Tag Archives: river

That One Moment

The weekly prompt from my Florida writers’ group was ‘Thou shalt not…’, and this is my response.

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Managing to draw a final, feeble breath, I despair as it leaks slowly away. I try for another, but none comes. My eyes are slits, and through a gathering haze I see faces looming over my bed, concerned and curious.

“He’s gone,” a soft voice intones.

“I’m not! I’m not!” I cry wordlessly, soundlessly.

But then I am. And there is nothing…nothing…nothing…

I do not hear the words when they come. They emerge from my being, and I am become the words.

One. Moment. One. Moment.

Instinctively, I know the words refer to that same moment I have wished all my life to relive. And now it appears, on the brink of the afterlife, I am to have that chance.

I was fly-fishing with Hank, my twin brother, on the weekend before he was to marry the lovely Madison. She was the first person ever to come between us—Hank and Hal, Hal and Hank. But we both adored her.

We had fished this river so many times, it was like second nature—the boisterous sound of water rushing raucously over the rocks, the late-afternoon sunlight dancing on its rampaging surface, the fishing lines snaking overhead, gleaming in the waning light before the lures splashed into the current.

Hank was as happy as I had ever seen him. And indeed, why not? He was head over heels in love with Madison, his bride-to-be. As was I, alas, but it was he Maddie had chosen. And I had never wanted her more.

The fish were feeding in the cool evening, and Hank soon got a strike. As he moved to set the hook, he slipped on the moss-covered riverbed underfoot. I turned as he cried out, in time to see him hit his head on a rock. The current caught him, pulled him from the shallows, his arms flailing helplessly. I dropped my rod, charged after him, heedless of the precarious footing, and at the last moment, just as I fell myself, I clutched his outstretched hand.

“Hal! Hal! Help me!” he cried plaintively as he jounced and jigged in the powerful current. Blood streamed from the gash on his forehead. We locked eyes, and I could see he knew I would never let go.

But in that very instant, my unbidden thoughts fastened on Maddie and how distraught she would be if she were to lose him. To whom would she turn for solace, for comfort, perhaps eventually for love? And who would be better-suited than I to provide her that?

“Hal! Don’t let go! Don’t let go!”

We were struggling in deeper water now, where the current was stronger, tugging at my brother as if to tear him from my grasp.

“Hal! Don’t let go!”

But even as he implored me to save him, I did let go. And in a second, Hank was swept under, gone forever, and I swear I could hear Maddie’s forlorn weeping, taste her salty tears, feel her softness in my comforting arms.

And that was almost exactly how it played out. I cried copiously as I told everyone how I had tried in vain to save my brother. His body was found three days later, miles downstream, badly-battered by the river’s depredations, and he was buried with all due reverence.

Sixty years ago that was. And a scant two years after his tragic death, Maddie and I, each other’s chief comforters, were indeed wed. I have loved her with all I had to give ever since, but I have never quite forgiven myself for my treachery. Almost, but not quite. And perhaps because of my secret guilt, I have occasionally imagined a reservation in Maddie’s eyes about that day, although she has never questioned my account.

Nevertheless, I have never ceased to wonder what I would do if I could relive that one moment.

The good book tells us, Thou shalt not kill! But is that really what I did? Or was I just not able to hang on?

And now, wonder of wonders, so many years later, dead myself at last, I am being granted an opportunity to relive that moment. Is it a test to determine where I shall spend eternity? And with whom?

Hank and I are in the river once again, he has fallen and struck his head, is about to be carried away, and I have him in my grip. The bone-chilling water washes over us, and Hank calls frantically again, as he did back then.

“Hal! Save me! Don’t let go!”

But unlike the first time, I don’t have to wonder if I would win the beauteous Maddie’s love if Hank were to die. I already know the answer. He did die and she did become my wife, just as I had dared hope.

Should I change that outcome this second time around? Save my brother? Lose my Maddie? The final reckoning is at hand. The outcome is in my grasp.

And in that one moment, I make my decision.

Cruisin’ Down the River

Cruisin’ down the river/On a Sunday afternoon…

That old song has been running through my mind this past week as my wife and I, in the company of good friends, have been cruising the rivers of Belgium and The Netherlands. Aboard a luxurious riverboat, we’ve visited several ports—Amsterdam, Hoorn, Arnhem, Antwerp, Rotterdam—all of which have offered up their unique charms.

History is everywhere around us, in town squares dating back to the 15th century, in cathedrals still calling the faithful to worship, in castles forlornly standing watch over long-lost fiefdoms. Even the cemeteries have their tales to tell to any who care to stroll their grounds, reading epitaphs on crumbling headstones.

More recent history is in evidence at Arnhem, site of a failed offensive against Nazi forces by the Allies in 1944 (and subsequently portrayed in the 1977 film, A Bridge Too Far). The famous John Frost bridge, destroyed by the Germans to disrupt the Allies’ supply lines, once more spans the Nederrijn River, testament to the resilience of the Dutch people who welcomed the liberating forces in 1945.

It is Kinderdijk, however, that has proven the most fascinating. Nineteen windmills, most constructed during the 1700’s, one in the 1400’s, still perform their essential function of pumping water from canals draining the countryside into sluices that take it over the dikes and into the Lek River. The land here is four metres below sea level.

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Each windmill is inhabited and operated by a family selected from a waiting list of more than two hundred. Someone must be on site to monitor the operation whenever the vanes are turning, but many of the residents have day-jobs in addition to their windmill duties. Accessibility to each structure is by boat, or via narrow footpaths, so cars are left in a communal parking lot when people come home.

Quarters are cramped inside, with very steep, narrow stairs leading up from level to level. Were I to live there, I’d need a hard hat to protect my head from the many protrusions and low sills. Windows are small, so much of the interior is dark, although electric lighting has improved the situation. In the olden days, before the installation of running water and sewage capabilities, residents shared their accommodation with rats, and shaved their children’s hair to counter lice.

Each of the four vanes, or wings, is a latticework structure, with fabric sails attached. When the wind is slight, the operator must climb the wings to unfurl the sails, in order to increase the velocity of the spinning wings; when the wind increases, the sails must be furled again. Each wing is stopped when it’s pointing to the ground, in order that it may be climbed. It is not a quick process.

The wings must also be rotated around the windmill to take advantage of the direction of the wind. A complicated construct of chains and pulleys allows the operator to do that, turning the thatched-roof cap of the windmill through 360 degrees until the optimal position is found. The procedure is virtually the same as that performed in the 18th century.

Up close, the structures look ungainly, ridiculous even. If function matched form, they’d have been abandoned long ago. But they’re still here, and still doing the job of keeping the sea at bay, as they’ve done for almost 300 years.

Even so renowned a warrior as Don Quixote could not shut them down.