The Social Deep Blog"Life is so much more than the white-washed perspective of some ID-driven ape." |
“It isn’t until we encounter the gods of a world outside of our own that we truly grasp how miniscule we really are” Things weren’t the best in South Carolina, but my time spent there served its purpose. Soon after I left, the ambivalence of relief mixed with grief consumed me. I received a phone call from police from the area I was staying in up in South Carolina, asking if I had seen or heard from an acquaintance of mine. I hadn’t, not since I had arrived in New Orleans; when I had asked her to meet up with me, get away from awhile. See, she was in a bad relationship, and things had been escalating. She said she would get back to me and let me know, but that was the last time we spoke.
The detective I spoke with was kind and oddly intrigued by my “gypsy lifestyle”, as he called it. He said he was naively hopeful I would bear good news, and that she had decided to meet up with me. She had been reported missing shortly after our conversation, and our texts were a best-case scenario lead. I knew that, before he said so; anyone familiar with true crime could guess the likelihood she would be found alive. He kept me posted, though he was under no obligation to do so. In fact, had I been the wrong person, he may have gotten himself into trouble for doing so. A week or so later, he called to inform me that she had been found — in a fifty-gallon drum stashed in the backyard, with several gunshots to the abdomen and recent contusions and lacerations to her scalp. To say it was a tragedy would be an exceptional understatement. She was a beautiful soul, and spiritually sound. Turned out she was preparing to skip town and meet up with a friend from out of town [presumably me], and that’s what pushed her husband over the edge. The stitches in her scalp were from a day or so before our last conversation, and her death was a day or so after. As the detective gave me the details, my breath caught in my chest. It felt like my heart was being squeezed by some unseen force, and the depression I had been warding off for weeks crept in with a vengeance. I drove through the night, but I don’t remember much of the route, only that I was in east-central Texas by morning. When daylight broke the horizon, I pulled over to check the map for somewhere to camp. I wasn’t going back to South Carolina, but I needed somewhere to commune with nature and collect myself. After a few minutes of pinpointing my location, I found a lake off a farm road that was labeled for camping and headed there. Took most of the day, but I didn’t have anywhere else to be. It was overcast and windy, but nothing a light sweater couldn’t fix. I wandered around the grounds and let my dogs run around a bit. The lake reminded me of an old Betty White movie, Lake Placid (1999). It was quiet and out of the way, in an outskirts of town sort of way. I didn’t see any houses on the lake or many leading up to it for that matter, but the water was so dark it was almost black. Signs posted that warned of alligators also encouraged lawful fishing, so, I set-up camp and dropped a line in the water. Not that I had planned to see any. It was a chilly, early spring day; and I had spent months between eastern South Carolina, Georgia, and Louisiana without seeing a single prehistoric predator. I wasn’t having any luck, lost lure after lure and only grew more exacerbated. At first, I considered snags on fallen trees submerged under water and snapping turtles — or gigantic catfish. I admit the latter was wishful thinking on my part. I can’t imagine the catfish that could snap my line with the flick of my wrist, not 20lb test braided line. It was baffling. Frustrated and emotional, I called my parents to check in. I wasn’t ready to talk about anything, but I needed something else to focus on. It was a useful distraction, and I kept casting my line hoping for a change of luck. Looking back, I probably shouldn’t have bothered calling. Neither of my parents have ever been especially helpful in times of emotional distress, no matter how mild. In fact, more often than not, they tend to make things worse. So, nothing changed — I even lost another lure, and being repeatedly told to calm down was only exacerbated the whole situation. That’s when I noticed drift wood floating against the current. Atfirst, I thought an entire tree had broken off and went adrift. Which isn’t all that unusual on its own, but there was something strange about this log. Not only was it the size of a tree trunk, but there weren’t any branches protruding the surface. Murmurs from the phone speaker faded as I squinted to focus my eyes, and that’s when I noticed something strange. At the back end, which would have been root or branch nubs, the log was propelling itself! Mostly talking to myself, I worked through what I was looking at out loud. Of course, admonishment came through the phone from the other line. I had nearly forgotten I was on the phone, and how could I not? Between the existing emotional turmoil and grief and this surreal vision in front of me, it took me a moment to gather my bearings. I remember saying “I’m gonna see if I can get closer for a picture,” and I remember loud disapproval blaring from the speaker of that little bar-phone as I ended the call. With that, I put my boys in the RV and grabbed my camera and flashlight. The sun had set, and nautical dusk was settling in, so it lighting was low. On the way in I had seen a little footpath through the brush in the direction this moving log was heading, naturally, I went that way, too. With the low light, that footpath in the brush was pitch black. Standing at the entrance, the beam from my flashlight hardly penetrated the darkness. The surrounding ground was soft under my feet, getting softer the closer I crept to the water. Conditions feeling unsafe I worked my way back to camp, disappointed that I hadn’t succeeded in my little adventure. It was dark by then; a blanket of dark blue sky kissed the horizon and the moon reflected off the water. I tied the boys out while I debated the reality of what I had seen, no sense in having them venture around in the dark. I’ve never heard of gators in Texas… Standing at the edge of my campsite I panned my light across the water, and what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. About three feet from me floating on the surface of murky water were two little round reflectors, easily six to eight inches between them. In a sense, I froze — keeping my light trained on something panic wouldn’t let me take my eyes off. Inaudible mutters escaped my lips, but even then, I couldn’t tell you what I was saying. Perhaps I was playing through the potential outcomes of existence within the strike zone, or, maybe, I was pleading for my life to the prehistoric god before me. Slowly, but surely, I backed away with the grace being offered. A grace I fumbled when foot found an unsteady stone and my ankle rolled. The eyes of that ancient god slipped under water as the light skidded across the black surface behind it. Righting myself, I slowly swept the beam of my light across the water again. Several sets of glimmering golden eyes fanned out in a horseshoe pattern looked back at me. Something in the air shifted just then, turned it stale and still. To this day that is the quietest I have ever heard nature be. No owls, no crickets — only silence. I was frozen in time, again, but this time in awe more than apprehension. In that moment, I felt both vulnerable and oddly secure. Not so much as a security light broke the darkness that had swallowed the lake and the land. Soft moonlight peeked from behind rolling clouds, but no longer bright enough to dance on the water. There was a strange serenity in hanging in the balance. As humans, we are programed to embrace the idea that we are the only apex predators — that we belong in every space we occupy, that we own it. We are gods. It isn’t until we encounter the gods of a world outside of our own that we truly grasp how miniscule we really are in the grand scheme of things. Back in the RV, I opened all the windows — partly for ventilation, mostly for the nature sounds I desperately needed. By then, the critters had begun stirring, the owls hooted from the trees; a cool breeze blew through the screens of the open windows, and with it returned the ache of grief. The events of the last twelve hours played and danced through my mind, switching back and forth between that fateful phone call from the detective and what I had just experienced not twenty feet from where I was to sleep. I sat with it all for a moment, tried to sort and compartmentalize all the heaviness and sift through my recent reality check. Life felt entirely surreal, nothing made sense. While getting ready for bed, I reached into the pocket of my shower bag and found a stowed away gift I was given in back in South Carolina. A small plastic baggy sat in the palm of my hand, its contents brown and dried caps and stems. I’m not sure if the tears that welled in my eyes were nostalgic or if they were hopelessness boiling over, but they rolled down my cheeks just the same. Nestled in my bed, both puppers snuggled up tight beside me, I emptied those stems and caps into my mouth, hydrating them with water and saliva as I crushed them between my teeth. Swallowing hard, I laid back waited for them to kick in. I looked out the window by my bed, finding the stars that glittered the dark sky. Owls hooted and wind stirred the trees, and half a dozen bellowing alligators lulled me to sleep. Thanks for reading! |
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