Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Larry Beachy story "The Best Place on Earth"

Funny, freezing water doesn’t feel that cold. Instead it burns or maybe a better description would be to say it stings!
Yes, sting is the best word to describe the freezing river water rapidly seeping through my layers of clothing.
I had to get back to the surface in spite of my now heavy, soaked, hunting clothes.
Long underwear, football sweat shirt, hooded sweat shirt, topped off with a flame orange safety vest. Heavy canvas pants, double thickness to prevent the Multi flora Rose thorns from penetrating the skin. Heavy rubber -leather combination boots, now acting like weights wanting to suction into the muck on the bottom of the Elkhart River.
I had to get back to the surface in spite of my now heavy, soaked, hunting clothes.
I still had my Mossberg 410 shot gun clutched in my hands. My mind raced, trying to come up with a solution in a short period of time, as I descended to the bottom of the river. I knew the hole in the ice that I had just fallen through was somewhere above me. I knew I had to get my feet on the bottom and kick hard to get back up.
The current pulled me further away from the broken jagged hole somewhere above me.
There, I felt the bottom, and I kicked hard trying to kick forward to compensate for the current that had dragged me away from the hole.
My head hit the ice hard and momentarily I was stunned. By whipping my head backwards and pressing my forehead hard against the ice I sucked in air.
I had never smelled anything so putrid and rancid- as the air under that ice. Immediately I felt nausea creeping into my stomach. I tied hard to stay in that little air space by jamming my head against the ice but the current pulled me back towards the main body of the river.
I once saw a movie where a man fell through the ice and managed to return to the surface and fired his 12 gauge shotgun, blowing a hole in the ice to provide enough air for him to save himself.
I was only carrying a 410 rabbit gun and besides the idea never crossed my mind. At 13 years old I wanted to live and I wanted air, no matter how bad it smelled.
I had to go back down and push off again once my feet hit the bottom. Going down was easy now. I was thoroughly soaked and my boots with their thick felt liners were full of water.
I struck bottom once more and kicked hard, pushing upward and forward. My eyes were wide open and I could see light ahead in the narrow space between the water and the ice.
Back down and kick forward.” Dear God guide me “I prayed. Up again and it seemed the light was closer but it was off to my left. Back down again, don’t panic, look for the light, and breath. This time the light was brighter but still out of reach.
How long had I been under? How long until the humane body of a young boy stops functioning? I truly can’t recall that my hands and legs were not working. Only one thought was cemented into my brain. Kick and breath.
Finally the hole miraculously appeared over my right shoulder. Every movement was now in slow motion. My shotgun stock slipped up through the hole. The barrel extended across the hole. I hung there with head extended both hands clasped around the gun stock. Sucking fresh air, like a newborn taking its first breath.
Just my old red bone hound, and I had gone hunting that morning. Every year the river would flood and fill the low ground, driving all the rabbits up on the islands. As soon as it was frozen over, Pal and I would go in for a day of great hunting. I knew there was no one else around to call for help.
I managed to use my shotgun to lever my self on to the ice. Finally I was lying prone and I could move spread eagle away from the hole and current below.
Once on high ground I stood up only to find I was rapidly becoming incased in ice. My hunting cloths were glazed, as the ice quickly formed.
The nearest refuge was over a miles down river. A small packing house was located on the edge of the river just outside the bottom land and the owners had a little bungalow that they lived in while operating the slaughter house. I started running or I should say sloshing towards the slaughter house.
Now I hurt. My hands throbbed. I stopped and swung them wildly in circles like my scoutmaster had demonstrated if we had cold hands. It didn’t help. I ran as hard as I could and I could feel the ice on my sweat shirt rubbing my neck. Finally the old lane appeared as depressions in the snow. I renewed my efforts and gradually the bungalow filled my vision. Mr. Chapman, the owner, had spotted me in the lane, and had the back door open for me.
“My Got, Son, getch your Freezin Arse in chere”, he said in his German accent.
Within just a few minutes I was buck naked in a wash tub of water on my hands and knees. Butch Chapman was a medic in WW2 and he said the cold water would prevent frost bite. His wife wrapped me in woolen blankets and gave me hot tea. Finally I stopped shaking! I was alive!
At that moment, at that place, that little kitchen in the little bungalow located in the bottom ground of the Elkhart river, was the greatest place a 13 year old could ever find.
Thanks Larry, Great Story!

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