(Beavertail, Jamestown)
My grandchildren were exploring the shoreline at Beavertail—one of those classic Rhode Island spots where the ocean whispers, “Come a little closer…” and children, being children, immediately take that as a dare.
My granddaughter, being the seasoned veteran of life that she is at the age of—what—eight going on forty?—listened to her dad, took off her shoes, and tiptoed down the rocks with the grace of someone who has previously learned about soggy socks the hard way.
My grandson, however, felt such precautions were unnecessary.
After all, he wasn’t planning on getting that close to the water.
(Insert grandfatherly foreshadowing here.)
So off he marched—brand new sneakers, laces bright, soles unscuffed, confidence at full wattage.
Cue the wave.
There is no comic timing in the world quite like the Atlantic Ocean. It rose, it curled, and it came ashore with all the enthusiasm of a golden retriever greeting its favorite human. And my grandson’s sneakers—those fresh-from-the-box symbols of optimism—disappeared under a blanket of seawater while he stood frozen, half shocked, half insulted, as if the ocean had violated some unspoken agreement.
And I?
I stood back and savored every second.
Grandparenthood is life’s great encore—you’ve done your tour as a parent, you’ve earned your stripes, and now you get to watch your children raise children with your own voice coming out of their mouths. It’s hysterical. It’s heartwarming. It’s vindicating. It’s better than Netflix.
I always told my boys that being a good parent meant giving kids the freedom to make mistakes—but never the kind they can’t recover from. Wet sneakers? Perfect. Memorable. Character-building. And a lesson that will last far longer than the drying time of those shoes.
Because when kids live through their own small failures—when they feel the discomfort, the surprise, the squish between their toes—that lesson sticks. It becomes emotionally relevant, personally encoded, forever linked to that moment when the wave of reality (and actual seawater) washed in.
And that, in a nutshell, is how resilience is born: a little embarrassment, a little laughter, and a great big instinct to try again.
My grandchildren will face far bigger decisions than whether to climb down the rocks with or without shoes. But each wave teaches them something:
When do you try again?
When do you step back?
And when, for the love of dry socks, do you listen to your father?
As for those sneakers—they survived.
And so did he.
And both are better for the experience.
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