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NEVER
The sun on the calm water and laid back conversation float nowhere. Need to go nowhere. Content with itself, it spreads with ease like a thick layer of syrup over pancakes making them savory and sweet.
Kayaking up under cascading walls of water vines, I arrive at a long abandoned beaver lodge so overgrown that only a practiced eye could discern it. The growth is so impenetrable and the stream path so narrow that I'm unable to turn the kayak around, and begin to paddle backwards but am stymied by islands of knotted lily roots.
Water lily roots hump in black fists the size of hippo feet a mere inch or two under the surface. I'm beached in the fertile black water.
As I scrunch myself forward, pumping my body to dislodge my boat, the craft rocks ominously as it pushes undulating liquid up against the tangled green walls an arm's length away.
The water level clearance in a kayak is negligible. As the ripples swing me, they threaten to swamp the opening in which I sit below the water level. This low center of gravity is a boon on open water, but in these crowded quarters, my unease swells.
With a last scooch a vacuuming slurp sounds as my boat is freed from the root mass?only to have a sheave of tall water weeds swipe across my face as the front tip of the boat surges forward. And, surprisingly?being stuck under such an ordinary canopy of water weeds frees me.
No longer am I in a populated mid-Michigan lake, mid-August, midday, but I'm ducking under trailing liana vines in a small Costa Rican stream that empties into the Atlantic, according to the ?boys' at Turtle Lodge where I'm staying. My brother Ken paddles along nearby. At forty-one and 250 pounds, he's twelve years younger and 150 pounds heavier than me. This is our first international trip together and he's proud to be with older, so-called-wiser sister.
The lodge boys gave us explicit directions for our little excursion: ?Just stay on the main river for about a half an hour, then turn right. That little stream will take you through a small pond and directly out into the Atlantic. But stop before you enter the ocean. There is a terrific undercurrent and you might drown. If you don't drown, the bull sharks will get you! Be careful! Follow our directions.?
This first half hour, the banks spill over with prolific ferns and moss-dripping trees. When I gaze deeper into the thick jungle creepers, I notice the banks have disappeared with the recent rains. In fact, the water spreads as far as the eye can reach, winding around half-submerged tree trunks. The river itself is merely a deeper part of the unending watery surface
Entranced, I pull into elfin alcoves of blue-green, take several photos and re-emerge with a glorious smile on my face. Date palms swarm with colorful birds. Ken cruises on one hundred yards behind me.
It's easy to find the ?smaller' stream off to the right. The water speed has increased significantly so the current simply carries the kayak along. No longer is there a need to paddle, except to keep the kayak from turning sideways. As the speed increases, I become perturbed because I no longer have the chance to compose good photos. Those artistic angles take a steady boat and a free hand. The current's raw power rushes me away too quickly.
Then it dawns on me.
I look back. The entire river is funneling all the flood waters my way. When I see Ken making the turn into the stream I shout ?HELP! I'm getting carried away!?
He looks up, sees my predicament, and TURNS BACK.
What the hell?. He's stronger and quicker. I need his help to get me back up this, now racing river with no sides to it. Panic sets in He's just saving his own skin.
I have been warned by the Turtle Lodge staff, ?Don't touch any of the trees. Some of them have poisonous spines.? Nodding to myself in agreement, I nervously chew on my upper lip. The spiked trees are sighted often in the jungle around Turtle Lodge. ?Some trees harbor poison dart frogs that are so small you won't notice. Others have bark that will make your skin itch for days. And there are snakes with deadly venom.?
But I have to grab trees. If I paddle with all my strength upstream, I still continue downstream. The current is stronger than I am. How am I going to get back? Weird, end of life thoughts rush into my head faster than the river. How could my brother abandon me? He's so much stronger and younger than I am. Will I ever be able to stop? If I drown I won't be able to say goodbye to my family and friends. Did I leave a will? The power of the water brings me back with a jolt. I have neither time nor energy to waste.
I yell again. ?HELP! Don't leave me!? It's impossible to tear my eyes away from the rushing water, as I put all my muscles into pulling the paddle as hard as my aging can. The thick humidity, coupled with the taxing effort, makes sweat beads on my forehead which drip into my eyes. My vision blurs. I need a third hand to brush away the perspiration. I pant and can't catch my breath. ?HELP!? Again?louder this time.
He won't hear me now, the white water crashes and splashes with a roar. I'm afraid. Fear threatens to engulf me before the ocean does.
With a jolting thud, the kayak collides with a log jam.. Whew! I breathe easier, throw my camera into a waterproof sling about my shoulder and neck so that it's secure. My movement tips the kayak and the kayak takes on a gallon of water. OMG. My body instinctually jerks left to regain the center of balance. Please, pleading with any universal forces that will listen. Don't let me die in this watery jungle. I can't swallow. My throat constricts and goes into survival mode.
Options are limited. Very. I CANNOT sink. Or take on more water. I will have no control since he boat will be too heavy. Desperate ridiculous solutions swim through my brain.
Swim? Naaaah.
Just float down to the ocean and get out on the beach before I go out? No way. With the size of this stream becoming so vast and rapid that I'll not be able to stop. I can't even slow down now, which means I'll be caught in the undertow or eaten as a bull shark snack.
Grab the tree trunks, so close together? I could pull myself up against the current...naaaah. They are festooned with death spikes and deadly animals.
What else? Nothing.
I dig my paddle into the rush and head straight across the foaming ribbon of rapids. Absolutely no way to make it straight across, of course, and shoot fifty feet further downstream. I'd taken that into account, and as the kayak slams into a trunk, I lasso my arms around it and simply gasp for breath. With a quick glance down into the bottom of the kayak, a half heartbeat of relief bubbles?no more water inside. A victory. Having nearly capsized for momentary lapse, danger makes me shiver in the oppressive heat.
For a couple minutes I stay precariously seated, arms embracing a rough brick red trunk in the tiny Tupperware-like plastic boat. The paddle is firmly pressed between my body and the savior tree. The biggest part of my brain is so panicked and anxious I pee my shorts. So what? It's only water dripping into water.
Another section of my brain kicks in?the survival mode.
Every time I grab a tree, I rest until my breathing returns to near normal, and then I pull myself upstream with the next tree identified as my goal. My heart pounds out a steady stream of adrenaline. Not wanting to cross the now raging river, I stay as far to the side as possible without getting lost in the jungle. I'm scared as a rabbit who knows a wolf has spotted him.
Each five feet, in my struggle upstream, I assess my next move; carefully avoiding the scabby trees which will put my skin on fire and those that are spined ready to stab me.
The next tree up is a smaller sapling, nothing else is near enough to help. Running water sloshes around every upright stalk or trunk, pulling it downstream. The force of the current swirls so powerfully, a flash thought of global oceans hits me. Am I going to be a part of a disappeared shipwreck?
Banishing that thought, I shove off the big tree I cling to, push back at its trunk from behind me with my paddle to get further up the current, and reach for the tree. As I sigh and pant, the sapling slowly, ever so slowly, releases its hold on the submerged bank where its roots should have grounded it. Terrorized, I feel hot tears on my face.
What next? What?
I hold on anyway as it breaks loose. Another log rams into the front of my kayak and pushes me?right over to a vine dangling from a thick limb right down to the level of the water in front of me.
I'm Tarzan! I've got it! Gripping the vine, I realize its upper sections are wrapped around an overhanging branch about twenty feet upstream. Pulling hard, I swing it and, yes, it propels me against the rapids. Another twenty feet.
In vivid detail, I recall the description of every tree, many with leaves as large as my body, and each vine that dangled on that hundred yards until I could haul myself to the main river.
I'm still scared of everything having been been informed caimans, larger than Everglades alligators, swim this river. Leopards can leap down from hidden above in the trees. And worst of all? Light is fading.
Having turned from the raging ?small' river into the larger, swift, but do-able, river, I paddle in the middle. I'm more than glad to be able to make actual progress, though both exhaustion and fear ride along in the kayak. Alone is nerve racking. I begin to sing to console myself, even though I cannot carry a tune.
Ninety nine bottles of beer on the wall. One of them just happens to fall...
No not that one. One more bottle of liquid in this river and I'm doomed. I won't make it. I know I won't.
Bam bam bambam. That's my heart. Thunking in my chest. Could it beat any louder? Not possible.
I try to console myself that I am making progress. Will the lion get me? It can't swim can it?
Did I say king of the jungle? A lion? Is it lurking in the shadows? I can't make out anything? but I can hear the ?Roooar! And my heart: Bam Bam BamBamBam!
What about that crocodile? Pay attention, I remind myself. Pay attention to everything. I spin my head back to the crocodile, and?it's turned back into a log?DANG! All that fear over a log. Now if I could just figure out where that Roooar! Is coming from?
I'm beyond exhausted, but still fed with adrenaline. I'm out of one danger, two dangers, but face...? What?
A dark form the size of a house cat jumps from tree to tree. A monkey!
Now, I know. Nothing more than a howler monkey with a voice so out of proportion to its size that the jungle reverberates from this small mammal. Its howl can be heard more than three miles, even through impenetrable forest.
Another fifteen minutes will bring me to the Turtle Lodge at the end of the offshoot of this river. Another fifteen minutes and a boa might swoop down and coil itself around me.
I'm making progress. Aren't I? My inner voice yaps on jittering in terror.
Ken looks sheepish, abashed, then pleads innocence. ?I was about to..?
With acid in my voice, I interrupt Ken's lame defense of his actions ?I don't give a shit what you were about to do. NEVER leave someone, anyone, stranded in the jungle.?
That night, as the story ricocheted around Turtle Lodge guests, enhanced as it passed from person to person, all I could do was to make Ken repeat: never leave someone stranded alone. ..Never leave someone alone...never leave someone...never leave...never...
Moving a full half-mile per hour, we are halfway to the dock when we are rescued by another pontoon.
The refrain plays in my head...?Never leave someone stranded alone...never alone... never??
Chapter 1: ?At sunrise, the blue sky paints herself with gold colors and joyfully dances to the music of a morning breeze.? -Debasish Mridha
?Get up Thomas you're missing the best part of the day.?
Thomas's eyes, groggy and full of sleep, wearily crack open in the darkness. The old man was accustomed to waking early, seeing how he has been doing it his whole life, only this morning he heard Marianne's voice waking him. Swinging his long lanky legs over the edge of the bed, he rose, and stumbled his way into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Starting the coffee brewing, he headed back to his bedroom and got dressed. He couldn't help but smile remembering the first time Marianne tried a cup of his coffee. He warned her saying,
?Look ma'am, my cooking ain't what some call edible, and I am afraid my coffee ain't much better.?
Smiling, Marianne replied, ?I'd still like a cup if you could spare it.?
?Yes ma'am of course, but I warn ya, it'll make a horseshoe stand on edge.?
?It's delicious? was all she could muster to say.
His mind came back to him, as he ran back into the kitchen, when he realized that his coffee was overflowing the metal percolator in which he was brewing. Thomas filled his cup full of the dark, black liquid, shook out his boots and shoved them on. He grabbed his hat and walked outside. The sun would be coming up soon he told himself. He could feel the moisture in the air and could smell the dew that had settled on the grass around him. Walking down the familiarly warn path, on which his feet had trodden many times before, he settled in next to Marianne with his back against a giant pecan tree, and slowly sipped his coffee.
?You always liked Texas mornings didn't you darling??
As Thomas spoke, the sun snuck his head over the horizon behind a row of trees to the east. As if God himself was painting his masterpiece, the sky burned with vibrant colors turning the whole land shades of red, orange, and purple. The light crashing through the clouds and trees fell softly on the grass around the simple log cabin. With the light and wind, the fields seemed to dance with the coming of the day. As Thomas finished his coffee, he looked at Marianne and said,
?Well, I got to get to work,? Thomas smiled, ?you are always the best part of the day.?
Chapter 2: ?You can spend your whole life traveling around the world searching for the Garden of Eden, or you can create it in your backyard.? -Khang Kijarro Nguyen
40 years earlier:
Cold from the night air, Thomas woke to throw another log on the fire. Settling back down in the warmth under his horse blanket, his muscles were tired and sore. He hadn't known how long he'd traveled nor the distance he'd covered the days and nights before. Thomas knew that soon he'd stop, and where he stopped would be where he'd start his life. Thomas was a dreamer, never really knowing what he was meant to do, he just? did. For as long as he could remember, he had been roaming this country, state to state, town to town, searching for the place he belonged. It seemed like the only time he ever put down roots was when he was broke He'd hire out as a hand here and there, stay a week, no more than two at a time before his longing made him move on. Somewhere, out there in the darkness, was the start of his ranch, his little piece of heaven, his paradise. Now Thomas didn't have anything to his name, except the clothes on his back, his horse, some salt tack, beans, and a small amount of coffee. Lying on his back, looking up as the stars meandered across the sky through the wind-swept limbs of the tree, Thomas knew that dawn was approaching. With sleep fleeting he decided to get up and put on the coffee. While roaming around gathering the needed items he noticed a lot of broken pecan shells around his camp. To make his meager amount of coffee last, he smashed some of the pecans into pieces and brewed them in his coffee. Much to his chagrin, he enjoyed the taste. With his body now fully awake and limber, he went about filling a gunny sack full of pecans. He, with a fresh cup, got comfortable leaning back against the tree facing east. When the sun broke the horizon, he got his first glimpse of God's country. A thin low-lying fog blanketed the land as the golden rays of the sun visibly burned away the remnants of the night. The natural grasses, heavy with dew, rose as if stretching towards the warmth across the vast and ever-expanding rolling plains. All around him, the world was coming alive, animals scurried, and birds sang their songs in groves of pine trees, the once silent creek now was ringing with the sounds of rushing water while the fish jumped about trying to catch an early morning meal. Everything around him lived free in a symbiotic relationship that either took no notice or welcomed him as one of their own. Thomas's heart filled with so much joy as he breathed it all in deeply, being unable to contain it he audibly sighed. ?Home?. He finally found where he belonged. He belonged to the land from which all life sprang and would give it everything he had to keep it. He could see the remuda of horses, and the herds of cattle grazing lazily in the fields. He could smell the garden of wildflowers out back and taste the fish in the stream. The laughter of his kids, playing and riding around the house, and his wife cooking in the kitchen. With every fiber of his being, he finally knew where he belonged. Now his life could begin.
Looking across the land, he figured he would put the main house up on the hill, from which he could look out over the land. The slope of the hill, on the side with the creek bed, started steadily at first from the apex before flattening out in a slight flood plain. The creek was roughly 50 feet down the hill and, winding like a snake, flowed from west to east. It had a muddy bottom bed, due to the red dirt clay, that was roughly four feet wide and three-foot-deep at the narrowest and shallowest spot, but the water was cool and tasted good. A stone throws away, next to the pecan tree, the land toward the west was flat, with several acres of open pasture, surrounded on three sides with trees and the creek on the other. It was ideal for a large grazing pen next to the stables and corrals. From the trees, he'd have plenty of materials for the split log fence, and with the creek as a barrier, he would only have to worry about rising water during the wet seasons. Between the house and the stables, Thomas would build a wide bridge, wide enough so that a large wagon and several head of stock could cross. He knew he would soon need a mule and a few hands to help with the work ahead. Before heading into town, and while his supplies last, he figured he had better ride around the area to see what else his future had in store for him. Thomas packed up his supplies and stomped out the fire to make sure it was out before he walked over and gathered his horse. Seventeen and a half hands tall, the gray and white monochrome appaloosa studs' withers stood only two inches shorter than Thomas himself. Once he saddled his horse and tied on the bedroll and saddle bags, he bound aboard. He had to lean down so not to hit his head on a tree limb as he rode away.
Thank you in advance for your time and thoughts,
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