with Ricochet. The filming was taking longer than expected, and West had to wait. And wait. A delay was not in the game plan, and everyone held their collective breath for his turn, hoping he wouldn’t have a meltdown. Yet just knowing that Ricochet was there and taking in her calming presence, West waited patiently.
As he stood patting her in the shallow water, he watched with great self-control as a soldier, an Iraqi veteran, arrived at the beach for his first-ever surf with Ricochet. Like West, the soldier was working with Ricochet to overcome his own fears and anxieties caused by post-traumatic stress. While West’s compulsions had plagued him since birth, this soldier’s fears were born on the battlefield.
As the soldier donned his wetsuit and eyed the waves, he introduced himself to West and asked him if he had any advice for surfing with Ricochet.
“Just have fun!” West chimed, which was music to my ears, coming from a young boy who struggled to have fun in the conventional world, but who was finally free out there in the surf.
The soldier nodded and smiled at West, who was splashing through the waves, waiting for his next ride with no fears or inhibitions. He probably would never have guessed that, for West, moments like these were rare, that autism had robbed him of most of the carefree moments of his childhood.
When Dave launched the board, the soldier swayed and bobbled for only a second, but his years of physical training showed as he sprang up with ease and grace.
Seeing his newfound friend coast in, holding on to Ricochet, West jumped up and down, cheering with unbridled glee. “You did it!” he screamed. “Woo-hoo!”
There were thumbs-up all around as the man, in turn, handed Ricochet’s leash to West.
“Alright, West,” he said, “let me see you do it.”
These two strangers—a thirty-one-year-old army sergeant and an eight-year-old—were becoming buddies in the surf, continuing to cheer each other on and helping to fetch the board when Ricochet jumped off. The boy whose brain was born autistic and the soldier whose brain was changed by war—both imprisoned by their fears—were reaching out to help each other in the water. It was a beautiful moment, the kind that gladdens your heart and compels you to stop and savor it, like a fleeting sunset, when two separate colors, each with its own unique vibrancy, come together to meld into something so spectacular that it seeps into your very soul.
Dave looked on amazed. “Judy, in the eleven years I’ve been doing adaptive surfing, I’ve never seen the participants become volunteers like these two are doing for each other.”
I nodded. Both of them struggled to connect with people every day, but out here in the ocean with Ricochet, it was coming naturally.
Back on the beach, Lauren found me as she was readying to leave. “Meeting Ricochet has truly altered the course of West’s life,” she said. “Ricochet has empowered him to try things he never would have before. Now I know it’s not impossible—that it’s not so bleak.”
I couldn’t find the words to answer her.
“I had hopes for West, but I never thought he’d be capable of doing things like this. I was scared to put him out there; I was afraid he would get hurt or be judged. But he’s so much stronger than I ever knew, and I credit that to Ricochet.”
Lauren reached out to hug me, and my throat caught as I felt her arms around me, the warm, thankful embrace of a mother who wanted what every mother wants—for her son to be okay, to find his unique place in the world, and to grow up safe, happy, and loved. While I knew that she was thanking me, I was grateful to her because, in that moment in time, I felt the deepest kind of love. I was the lucky one. I was blessed to know this special boy, to experience his love for my dog, and his caring for another being.
But I wasn’t the only one impressed with West. Dave, Deb, and Patti also noticed how helpful he was and how he waited so patiently during the filming, so several weeks later, Dave suggested treating him to a private surfing day with just his sister. Not only would this be a special day for West, but for Reese, too, since she was always the patient big sister, tagging along to therapy and doctors’ appointments without complaint.
When we reached the beach, the waves were a tad rough. Reese, who had never surfed before, was understandably a bit nervous. Reese wanted West to surf first. However, West was insistent that Reese go first. It was a typical sibling standoff.
Deb, the consummate peacemaker, explained to West that if he surfed with his friend Ricochet first, they would help show Reese how it was done. Of course he agreed—Deb had uttered the magic word: “Ricochet.” The younger brother could now teach his older sister something he was good at. Despite the rougher chop, West once again stood up behind Ricochet and surfed the wave all the way to the beach.
“Now it’s your turn,” West said, helping to bring the board over. West happily and expertly gave her the lowdown: “You need to make sure you hold on; don’t worry, Wicochet will be there to help you.”
West’s instructions paid off. When Dave gave Reese a push, she popped right up behind Ricochet, her smile just as wide as her brother’s.
“Good job, Weese!” West yelled, clapping for his sister as Patti handed out a high-five.
When she reached the shore, West ran to help grab the board, and they both laughed, a brother and sister, sharing a normal day at the beach—the kind of a day that had been few and far between for them.
“Can I push her?” West asked.
We were touched that he was so interested in being a part of his sister’s experience and how empowered he felt to reach out to help.
“Sure you can!” I said, as Deb and Dave did their best to position Reese on the board, allowing West to assist them.
“Weady, Wicochet?” West asked, parroting the instructions that were usually Dave’s domain. “Go!”
The three of them released the board in unison with Dave giving Reese and Ricochet the final push in. Still nearly chest-high in the water, West jumped up and down as his eyes followed them coasting into the beach.
When we were all dried off and enjoying a snack, we thanked West for all of his help. It was clear to me that he and Ricochet had communicated in a language left unspoken and that West would be following in her paw steps in his quest to help others.
Looking around the picnic table at the six of us, he said, “You’re welcome. As long as I never lose my job as the surfer. . . .”
We all chuckled.
“Don’t worry, West, you will always be the surfer!” Lauren assured him.
And he would be. Surfing was now a part of his soul.