Prompt #21, Rewrite!

On a beautiful day in June last year, I almost drowned.  But I prayed hard and made it to shore.  And once I got there, I almost drowned again.

It was the first day of our Allagash river trip, and it started full of promise.  By four in the evening we had paddled over ten miles, mostly lakes, and we were ready to call it a day.  We had one lake left to cross though.  Lake Usmaskis.

Our campsite was on the far side of the lake, and seeing it was a welcome sight.  But no sooner had we cheered our coming rest, than a vicious headwind picked up.  Sudden and terrible, the wind banished hope and stole our breath.  It immediately began to push our canoes backwards, despite our paddling.

Our group eddied up and chose to walk the canoes – paddling was next to impossible.  My partner and I had other plans though.  Campsite claiming is vicious on the river, lying and stealing is not uncommon.  So we decided that staking our claim on the campsite was our prime directive.   

Every stroke was painful to our already spent shoulders, backs, and arms.  But we couldn’t stop!  The wind to threatened to win with every gust.  

By now the waves crashed over the bow of our canoe, soaking us both.  My partner asked if I could swim, and I knew what was on both our minds.  Swamping.  If we turned broadside, then the waves could have their way with us.  If the waves had their way with us, then we would both be swimming.  I knew we were both strong swimmers, and I began calculating the distance to shore.  We were right in the center of the round lake, about three-quarters of a mile from shore on every side.  Any rescue attempts would be both useless and dangerous. We were good swimmers, but would that be enough in this choppy water?  

As I considered how alone we were, I remembered that I was never alone and began to pray.  Hard.  I was distracted with pleading, and my distraction turned us broadside.  My partner yelled to switch sides and paddle.  Hard!  I did, praying harder and pulling for all I was worth.  We bobbed like a cork in the waves, small and insignificant in the grand scheme of the river.  My renewed focus combined with his powerful strokes in the back finally turned us right again.

The thought of how close we were to ending up in the water forced us to change our plans, and we made for a sandy beach.  After a seemingly endless haul, we made it and pulled the canoe on land.  We flopped on the beach, soaked with lake water and sweat.  After our breathing leveled off a little, my partner waded into the water and began swimming.  There’s something about swimming after along paddle that’s so relaxing, it loosens your tightened back muscles and the cool water is comforting.  We still had a little while before the rest of the group would catch up, so I decided to join him, clothes and all.  

I didn’t stay in the shallows for long, I longed to swim underwater.  So I pushed off and swam downwards, far over my head.  I had never experienced the weakness that takes over when you’ve paddled all day, but I did then.  With tons of water separating me from a life-giving breath, I couldn’t pull myself to the surface.  I had just reassured my canoe partner that I could swim like a fish, but now it wasn’t true.  My arms were rubber, drained of their former strength.  My lungs burned for a breath, I didn’t have time to think, much less pray.  Finally, I decided to use gravity, and pulled myself to the lake floor.  Once there, with my last ounce of failing strength, I kicked off hard from the ground and shot up.

I came to the surface and gulped in the air.  Luckily my canoe partner was a ways off, he didn’t hear my sputtering.  The thought flashed through my mind that he wouldn’t have noticed my drowning until it was too late, but I dismissed it and gently propelled myself towards shallower water.  I went back to the shore and sat on the sand, not caring that it would stick all over my wet body and clothes.  It was solid ground and there I could not drown.    

Travel & Tone

College Composition                     

Tone, Travel

I slid my fingers into the inky water and watched the little whirlpools I created slip by.  On my left was Canada, on my right, the U.S.  Underneath me was a green canoe sitting on top of the St. Croix River.  Eric waved to get my attention from a canoe in front of me, and pointed up to the top of a pine tree.  There was a bald eagle with her nest, striking and bold against the azure sky.  

The wildness of the river would often silence our conversation.  Rarely in our civilized lives do we see sky-scraping trees on the banks of swiftly running water, or a family of river otters merely watching curiously as we pass, or a bald eagle that refuses to show anything but pride at its nest.

We talked some, but the danger of conversation was that we might silence the river or scare off wildlife.  Our senses were heightened by the wilderness, and we had only been out for three days.  No wonder the American Indians were described as having extraordinary senses – they lived out here.

Our ears pricked up at an unfamiliar sound - country music and obnoxious laughter.  We rounded a bend and were practically on top of a group of drunken partiers in canoes.  The sounds of birds chirping had vanished, every beautiful sound drowned out by this group.  I avoided eye-contact as drunk men leered at me and whispered to each other, grinning and snorting.  One called out and asked where we were camping for the night.  I silently prayed that Paul wouldn’t tell them.  He gave a false statement about how we weren’t sure and I sighed in relief.  They shouted back the name of the campsite they planned on staying at and invited us to come over that night.  They assured us that they had plenty of booze and they had even brought fireworks.  Paul smiled, indulging them, and said that we would have to see.  

We passed them as quickly as we could, giving them a wide berth.  Sure, they can waste their lives, they can party all they like.  But why can’t they contain that kind of waste to civilization?  Why do they have to frighten birds, scare off moose, and pollute the river with their garbage?  Some people are especially good at wasting things.  But it’s pretty selfish to waste an entire waterway.

It takes a while for the sounds of the river to return, but steadily they do.  We rafted up together and float lazily downriver, caring little for time.  I love how time disappears in the wilderness.  My canoe was next to Paul, the leader, and he showed me the map of where we were.  Our campsite wasn’t too far, but we were making a stop along the way.

This wasn’t my first time on the St. Croix River, it was my third.  But I had never stopped at ‘Baby’s Grave.’  That was where we eddied up next.  As if in answer to the chilling name, the sun hid behind the clouds and when we stepped out into the shallow water by the shore there was nothing to dry or warm us.  Even though it was June, we all shivered a little.  It was darker without the sun, and when we tied off our canoes and forged into the woods, the trees shaded even more light from us.

Once we had all gathered around the picnic table, Paul began to tell his story.  This campsite was named Baby’s Grave because in the mid eighteen-hundreds, a dead child washed ashore on these very banks.  The Baby was never claimed, so it was buried right here.  We walked along a little path and came to the grave.  It was a small grave, with a headstone whose writing had almost worn off.  There was some conversation of how the Baby died.  Apparently a train used to run across the river a long time ago, and the child was probably thrown into the river from the train.  Perhaps the child was already dead, or sick, or maybe it was unwanted.  A breeze picked up, chilling our wet bodies and foretelling rain.  

After a brief discussion, we left Baby’s Grave.  Maybe it was a fun story to tell in warm daylight, but today it only provoked solemnity. The wilderness isn’t always beauty and majesty.  Memories of trying to set up camp during a savage electrical storm haunt my dreams.  We all lived through it, but my nightmares beg to differ.  Nature has a way of telling us that we’re not in charge.  You never really “conquer” a river, a river simply allows you to share its waters for a time. 

Prompt #20

With the long blast of a whistle, the battle began.  Each team ran in opposite directions and began to strategize.  Capture the flag can be easy.  But when your team consists of six boys between the ages of 10 and 12, and your territory is an entire island, it isn’t quite so easy.  

I was a co-leader on a Junior Survivor trip, and this game was a thinly veild attempt to wear out the kids before bedtime.  We had the whole island to ourselves and it transformed quickly from a simple campsite to a battlefield.  

We quickly formulated our plan.  Zach and I were the fastest, so we decided to go behind enemy lines and play offence.  We would be the ones to find the flag and bring it home for the win.  Matt didn’t really want to play in the first place, so he became our jail-keeper.  Then we set two people up as defense, to guard our borders and protect our flag.  

Zach and I walked to the border and weighed our options.  Three guards were posted, ready to tag and jail us if we dared cross the line.  But the border was pretty big, and they were only guarding the clear side.  After a brief discussion, Zach agreed to taunt them and be the distraction while I slipped across the unguarded side.  Something ate away at me though.  Why was there no guard on the thickly wooded side?  I didn't have much time to worry about it though, our plan worked and I was across.  

Zach must have been a good distraction, because no one pursued me.  I wondered if he was captured to give me this chance.  That would leave only me all alone. 

The day was waning, and the thick trees blocked out most of my light.  I couldn’t help but feel tense.  Someone would be coming for me, I knew it.  Why had I worn bright blue that day?  Brown would’ve been a much better choice.  I crept along, choosing my footing so as not to break a single twig.  I listened as hard as I could for anything that might alert me to a pursuer, but nothing could be heard.  Nothingness is always eerie in a forest full of life.  

I was pretty sure that they would keep their flag at their farthest edge, so that they could catch us if we tried to pass.  So I skirted the island, working my way to the edge.  Then I saw it.  In a clearing, right out in the open, their flag hung on a tree trunk.  

That was too easy, too simple.  Then I saw Luke.  He was patrolling around the flag-crowned stump, building a barricade around it.  His back was turned to me though, so I decided to chance it.

Silly me, three people at the border, plus Luke, plus a jail-keeper only accounted for five of the six people on the team.  The team leader was still unaccounted for.  

Their team leader was Jacob.  He was a few years older than me and he played soccer in college.  Meaning?  He could run, and fast.

I had waited too long, they would find me any minute, so I darted from my cover like a frightened bird and ran after their flag.  In a moment, Jacob materialized out of the same forest I had come from and began the chase.  Luke was little, and I was able to jump over his barricade easily.  I grabbed the flag from its podium, but neither stopped nor slowed to celebrate my victory.  The sound of Jacob’s pursuit quickened my pace and I practically flew through the forest, not minding the stinging branches.  

Despite running as fast I possibly could, Jacob was gaining on me.  So I began shouting.  I called for Zach over and over.  I yelled his name wildly through the woods, thinking that maybe if he was still at the border then he could meet me.  I could pass off the flag, relay style, and he could bring it home.  

I heard sounds from in front of me, someone was coming.  When they broke through I only had a moment to realize that they weren’t Zach – they were the border guards.  With Jacob right behind me and the border guards in front of me, I had only one choice.  Jump down to the beach on my right.

The group leaders had told us not to go on the beach; that the beach was beyond our boundaries.  I was supposed to be a good example, set the standard.  But I figured, hey, who cares?  This is war.

So I jumped down from the edge of the forest and onto the beach below.  I quickly found the wisdom in the leader’s decision that we shouldn’t go down there.  The landing was a bit rocky.  My right foot slid painfully into a crack between two large rocks and was trapped there irretrievably.  

When my pursuers saw my plight, they smiled a little.  No mercy for the wicked.   I tried to force my way out of the rocks, but they caught up with me first.  Jacob walked over to me and took his flag.  The shallow but long cut on his leg matched the one on my arm.  "Nice try," he said with a smile before working his way back to replace the flag.   

Once my foot was out of the rocks, the border guards tied my hands with knots I had taught them, and led me away to jail to plan my escape……

Prompt #17

I was just on time for work.  I hate that. I always like to arrive a bit early, that way I’m never caught off guard.  There was plenty to do, so I busied myself getting things ready to open, then I unlocked the door and put out our “open” flag.

I walked back to the counter, followed by everyone who had been waiting to be let in.  Quickly the quiet little shop transformed into a mad house.  Mothers yelling at their kids, babies crying, questions about what we sell, and the phone incessantly ringing.  

Nerves frazzled, I wasn’t a bucket-load of patience.  So when a little boy crept behind the counter and began to play with toys that we hadn’t gone through yet, it took everything I had to be kind.

“You better not play with these," I said,  "we haven’t put tags on them yet!”  

He ignored me, maybe sensing that my smile was fake, and kept playing.  A few minutes later his mother caught sight of him and ordered him out from behind the counter.  She apologized and they moved on to another part of the store.  

I was busy with another phone call when I caught sight of black ropes stretched across the store.  As soon as I could, I investigated and saw that same little boy.  

He had taken some toy out of its bag and had stretched its ropes all around the store, leaving a tangled mess behind him.  When I caught up with him, I asked him more firmly this time, if I could have the toy.  I didn’t leave him much chance to ignore me, since my hands closed over the rope and took it from his grasp.  He shot me an angry look and disappeared.  I wound the ropes back up, still puzzled as to what exactly I was untangling.  

And where was its bag?  I began looking in the toy section.  The numerous kids in the store had wreaked havoc in the toy area.  The once-organized shelves were bare, with their contents now scattered across the floor.  I decided that trying to reorganize would be useless at the moment since the kids were still playing, and I went back behind the counter.  By this time a woman was waiting to be checked out anyways.

After about ten minutes, everyone had either crossed the hall into our lady’s department, or had checked out and left.  This gave me the opportunity to go back to the toy section and look for that bag.  Unsure of what I was looking for, I decided to clean everything and maybe find it along the way.  After a few minutes of tidying in the quiet store, that same little boy came back.  I almost groaned, thinking all of my cleaning would be wasted in a matter of minutes.  

To my surprise, he took a single transformer off its shelf and sat down quietly with it.

“Do you have instructions for this?” he asked.

I was surprised by his small voice, it was almost cute.  But I knew the kind of kid he was.  He was spoiled, and used to getting his way.  He’s the kind that always throws a tantrum when his mother says it’s time to go.  “We don’t have the instructions,” I said tiredly.

“I don't know how to do this.  Do you have the instructions?”

I would guess him to be about five, maybe six.  Right in the middle of the stage of repeating one’s self in hopes of getting a different answer.

I told him again that we didn’t, and kept cleaning around him.  

He was disappointed, and kept mumbling about how he couldn’t figure it out.  He kept talking but he was mostly too quiet to hear, until he said something that caught my ear.

“Mommy and Daddy don’t fight much anymore.  ‘Cause they moved to different houses.”

I turned around to face him, but he wasn’t looking at me, maybe he wasn’t even talking to me.  My judging eyes filled with sadness for this little boy and all the angry things that he had already seen and heard in his short life.  

Why did I end up so lucky?  My parents rarely fought, they didn’t get divorced, and they didn’t toss me around in the middle of their own problems.  I found the black bag that matched the ropes, and put the jumbled up mass back in its bag.  I tightened the synch and put it up on a very high shelf.  

I finished tidying around the little boy, who was still trying to figure out the transformer.  I wanted to reach out to him, to help him figure out the toy, or tell him that everything would be okay.  Before I could, his mother materialized from the other room and told him it was time to go.  They left the store without a tantrum.  I walked over to his little transformer and put it back on its shelf, alone. 

Theme Week #5

When I was little I didn’t have a lot of friends.  I loved to hang out with my sisters and contrary to popular opinion, homeschooling keeps you very busy, so I didn’t really think about it.  I had good aquantences at church and that was enough for me.  

When I was twelve though, I made a good friend.  She had long blond hair that fell down to her waist, and she loved bunnies.  In fact, that was how we met.  I bred and sold rabbits with my sister (it was our own little business) and she came to our house to buy one.  We seemed to hit it right off, probably because we had plenty in common.  We both loved rabbits, we were both writers, we both were homeschooled, and we both didn’t mind continuing our friendship through letters.  Since she lived three hours away, there was no other practical answer to how we could have stayed friends.

 So the letters began exchanging.  From house to house they went, and suddenly checking the mail became a lot of fun.  It was a lovely friendship, almost Utopian.  We were there for each other, but never in each other’s face.  We met up once in a while, but we weren’t needy or over-bearing.  We talked about everything from our latest novel, to our families, to our hopes and dreams for the future.
  

But then we started to grow up.  It’s funny, but I was almost blind to the fact that we were growing apart.  In hindsight I guess I knew it was happening.  Little things in our letters clued me in to the fact that we weren’t always on the same page anymore.  But I ignored it, wishing it away and thinking it was all in my mind.

Then, two summers ago, we spent an entire day together at her family's camp.  We had a lot of fun, the weather was perfect and we did exactly as we wanted all day long.  We lazed around in her hammock talking about our novels, we had an adventure in kayaks on the lake (apparently snapping turtles can grow to be really big), and we spent the night in our own little tent.  

It was a good day, though I felt an odd undercurrent.  Something was a bit strange with my friend, but I didn’t get it.  I figured she was just feeling a little off that day though, and I moved on.

Life became busy, and I barely noticed the decreasing stream of letters.  I was terribly busy with school so I simply assumed that she was too. I wish it had been that simple.

Finally, feeling bad for the small amount of letters sent her way, I invited her to my house for a Christmas party.  This was last year, the first week of December.  I began devising plans for cookies to bake, movies to watch, and blankets to snuggle beneath in the chilly winter month.  I settled down to wait for her answer.  

I waited, and I waited.  I had sent my letter in the beginning of December, but it was the week of Christmas (only three days before!) that I received my answer.  I remember walking out to get the mail that day, with my breath all foggy and the sky all dark even though it was only 4pm.  I think it might have been snowing that day, and the house smelled like Christmas.  I had been having a hard time getting into the Christmas spirit that year (which is very unusual for me) but it had sort of clicked for me that week.  Sure, it was the week of Christmas and that’s a little late in the game, but better late than never.    

So when I grabbed the envelopes and sorted through the bills to the bottom of the stack, there was a definite sense of relief when I came to her letter.  I had begun to worry (as I always did when she took longer than usual to answer) that perhaps my letter never reached her.  Maybe it was lost on the way!  But my mind was calmed by the letter.  It was a little too late to get together for Christmas by this time, but it was good to hear from her anyways.  We would just have to get together for a post-Christmas party.  

I remember showing the letter to my Mom, and telling her that it felt thick so it must be a long letter.  I remember sharing a smile with her as I tore open the letter, expectant, eager.  After reading most of the first paragraph, I stopped and decided it would be better to read it in my room.  I took it upstairs and sat alone on my bed with her words.

Slowly, I digested the two-page long, computer-typed letter.  Still confused, I read it again.  She was breaking up with me.  She was breaking up with me?  Friends don’t break up with each other!  That doesn’t even happen… except apparently, to me.   Her first paragraph told me of how she wasn’t comfortable around me anymore, and the next three paragraphs (nice and orderly, like an essay) detailed just exactly why we weren’t good friends.  It was me.   

She listed my faults and even gave examples to back up her points.  She told me that I never thought her ideas were good enough, she insisted that I was always too competitive and never let her win, and she finished with a resounding jab at how ungrateful I was.  Funny, but I didn’t cry that day.  I just showed the letter to my Mom, who knew this friend of mine well and was surprised and angry.  She asked me how I was that night, but I just smiled and said it was silly.  I shrugged it off and went to bed.  Then I cried.

I cried for the emptiness she had left in heart by ripping herself out of it.  I cried for the utter betrayal of it all. She gave examples of how terrible I was from years ago.  How long had she spent feeling this way and not telling me?  I guess she never could bolster herself enough to be honest with me.  Instead, she smiled at my face and resented me underneath.  I wondered how long this had been going on.  One year?  Two?  All five?  I trusted her with my secrets, with my stories, with my heart.  Yet underneath her smiling veneer, she almost hated me.

After about a month (I felt it would be wise not to answer he letter right away) I wrote back.  I gently defended my actions in some of the examples she had provided, and apologized for other actions of mine.  Of course I knew that I wasn’t perfect, but isn’t that what friendship is all about?  The give-and-take of acceptance?  I diplomatically told her that her inability to be honest with me for all this time hurt.  Then I sent it out. 

I’m not sure what I expected in return.  An apology for slamming me so hard?  A retort at my defenses?  A final goodbye to tell me to stop writing to her?  What I got was worse than all of these.  She gave me nothing. There were no angry words to seal my sadness in anger towards her; no apology to revive what we had lost.  There was only puzzling, heart-wrenching, screaming silence.  

I’ve thought about her a lot since.  I've noticed how her breaking up with me affected the friendships that I tried to forge while working at a summer camp this past summer.  I wasn't very trusting, especially at first.  I smiled to everyone, trying to be as friendly and accomodating as I could.  I didn't want anyone else to get so upset by who I was.  

I mentioned something about my friend to my sister a few months ago, but she only laughed and asked, “You still remember all that?”  I guess sometimes the things that hurt us the most can’t be understood or shared with others.  

I can’t help but think of how I could’ve done better, how I might have changed all of this.  What’s the moral of this story?  Become perfect so no one will ever be mad that you aren’t?  Depend on people hurting you?  Quit trying to make friends because people are just waiting to find a reason to hate you?  

I’m not sure what the moral of the story is.  But I think it lies somewhere in the area of honesty.  I guess Billy Joel was right;  honesty is such a lonely word.  But it was mostly what I needed from her.