Friday, February 15, 2013

Bosun

(This post is not for an assignment.  The bluff in this story is located in southern Missouri, on my friend's farm.  I spent a huge amount of time there as a kid and teen.  I got word last night that the farmhouse burned to the ground yesterday.)



Hiking up the bluff, Billy carrying my burden, me following with the tools. It was a cloudy day, fitting my sorrowful mood. Up the path, climb through the barbed wire fence, being careful of slippery autumn leaves. It wasn't a long hike, but it was steep. We find a spot that looks good. The soil doesn't seem to be too rocky, and the view of the bluff field across the river is one that most would appreciate for an eternity. We lay our burdens down on the damp ground. We pause and take in the view. Yes, this is the spot.

Bosun was a Golden Retriever. My dad brought him home from the pound when I was 9. I remember how excited I was to have a new dog! I really wanted him to be MY dog, but he had other ideas about that! There is an old cartoon that features a little girl who wants to hug-and-squeeze-and-keep-it-for-ever and animal that crosses her path, much to the annoyance of the animals in her sights. This was me. Bosun and I did not get off to a great start.

Billy picks up a shovel and starts to dig. The soil is rockier than we thought. I pick up the pick and try to work the rocks loose. Progress is very slow. How deep does the hole need to be? Neither of us know the answer. So we dig, we pick. We stop to rest and smoke a cigarette. We talk about not much of anything. The sky is steely gray with thunderheads forming over the bluff field. Rain. More rain. Not yet, but soon.

I am 12. Bosun is sitting at the top of the stairs, I am sitting a step down from him. I pick up his left paw; “Port”. I pick up his right paw; “Starboard”. I spend an hour or so repeating this exercise with him. It was the first trick I ever taught to a dog. I was very impressed with myself. Bosun was tolerant.

Back to the job at hand. We hit the roots of the oak trees that tower around us. Use the ax. Dig some more. Pick out more rocks. The hole is growing, but still not deep enough. We try to hurry, so we don't get stuck climbing down the bluff in the rain.

16 years old. Mom and Dad left for Greece. I drop them at the airport. I go to the vet and get Bosun. He is still sore from his surgery. It's heartbreaking to see him in such sad shape. We go to McDonald's. I buy him cheeseburgers. I try to make him comfortable. 4 days later, I wake up to Bosun throwing up. It is a huge puddle. It is bloody.

The hole looks deep enough. We take Bosun from the trash bags that the vet has enshrouded him in. Billy places him in his final bed. We cover him with dirt. It begins to drizzle. We cover the grave with rocks. The rain coming down a little harder. We make a marker out of sticks and place it on top. The heavens openly weep. We gather our tools, stop to look through the sheets of rain at the rolling hills of the bluff field one last time, and head back down the hill.

Monday, February 4, 2013

Against the Current

             

            We were anchored in a small bay about 30 yards offshore of a small island in the British Virgin Islands.  It seemed like a short swim to the island, where there were plenty of young people on the windward side playing in the surf.  The boat was anchored in about 10 feet of Caribbean blue water, with a plethora of plant life growing on the bottom that housed many varieties of fish.  I decided I would snorkel to the shore, so I could enjoy the view of the ecosystem below.  I could have taken the tender, but being 15, and a competent swimmer, I opted to go it alone.  I jumped off the stern of the boat, adjusted my mask and snorkel, and, face down to the view, I set off for shore. 
            Gliding across the surface, I was able to watch the small world below me going about its daily business.  Maybe the small fish and crabs thought I was a transient shark or dolphin, just passing by and not interested in such a small snack.  They did not startle and dart away as they do when scuba diving.  That's why I like snorkeling; no bubbles, no noise, non-invasive.  I am an observer, not an intruder.  I swam in a slow, steady pace to shore. 
            Once onshore, I went to the windward side of the island, where there were other boat rat kids.  Boat rat kids make fast friends with each other because we are all so happy to be away from the 35 feet of family closeness that is our vacation home.  We swam and body surfed for most of the afternoon.  As the afternoon wore on, our numbers started to diminish as kids returned to their floating homes.  So it was time to head back.
            I walked back to the leeward side of the island, retrieved my gear, and waded into the water.  Setting off from shore, I was once again transported into another world.  A quiet, graceful world, filled with thousands of colorful fish, crabs, grasses and corals.  The only sound was my breath, moving in and out of my snorkel in a quiet whisper.  I swam on for a little while, totally absorbed in the world passing below me.  Maybe I should pop my head up and see how much progress I have made.   I was a little tired, after my swim in and surf play, and I was hungry:  Getting back to the boat had a sudden appeal.  I lifted my head and – Uh Oh – I had drifted with the current.  I was farther from the boat than when I had left shore.  I was also equidistant from the shore as I was from the boat; about 40 yards.  Well okay – don't panic.  So I changed direction and started toward the boat.  Slow and steady wins the race.  The whisper of my breath in the snorkel was a little louder.  The kick of my fins was a little stronger.  Head up, check again.  Not much progress.  I was getting tired, the current was getting stronger, and I had to work harder.  So work harder I did!  Kick for a few minutes, head up and check.  Progress was slow.  The subsurface world that so entranced me earlier, now took on a more sinister feel.  What if the sharks, that I envisioned myself as earlier, actually decided to show up for dinner after all? 
            Swim a little faster.  Good plan!  I lifted my head and looked longingly at the boat.  It was stern-to me and I could see my mother sitting in the cockpit, completely unaware of the doom that was befalling her youngest child.  I stopped and tread water for a moment.  Maybe she would turn her head and see me.  Certainly she would see that a little parental assistance was in order.  I waved.  I waved again -and again.  Come on mom, turn your head!  Finally, she turned my direction.  The powers of positive thinking – it must have been my psychic need that got her to turn her head.  I could see her strain to see against the setting sun that was behind me.  She finally saw me waving like a lunatic.  Surely she would get in the tender and come to retrieve me!  Sadly, this story does not end with such a warm and fuzzy reunion of mother and daughter.  She waved back.
            Sheesh.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

Swimming with Fish

     While on vacation in the Abaco Islands, my ex-husband and I had to make a run into town for some fishing gear. While Don picked out weights and lures for our son, I was standing at the glass topped counter. Looking down I noticed a detailed color chart of the island chain under the glass. Upon closer examination, I noticed what looked to be the perfect cove. What made it perfect is that it had something for everyone in our group. We were traveling with 4 adults, 1 senior citizen and 5 kids aged 18 mos to 10 yrs. The cove was a deep U shape, with a gentle slope from the soft, white sand beach into the aquamarine waters of the shallows: Perfect for the 18 mo. old and the senior. The soft, sandy bottom gave way to a grassy bottom teeming with fish and, if you snorkeled down a bit, conch. Perfect for the 10 year old fishing fanatic. On the northern shore of the cove was a beautiful coral reef. Great snorkeling and spear fishing for those old enough to be trusted with weapons. Perfection!
      So we went back to the house, gathered everyone up, loaded the boat and took off. When we reached the cove, it was even better than we imagined. We spent the whole day there swimming, snorkeling, fishing. We had a lovely lunch and napped on the beach. It was ideal. As the afternoon wore on, we decided it was time to weigh anchor. As we were gathering up all the people and gear, I noticed a large Stingray swimming in toward the boat. Then another, and another, and another, and another. Five Stingrays with wingspans of about 4 feet. Beautiful! They were gliding through the water, circling the boat. Don and I had been watching a few minutes when he commented that it looked like someone had been feeding them. They behaved like cats waiting for the food bowl to be filled. Looking at them again through this new perspective, I had to agree. So what are good parents supposed to do? Apparently they grab their kids, give them snorkeling gear and encourage them to get in the water with the wildlife!
      So, that's what we did. They were very large and black, and moved with deft ability. As soon as we were in the water, they swam right toward us, only to gently glide by us, watching us with their big, Labrador Retriever eyes. At first, it was very intimidating, but as they glided by with their barbed tails calmly turning them back toward us, we became more at ease. I swiped some squid that my son was using as bait and fed one of them. If you haven't seen a ray in real life, their mouths are on the bottom. So to feed it, I snorkeled down to the bottom, held the squid up, and the ray swam over my head to get the squid. He knocked it from my hand and it fluttered to the sandy bottom, where the ray swam to retrieve it. It reminded me of a vacuum, gliding over a carpet, picking up a tuft of dog hair.
      This went on for about a half hour, when I lifted my head from the water to see where everyone was. As I stood to take a quick head count of kids, I noticed something in the water just outside the entrance to the cove. I watched for a minute trying to figure out what it was. I thought it might have been a pod of dolphins, heading into the cove to hunt for dinner. Wow, that would be great! Dolphins and Stingrays. That would be one hell of a day! Upon closer observation, I realized they were definitely not dolphins – they were sharks; black tip reef sharks, which are pretty aggressive. Yikes! As adventurous as I may be in some circumstances, I draw the line at sharks. “Hey kids, sharks! GET BACK IN THE BOAT” I said with a total lack of calmness in my voice.
      Sharks?! Okay! Time to go! We got everyone back on the boat in record time and weighed anchor. As we passed out of the mouth of the cove, the sharks were passing in. I guess it's true, timing really is everything!