Rolling Down the River (continued part 4)

Water seems to be the key point, the theme to hurricanes. It is the single biggest worry we all have living close to a coastal area. We have to buy drinking water, gather water in big containers, bathtubs, sinks, filling anything that can contain the precious liquid. People living in areas very near the coast line need to evacuate away from great crashing waves, giant torrents of energy crashing over everything in its path, lest they be swept away into the waves. And let’s not forget the flooding, oh, the flooding that takes place because our houses are built on sand. There are entire parables about not building your house on a foundation of sand, and yet we have done it here to perfection. Houston was nothing but a swamp before it was civilized, drained and built up, with looming sky scrapers, paved roads and businesses. Sometimes I think the saying “the road to hell is paved with good intentions” is based on our arrogance of building over a Mother Nature’s wetlands. In our ever expanding need to take over every square inch of prime property, and I am not totally convinced it isn’t our lack of humility where we decide to do the exact thing that many ‘moral stories’ tell us quite explicitly not to. With buildings and lives at risk, we are taught down here to run from the water and hide from the wind. Gathering water and running from it, seems to be a quandary during times of extreme weather. On one hand, water is the enemy, the powerful, great, sweeping colossus and on the other it is the single most important thing to sustain life. I, being a rather simple human being, find all this a little confusing. While I was gathering my bottled water, my bathtub water, my garbage can water, I thought back to when I was a small child and how much I loved water. For a child water is magical, the feel of it when dancing in the rain, the coolness of swimming in the lake on a hot summer day, the breathtaking beauty of it when viewed from a white sandy beach; water is the best form of entertainment, the finest sleep-aid after swimming and the most delicious beverage when coming out of a hose in the yard. A meager sprinkler running in the grass will cause a child to lose their mind when the weather is hot and humid. Should one be so fortunate to have a swimming pool, well, their life is made in popular groups all across town. As wonderful as water is when we are small, there is real danger associated to it, as well. Most of us know of someone, or at least heard of someone who has drowned, or been tragically taken in a storm, or been deathly ill from drinking tainted, dirty water. Living past the age of twelve means we have gathered shared experiences in death by water. Just falling into water from a considerable height is as if hitting concrete. I know from personal experience, hitting a lake at high speed while water skiing will make you feel as though someone had beaten you with a ball bat. I was taught to swim as a baby. My parents were adamant about making sure we had no fear of water, and could swim our way to safety if need be. My father, a boating enthusiast, had us in life jackets sitting on boats in freezing temperatures from the time we were young. I was nine years old when I became completely aware of how dangerous water can be. All the swimming lessons in the world would not have helped me on that day; my dad, as much as he prepared me all my life to survive in water, had to save the life of his youngest child.
Back in the spring of 1972, I was a precocious nine year old, a tom-boy with scraggly, fine hair that had been fashioned into a shag that looked more like I hadn’t sat still enough for the hair dresser to cut it properly, and a considerable over-bite. I was just beginning to become a real girl. Somewhat like Pinocchio, I was learning what it took to become the very thing I desired. At birth my parents had been assured I was female, but as I became more and more awkward, dressing in mismatched, often times embarrassing outfits I had painstakingly picked out myself, complete with bright red high top converse tennis shoes, one had to wonder what was going on in my head. I thought I was styling! My folks looked as though they were not quite convinced that somewhere someone hadn’t made a tragic mistake in determining what I was. My father was less concerned about my gender neutral fashion because he could rough house with me, take me fishing, and treat me as the son he never had. My dad was not big into stereotyping females against male dominated activities. He scrubbed floors and I mowed the lawn. To my dad activities were for anyone who wanted to participate or in my case his ability to make me participate. His love of boats meant that I had to become proficient at boating. Now that I am thinking about it, we all had to become proficient at boating. He was our captain and we were his skally wags.
I was easy to convince to go out on the boat, a catamaran; my father had acquired the boat to soothe his need to sail. The other women of the house would look at him as if he had three heads, when approached to go out during cold spring days. Don’t get me wrong, they too had gone out to sea with the man who insisted it was not too cold, only to discover freezing temperatures, ice cold wind and the watery spray that would freeze to your face. We had all endured his command to go forth and boat during inappropriate weather. They had just found an out on that particular day. There was simply no way on earth my mom or my sister were going out on one windy and cold day in the spring, when dad came and found me to get me to go. For years I thought “women’s suffrage” had to do with living with guys like my dad. I was thinking of the root word suffer, which if you went boating with my dad you were sure to do. When I found out it had to do with women acquiring the right to vote, my first instinct was to gather the others in the house and see if we could vote him out of power.
So it was cold, damp, and extremely windy when my dad and I went out on our sail boat to catch a ‘hum’. The catamaran had a large sail and a trampoline in the middle. They are very cool to ride, but can be pretty slippery when wet. Our cat used to make a sound that resembled humming when the wind was strong and we really got going. The whole boat used to vibrate. It was in those times when my dad’s normally soured face would soften and he was transported back to being a kid, a young boy with the love of speed and adventure. I watched as his eyes narrowed, his jaw locked into determination and his was sailing on all cylinders. We were dressed to keep out the cold and I had a life jacket on, per my father’s insistence. Dad was always worried about boat safety. As much as he acted like a kid during our boating adventures, when it came to life jackets or his children’s safety on the water, he was all grown-up and all dad. The sky was gray that day, as it was most days in the spring, where the weather changed on a dime. There were a few boats on the water, but not many. The wind was forceful and dad had to strain at times as tacked back and forth across the water. The boom, attached to a tall mast, if you were not careful could cold cock you into oblivion, would swing wildly before snapping hard into place. The boat had begun to hum loudly, as we increased in speed. The side of the boat lifted off of the water, one pontoon nearly completely out as the boat pitched into the wind. Dad and I exchanged looks and started laughing; it was as though we were flying. We caught a sudden burst of wind and the boat’s sail caught it all. Unexpectedly the boat pitched and started to capsize leaning all the way over, the pontoon lifting up toward the sky and the mast heading fast toward the water. In an instant the boat was upside down, the mast firmly dug into the mud and my dad’s glasses had flown off his face, making it very difficult for him to see. Suddenly I was trapped under the tramline of the boat, with only a few inches of air space to catch my breath. My life jacket would normally have held my head above the water except the trampoline was pushing the top of my life jacket in a way that was causing my face to go into the water. The piece of the jacket behind my head was forcing my face directly into the lake. I struggled to find my escape, writhing under the trampoline that had me trapped. I had tried to get my life jacket off, but could not find the release. Panic started to fill me. I had begun to fight against the trampoline, my life jacket, and I was wearing myself out as I fought against the buoyancy of the jacket forcing my head down into the murky lake water. As my breathing became increasingly difficult and I was taking in water instead of air, I felt a large, strong arm grabbing at me. One swipe and he missed, another swipe and a he was closer, the last time my dad cut through the water he caught a hold of the life jacket and ripped me from under the boat. Sputtering, coughing crying, my dad pulled me close. He couldn’t really see, but he knew how to find me. There was little time for tears after we got back to shore without my dad’s beloved boat. We got in the car and drove to a friend of his, who he knew he could ask for help. They needed to get the boat out before dark. The men needed scuba equipment to free the mast that was stuck in the mud. My mom was called at the friend’s house. I sat freezing, teeth chattering as the men thought of ways to get the boat. When my mom showed up, she looked at me and hugged me tight. “What happened to your leg, Honey?” I looked down at the streams of blood running down my leg. I hadn’t even noticed I had been hurt. “I must have cut it on the boat”, I mumbled clinging to my mom for dear life. Mom and I waited for the men to get the boat, and head home. I was bathed, bandaged up and wrapped up in clean pajamas, and tucked into bed. My mom reassured me as she pulled the covers up to my chin, hugging me tightly, kissing my forehead. My dad came to check on me before the light went out for the night. “You, O.K.?” Dad asked quietly. “Yeah…” I whispered and with that I was out for the night.
The very next week my dad was preparing the boat on the trailer to be taken to the lake. I ran inside the house to find my mom. “I’m not going!” I cried as I clung to her. My dad seeing my fear came into the house, and said, “You are going! There is nothing to be afraid of. You are fine! Get ready, you are going!” he shouted at me. I cried louder, terrified of getting back on the boat. I sobbed as I got my things together, knowing I could not resist my father’s will, but I kept insisting I was scared, I didn’t want to go. I stood outside the car door, resisting getting in when my dad looked me in the eye and with a straight face said flatly, “Get in the car.” And with that I got into the back seat of the car. I sobbed all the way to the lake. I continued to cry as we pulled the boat off the trailer and into the water. For a moment I saw my mom buckle a tiny bit, and endeavor to talk to my dad, “Sam, if she really is afraid…” My father crushed my mother’s attempt to spare me getting back on the boat in an instant with nothing but a look, a glare that brought with it the intention that nothing was going to stop him from putting me back on that boat. “She cannot be afraid of the water or this boat.” My dad said in a monotone voice. I saw his face, the way it carried no emotion, the very essence of it conveyed his lack of empathy for me. “I hate you!” I spat. “I don’t care,” he continued, “get on the boat.” I was afraid of my father. I was more afraid of him than I was getting on the boat and I was completely mortified of that. I did as I was told, because back then that is what you did. No one asked how I felt. In that moment I thought no one cared about me. I was certain my parents didn’t give a damn about me. I was just something to be dealt with, tolerated, rather than cherished. I was nine years old. My experiences were limited to a tiny life from a small town. I would learn later why my dad was so cruel to his youngest child. The boat had an inner tube tied to the mast this time, so if it did indeed capsize again the mast would have a buoyant protector. We sat on the trampoline as my father tacked his way across the lake. The wind blew, the boat sailed, and no catastrophe would be had that day. I cried for most of the trip with my little fingers gripping the sides of the boat so hard my knuckles and fingertips were bright white. A few hours later, my crying had stopped, the boat was taken back out of the water and once again we were on dry land.
My dad came to me days later. He walked in my room, sitting on the edge of my bed and asked in a soft voice, “Do you know why I made you get back on the boat?” In an act of defiance I turned my head away from dad and said quite staunchly, “No, maybe because you are so mean and don’t care about me. I don’t know why you hate me so much.” Dad laughed. “No, Kellie, I didn’t do it because I don’t care about you and I certainly don’t hate you. I did it so you wouldn’t be afraid of water for the rest of your life. I didn’t want this to scar you so badly you would never get over it. Now do you understand? I made you get right back on the horse.” I sat silent, still very angry at my father for making me face my fear. I was certain this feeling would never go away. With my face still turned away from him, I heard him walk out of my bedroom and close the door. Tears slid down my face as I continued to believe my father was the cruelest human being to have ever existed. As a nine year old, I felt certain he had no idea of my pain. He made me get back on that boat every week for years after that. He made me get on that boat so much I eventually forgot that he was a horrible human being and that I was completely terrified.
My dad’s caustic parenting style has forced me to face things I find terrifying. Even now, I think in terms of him coming down to Texas to kick my ass in an attempt to make me do something in the spirit of “getting back on the horse”. With Ike headed our way, I knew for the sake of my family I would once again have to saddle up.
At the stores I helped elderly couples pile cases of water into their carts and offered to carry it all out to their cars. I saw people helping each other, showing more patience, trying their level best to be kind. Store clerks went the extra mile to help those of us who were staying. The phrase that was most heard was, “Hunker down”. We would all be hunkering down, because the storm was only about a day away by this point. I had put fresh batteries into the boom box stereo so we had contact with the outside world. I felt pretty certain we would not have electricity for at least a couple of days. It was the only certainty I held then.
We were as ready as we were ever going to be. We watched and waited as the radar showed the continually growing Ike head directly for the coast of Galveston. I put a Bill Cosby comedy CD in the stereo for when the electricity went out. The silence of no reassurances from the news broadcasters was deafening when it happened. When Rita blew in, we felt like we were on a strange island, isolated from the herd. This time I knew what to expect to some degree. I was trying my best to breathe in as deeply as I could. As the storm crept closer I noticed how bent over I was becoming. My body posture was slowly cutting off my air flow. I have no doubt that it was a self defense mechanism for me as I handled the stress of the unknown. I tried to put on a brave face for my kids. “It will be fine”, I said. I said it over and over hoping to convince myself as much as convince the kids. I have been afraid of large storms all of my life. When it comes to booming thunder and flashing lightening, I am reduced to a shaking, nervous wreck. As a child I used to sleep during storms. It was my coping mechanism. Fascinated, I would listen, asking questions, as others told how they sought out ways to experience big storms, sitting outside, watching it from windows. Not me, I wanted no part of Mother Nature’s wrath. Just thinking about the giant storm about to hit us head on made me shake like a scared Chihuahua. The sun was slowly setting in the sky. I forced myself to breathe deeper, filling my lungs completely, expanding my chest, trying desperately to relax. In a few hours the storm would be hitting land. Flash lights and candles were prepared for the moment when everything would go dark, all would go silent and the only thing we would hear was the raging storm just outside our wood encased windows. We gathered in the main room of the house, our den and waited, with the television droning the latest news in the background. We were trying our best to act as if it were all fine. Not one of us believed it. The kids, Tom and Betty, created makeshift beds in the center of the room. They were talking, giggling and poking at each other. The dogs had cozied-up to them, crawling inside their blankets, snuggling next to them, unaware of what was happening. I watched my children, so sweet in this moment. Tom looked at me for a moment and I saw the fear. I mouthed the words, “It’s going to be fine.” The hurricane would be hitting in the middle of the night. Rita had done the same, coming in the pitch black. I found that odd, these storms blowing in off the Gulf at the time of day we are our most vulnerable. It seemed like unnecessary cruelty.
(to be continued)