Stretch of Sand

short story of two boys friendship

Stretch

of

Sand

Raymond of the Woods

 (Raymond L. Collins)

Fall 1971            Summer 1980

Charleston, Illinois            Belleville, Illinois

STRETCH OF SAND

I

          Tall cottonwoods loomed in leaning positions above the abandoned railroad path. The rest of the surrounding forest was a multitude of weeds, and a variety of smaller trees. The twittering cries of chimney swifts descended from the twilight sky, unheeded by the two boys walking down the path.

          One of the youths, Tom, was slightly taller than his companion, Steve. Tom's long arms were presently dangling from his thin frame, Tom was blonde. Steve, Tom's friend, was in contrast -- dark-haired, broad-shouldered, and athletic. In dress, Tom and Steve were similar; old trousers, sweatshirts, loose , flopping shoes. Each of them had a towel slung over a shoulder.

          "So--" Steve was saying to Tom. "."How far is this pond you told me about?"

          "We ought to be there soon--it's in a delve of the forest we've not visited before--it really surprised me--I found it right after we got back from--" The taller, thinner boy halted abruptly, cutting his words, Tom was giving Steve an uncertain, studying look.

          Steve flushed darkly. "After we got back from the beach." He finished Tom's sentence in a low mutter. Then, lifting his head, and tossing the dark waves back from his forehead, Steve continued in more definite accents. "Let's not think about it. I'm glad you told me about this pond--I've been wanting to swim since--the beach."

          Steve's last sentence had been with a jerk in his words. "Of course," was Tom's simple, nodded reply to Steve. He added, "Is there any special time you've got to be back home?"

          "No, not really." Steve's flush had receded, but his dark eyes were hunting the weeds before the feet of the two boys now. "--How did you find the pond anyway?"

          "I was walking, it began to rain, I tried to find a shortcut--all I did was to find more water." Tom's last phrase had been with a laugh, now he added more thoughtfully, "I still think it's rather funny we've never found the pond before."

          "The woods is large. We like to ride in the Chevy as much as we like visiting the forest, we've not been here that often."

          "Yeah. Hey look, here's a patch of sand. It's odd, isn't it, how the creek is sandy in some areas and not in others?"

          Above, the chimney swifts were still twittering. The boys had stopped on the path and were looking aside at a bend in the creek below them. A stretch of sand bordered the creek bank for several feet, and edged out into the water. The grains were a dark brown color.

          "Odd." Steve repeated the word as if he were learning it. His eyes were looking at the sand, but they were not seeing it. "Odd." Steve repeated again. "Tom--"

          "Yeah?"

."

          "Do you still feel like swimming?"

          "Sure. Don't you?"

          "I--" Steve's eyes bored into the grains of the sand, remembering the swimming accident that he and Tom had been avoiding in their conversation. The accident had been three weeks ago when he and Tom had driven down to the seashore. "Yes, let's get going to that pool of water."

          Steve was casting a lingering glance at the sand as he and Tom went on.

  II

          Steve and Tom crouched beneath a willow's boughs by the pond's bank. They were in their swimming trunks, Tom in white, Steve in red, and their clothes lay nearby. The twilight was now edging into darkness. The moon was up and the boys could see the pond's surface through the dangling growth of the willow. Branches and boughs of all sizes hung over the small pond.  The water was the color of a wooden house long abandoned. The surface of the water was blurred like the fuzz of a blacktop road slightly beyond the reach of an automobile's headlights.

          "I'm gong in." Tom announced with a side glance at Steve. He walked down the inclining bank, and Steve could hear the rustling protests of the weeds and leaves beneath his friend's bare feet. Steve took his eyes from the ground and saw Tom, a large, white, night spook, sinking into the water. Now the water was protesting, in sloshing sounds. Then Tom was swallowed by the pond, and the water's protests weren't so loud. And now Steve could see Tom's arms, long, narrow and branchlike, coming in and out of the water.

          "Hey, Steve, come on." The water was speaking.

          Steve rose and went slowly down the bank, hearing the weeds protest again. He found the rim of the pond shallow, and he went down to his knees as he waded into the deeper portions. The water soaked into his red swim trunks, and Steve found his skin prickling. Still, he capsized his body to swim, looking at the boughs, feeling chilly, as his mind concentrated on the patch of sand.

          Steve felt a grab at his heart as there came a clutch at his ankle. He panicked, struggling hard, as he was jerked beneath the water's surface. He was reminded of a large fish he had once caught, and had decided to let it go. He had watched it sink, always seeming to descend on a straight, vertical line. He found in his struggles that he was wondering if he looked as the fish had to him, in it's descent.

          His ankle was free, and Steve hurried to the surface, finding a laughing Tom adjacent to him.

          "Tom!" Steve sputtered. "Was that you?"

          "Sure, come on."  Tom lunged at Steve and an aquatic, wrestling match ensued. It ended with the both of them hauling themselves beneath the willow's boughs, laughing and panting.

          "Feel better?" Tom huffed out.

          "Sure--wait--how did you know?" Steve panted, looking out to the center of the small pond.

          "The way you acted looking at the sand. The way you held back at coming into the water. You were thinking of the ocean--I'm trying to show you that you don't have anything to worry about anymore--that you are a good swimmer."

          Steve looked down at the water beads on his crossed legs. "I guess I wasn't expecting you to surprise me," he said aloud. Then, in a whisper, as if he hadn't heard Tom's words. "That crazy sand."

          "What did you say?"

          "Nothing." Steve got to his feet, looking at Tom uncertainly, then found himself feeling alarmed. "Hey, what are we on? It feels like--"

          "It's sand." Tom was staring at Steve. "There's a thick mat of leaves and growth on it. Steve, at the ocean--"

          "Don't stare at me like that, Tom! It's--let's go in again--I'll show you."

          "Alright."

          When Steve hit the water, he felt a layer of hot needles radiating from his face. He churned the water as he swam to the opposite shore. Tom's words and actions had upset him, bringing back the memory and the fright of the accident, of the growing thought and plan that had come to him in these intervening weeks, that, because he knew he wanted to follow his plan, he had resisted all of Tom's attempts up to now to swim. But now Steve turned and saw Tom halfway across. Steve could only think of sand, of the ocean, he couldn't think of Tom. Steve flurried towards Tom now, a hotness in his chest, "Come on, Tom, race!", scarcely noticing the snarl in his voice. He passed Tom, throwing out his foot at Tom's leg, then Steve went on to touch the other shore. He thrashed around the rough circle of the pond, feeling his insides shake. He thrashed his way to Tom again, threw his leg out a second time, this time feeling the jarring contact. He found himself glad he was being rough--his plan.

          Steve saw the surprise on Tom's face, then shouted, "Follow the leader, it's follow the leader!"

          "Alright, if that's the way you want it." Steve saw the corners of Tom's eyes tighten, saw blonde eyebrows come closer together.

          "Hah!" Steve raced off, Tom in pursuit. They circled the pond several times, then splashed from side to side. They climbed willow trees, walking and running out on the lower boughs and jumping in the water again. Steve felt the layer of needles sliding off of him, being taken over by a coat of ecstatic coolness. They started climbing other trees, going to higher heights. Sometimes the bark beneath their feet would be shaggy and rough, sometimes it would be hard and bumpy. Some of the

branches they grasped had sharp, hurting twigs. Some of the branches and twigs were smooth. And the boughs varied too. They kept jumping from the more slender ones, kept jumping from the ones that were at a greater height above the water.

          Sometimes Tom would catch up with Steve, grasp him, and heave him into the pond. Sometimes Steve would turn and trip up Tom to fall below. And all the while they kept going to higher heights, daring.

          Now, they were climbing the sentry cottonwood tree at the end of the pond. They had been climbing the other trees, and had just dived off one of the lesser oaks when they saw the climax cottonwood. They swam an aquatic race for it, and Steve was the first to begin climbing. Steve went halfway up the trunk, then hurried out to the edge of a limb. He dived. Tom followed . They kept repeating their competition, going higher into the crown, the boughs, and limbs. And still above, the chimney swifts were twittering.

          Steve was stepping out to an end of one of the highest, light gray, cottonwood limbs. He looked below, and saw the surface of the water, and heard the twittering of the chimney swifts. The pond's surface seemed dark, and he felt a cool breeze stirring his cheeks, and cooling his body. Steve felt fiercely victorious.

          "Here's when it happens, Tom," Steve said, not looking around. "We're at the place where you don't make it." Steve stepped out to the end of the limb, grasping the branches above him, jouncing the limb.

          "Okay, Tom." Steve jounced the limb once again, starting to spring away. A side glance showed Tom wasn't by Steve, and Steve awkwardly regained his hold on the still bouncing limb. The coolness was now leaving him, and the sense of hot needles was back, the points inward this time into his skin. The limb was empty but for himself.

          "Tom!" he shouted. "Tom! Tom!" Then Steve realized Tom hadn't come up with him. He remembered he hadn't heard the steady pant-pant of Tom's breathing. Steve had come up the tree alone.

          He had won. He stepped further out on the limb, and looked down among the trees and the earth surrounding the pond. He could dimly make out Tom's blonde head below in the liquid. Tom wasn't moving, and Steve sensed Tom was treading, trying to catch a second wind. "Tom," he shouted, and saw the blonde head move. He knew Tom was looking up in the cottonwood now. "Tom, I've won. I've really won. Any minute."

          "Don't, Steve."

          A hush descended with Tom's whispered voice. Steve didn't hear the swifts, nor did he hear anything else. He failed to see the pond below him, and he didn't sense the rough cottonwood's bark beneath his bare feet. The sight of the sand in the beach at the creek had filled his mind.

          "I'm coming!" Steve started to shout. He faltered in his voice, but with his form he jumped.

          As Steve fell, everything started falling away from him. The coat was gone, the layer of needles, the feeling of ecstasy. Steve was leaping into space, and the water which blurred like a blacktop lane in the moonlight was moving upward while he moving downward. Everything was a flashing blur.

          Steve was shocked as the water unexpectedly greeted him. The water was death. It's coldness came out, wrapping him up in folds, sucking him down. Down, Steve went, and then he felt the water grabbing him by his shoulder blades. Something was ahead. What? Then Steve felt the flash of pain, and everything was blank.

          III

          Steve fluttered his eyes open. He felt himself lying on the familiar weeds and leaves. Beneath his hand he felt some grains of sand. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. He saw Tom, undressed, bare, rubbing himself down with a towel.

          "Here," Tom stooped, threw Steve's own clothing to him. "We might as well be getting back."

          "Hey, Tom."

          "What?"

          "What were we doing?"

          "I don't know." Tom shrugged his shoulders. "You began it." Tom paused. He had started to dress now. "I was at first glad you came to swim today--you've been pretty tight-lipped since you almost drowned--I was afraid you were afraid of water--is that what you were shouting about, about your victory?"

          "I--" Steve turned his head, and saw the cottonwood tree he had jumped from. All of a sudden, Steve was frightened. "Tom, I don't think I won anything." Steve sat up and put his face into his hands.

          "What are you talking about?"

          "Tom, was I drowning just now? Did you drag me out of the pond?"

          "Sure. You're all okay now, aren't you? All I could find was the bruise on your forehead, where you hit some branch. You don't hurt anywhere else, do you?"

          "No--but then, I didn't win. I was the one who succumbed."

          "Succumbed to what?"

          "My strength...I--look, the sand reminded me of our beach visit, do you follow?"

          "Yes. But you didn't only almost drown. There was a lot of fun. We sat on the beach for a long time, talking."

          "Yes, but--." Steve faltered in his words. "I--when we saw the sand back at the creek, I was reminded of the ocean. I was reminded of being caught in that seaweed. I was reminded--" Steve struggled with the pain in his chest. It was almost the hardest thing he had ever had to say to Tom. "Of how you saved me."

          "Oh, my." Tom sat up, fully dressed but for one shoe and sock. Steve knew Tom had now guessed part of the truth, the plan. "You've been jealous that I rescued you. You've been angry and upset, because you wanted to repay me and haven't been able to."

          "Yes." Steve replied after a brief hesitation. He decided to go on, to stumble forward to the truth even more. "And I--tried tonight--to get you so tired so that you'd begin to drown--then I could rescue you and redeem my life debt. Instead my own strength failed."

          "Oh." Tom let the sock dangle in his hand.

          Still, Steve saw, Tom hadn't guessed. "There's something else also." Steve volunteered. "The main reason. Pull your sweatshirt off, Tom. Look at yourself. Take a good look. You're--a stick."

          Tom pushed his hand against his sagging sweatshirt and felt the individual ribs which struck out so prominently. He was perplexed for a moment but then he looked across at Steve and saw Steve's muscular huskiness. Steve was still beaded with water.

          "Oh." Tom didn't say anything else. The sock dropped. "Oh."

          "I'm sorry, Tom. I'm sorry."

          "I'm sorry too, Steve."."

          Above, the chimney swifts were twittering no more.

--end--

                                 

Raymond Lee Collins

Fall,1971 Summer, 1980

copyright reserved by publisher

Cheryl I Collins