“Dad, when you jumped from airplanes, was it scary? Were you afraid?”

June 1964

Abe stood up from the bench, putting his arm on his son’s shoulder. “C’mon, Mutty, let’s walk a little.” They set off at a leisurely pace. This early in the season, with schools not yet closed for summer vacation, there weren’t many people on the boardwalk. Most of the rides and stands were empty, though in the distance they could make out the cheery music of Astroland’s merry-go-round, reminding Mutty of that Sunday in Central Park when he and Artie had met Marjorie.

Well, joining the army is one sure way of getting off life’s carousel....

Suddenly Abe came to an abrupt stop. Coney Island’s iconic Parachute Jump rose before them. It had a slightly seedy, almost deserted look, with the red and yellow paint on its girders chipping at the edges. Only one or two young adventurers were slowly drifting down to earth.

Mutty broke the silence. He looked at his father, who was staring intently at the tower. Almost without thinking, a question came out of his mouth. “Dad, when you jumped from airplanes, was it scary? Were you afraid?”

Abe took a deep breath, like someone waking up from a trance. He turned his back on the Jump. “Let’s get down to the water,” he said, ignoring the question, “away from all this nonsense.”

They headed down to the beach, their shoes slipping a little in the sand. When they were close enough to the water to feel its chilly spray, Abe stopped. “I hear they’re going to be closing the Parachute Jump soon. Coney Island is really past its prime.” He bent down, picked up a seashell, and cast it into the waves. “What people make, Mutty, gets rusty, old, broken down. But G-d’s creations”—he threw still another shell into the water—“that’s eternal.” His voice changed, deepened. “Yes, Mutty, sometimes I was afraid. Not during my jumps. I loved those. And not even during combat. You’re under fire, all you think about is surviving, and making sure your buddies survive, too.”