TWELVE YARDS FROM HELL
"IN THE BEGINNING: The morning began as any other Saturday in August, with picnic baskets, goggles, and sleeping bags being readied. The air was thick with excitement as the family prepared for 'just another camping trip' along the Red River. With Mom in the kitchen , going over 'my' list (to ward off later accusations that it was 'her' fault if we forgot something), I crouched ever lower in the trunk condensing goods with the efficiency of a Marine packing sardines at the local fishery. At 8 A.M., beads of sweat were already rolling off my brow, so I commanded the 'Munchkins' to take their place in the car, and to behave themselves. We had fifty miles in front of us, a stop at every bathroom no doubt, and a boat to pick up once we arrived at North Dallas' playground for the upwardly mobile professional, Lake Texoma. This lake, in essence, was actually a reservoir containing a portion of the Red River along the Texas-Oklahoma border.
As we readied and retrieved our boat from a stall near the lake, we traveled the last few miles to the launch area. It was a beautifull day really, despite the fact that Texans can both sympathize and empathize with hens and potatoes placed in ovens at 350 degreees. As I weaved ever downwards towards the marina, the blacktop glistened ahead in the north Texas heat almost as if the road had been purposefully constructed, interspersed, in a sea of glass. Outside, it was hot, dry, and little else moved unless it could or it had to. As I pulled into the marina, which distinguishes this new playground from the rolling farm land around it, a tractor on the opposite shore seemed to echo this same sentiment as billows of dust embraced the farmer who, no doubt, feverishly worked to feed those of us who had the time to play. Allong the horizon, clouds gathered behind him, pummeling upwards, giving hope to him, while threatening everyone else's day. Later, I would come to grips with this dichotomy.
A BRIEF INTERLUDE: While growing up, and well into my adult life, I had done everything wrong, evil and sinful that a person could do. Somehow, someway, God still loved me. I hadn't been raised 'religious'--whatever that means. I had not been brought up in a church... as if it is a building that saves us. Truly, I couldn't have known Him any less, sinned against Him any more, or thought about Him any less frequently than I did. Several years ago, God provided me with a godly wife and five wonderful children I stilll did not deserve. But He did so because He loved me for what I was--a sinner, only with potential perhaps. Over the years, my wife had exemplified God's Will for my life as one of comfort, and 'The peace that surpasses all understanding.' I needed whatever she had--I could see that. So, I set out to see if God was discernible. Could I prove God to myself through a preponderance of evidence. Was there reaason, logic and practicality behind this entity we refer to as 'God'? After years of research and study, I conceded that there was. I recognized His Lordship, that He died for my sins, I confessed those sins and was baptized. Over the next three years, as God continued to bless me by accelerating my career and tripling my salary, I slowly began to forget what God had accomlpished in and through me. Over time, I slowly reverted to many of my old ways. It is here, with whiskey bottle in-hand that I loaded the family into the boat and headed towards the many islands that marked the middle of this massive lake.
PARTING OF THE RED RIVER: We had no problem in selecting or in claiming one of the deserted islands. We hurried to complete the tasks at-hand. With the song 'Jack Daniels' on the radio, and one continually within my reach, the fun was finally about to begin. While the ladies stretched out to take in a few rays, the three younger kids and I decided to explore the island. We took our fishing gear in the event that an opportunity presented itself. After investigating a small lagoon at the end of our island, we grew restless and began to traverse the submerged sandbar which connected our island with other 'Islands in the Stream.' As we began our trek across the sandbar, I mentioned to the children that I would cast to each side, as I was certain that a hole or drop off existed, and that 'old daddy bass' would be waiting there just so that we might throw him this late-morning meal. In a matter of moments, the lesson and the lure returned without notice.
The sandbar was approximately ten to fifteen yards wide, and some twenty inches down (at it's deepest point). It was approximately thirty yards to the next island in the chain. While wading through the water was no problem for an adult, I remember (now) having to slow and to wait on the twins (at six-years old) and the seven-year old on numerous occasions. Always in a rush to go nowhere, fast, I continued to fish and to search for just another trophy while keeping a half-inebriated eye on the second real catch in my life, my children. Upon reaching the opposite shore, I continued to cast every few feet as the kids frolicked in the nearby surf. While Texoma is indeed just another lake, the northwwest wind, the river's undertow and the power boats on the lake could, at times, make mockery of the north Florida surf I had grown accustomed to as a child. In fact, some fifty-three people had already relinquished their lives that year on this beautiful but inauspicious body of water. But, nonetheless, I pressed on determined to work every inch of the shoreline as the kids continued to play back and forth across the submerged sandbar.
The second island was somewhat perpendicular to the first, and shaped similar to a backwards 'L.' If one were trying to envision this scene, they would have to place the first island on the left, and the second, the L-shaped island on the right (with the lower portion of the 'L' curving back towards the sandbar between the two islands).
I had nearly progressed to the lower (southern) most portion of the second island when the children gathered and asked if they could return to their mother and older sister on the first island. Believing that they had finally grown weary of looking for fish that even children could recognize were not hungry or were not there, I gave in. After all, they had passed over the sandbar on two separate occasioons, so I thought 'What could go wrong... right'? A relaxing swim, another drink and some music alongside Mom seemed rather pleasing to me as well. So, they hurried along the shorline to the sandbar as I continued to listlessly cast against the prevailing wind.
Upon hearing the children's screams, I first thought that they were at play tantalizing each other for the sake of argument or joy. As I glanced towards the sandbar, their thrashing arms seemed to lend credence to this muddled view. From my distorted perspective (and condition), the children appeared to be standing on the sandbar, having the time of their lives. In fact, I was initially annoyed with them for frightening me. So, I turned and began to cast anew. When the screams continued and I finally realized that they were forboding in-nature, a voice inside assured me that they were in trouble--deep trouble. At that instant, I dropped my rod and reel and began to run through the water with all of the speed and diligence I could muster. It was a shorter distance to run and to swim to them diagonally than going all the way around via the sandbar. Overweight, out-of-shape and half-drunk, the water met me with increasing resistance as the depth on this shelf continued to plummet. At some point, I ran out of earth and went straight down. I hit the same hole they, no doubt, had wandered into (some sixty yards away). 'Yes,' the same hole I had previously been made cognizant of when we first began to cross the sandbar. After negotiating through the first thirty yards, I now had to swim the same distance to reach them. All else I could accomplish on the way to the chilldren was to yell for my wife with all intensity. I knew I would not be able to make it. I knew I could not get there in time. But my wife could not hear me no matter how loud I yelled. The northwest wind, the radio and distance had taken away any hellp that we might have received.
Even before nearing the children, I was exhausted. In my younger years, I had been in excellent shape. Between football, the Marine Corps and a war, I thought I had experienced and defeated exhaustion on numerous occasions. I truly had no understanding of what real exhaustion was. I now understand why others often drown in the middle of rescuing others from a watery grave. While I was completely out of energy, I had three babies perishing right before my eyes and there seemed little I could do. I can even remember making the conscious decision that we would all make it, or that we would 'All Go Down Together.' Little did I realize that neither I nor Billy Joel truly had any say or control in the matter.
The bottom of this man-made reservoir never would provide an opportunity for leverage to be applied during any stage of the attempted resue. To make matters worse, none of the children really knew how to swim. All I could think of, as I approached them, was to push each child back towards the sandbar while keeping them as close to me as possible. They had, by now, somehow managed to tread water for upwards of two minutes. They had thrashed (or had been windswept) some fifteen yards from the edge of the sandbar. All were frantic, crying and pleading for help... beyond all compare. Each of the children lapsed into near exhaustion as panic was interleaved with bouts of coughing and choking as water entered their lungs. As one child went under, I reached below the surface and grabbed him. I took him straight to the sandbar. As he stood on the sandbar crying and choking, in chest-high water, afraid to move anywhere, he became my single reference point. I encircled the other two, placing them between me and the sandbar. We were now approximately twelve yards out when my youngest daughter and I went under. We simply could not fight the odds any longer. We had no energy left in which to fight off Satan's murderous attack. Looking at my daughter's face some six to eight inches away, both above and below the water line, I remember thinking that we were both going to die. And, I was so sorry that I had failed each one of them. Her last look of desperation is ever-present with me even today. As her face and mine seemed to part in a sea of surrealism, my last thoughts were simply, 'I'm dying, I'm dead,' as a mesmerizing tranquillity seemed to encompass me. I sank amidst the receding and muffled sounds of days gone by, while my spirit, indefinably, seemed to reach out infinitely. What was horrifying--was now over. My great fear of failure had been put to rest as well.
In an instant, all three of us were pulled up and towards the sandbar. before I knew it, all four of us were standding together. My recollection, prior to this, was that at least two of us drowned while it was douobtful if the other two would have ever made it out of there. As far as I'm concerned we all drowned that day--tweve yards out. I did not seee anything. I did not see anybody. All I am firmly convinced of is that I,, personally, saved no one. For, I died that day, twelve yards from heaven or more aptly stated as 'Twelve Yards from Hell.' You be the judge. For the great dichotomy in life is that while some can readily discern the truth, other like myself, never do.
Don't wait until it is too late, believe that He is real--please, for His sake and for yours. May the Lord watch over you all the days of your life.
