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Story by Bonnie Yarry

 

April first was a typical spring day. Sunny. Warm. Summer's storms and humidity hadn't arrived yet in Central Florida, the "Lightning Capital of the United States."

After the morning's baseball practice, our ten year old son, Bobby, and his Little League buddy, Dan, pedaled to Lake Orienta and positioned themselves on the dock to fish. Bobby, a blond-haired youngster, with safety goggles over his eyeglasses that magnified his aqua eyes, thought that made him look cool like a pro basketball player. He and Dan, a red-haired, scrawny, freckle-faced kid, with a permanent and mischievous twinkle in his eyes, were inseparable friends.

Dan found a deflated, dirty chaise, the kind adults relish lying on while floating in a backyard pool. The pals abandoned their fishing tackle and rods on the dock, blew up the craft and pushed off into the lake, creatively using their arms as oars. Our modern day Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn forgot the taboo: Don't go in the water; they knew Central Florida lakes are havens for alligators.

The adventurers were also unaware of the towering cumulus clouds in the sky, those imminent harbingers of storm. A half hour passed. As tiny as our one square mile lake is, when the wind blows strong enough, mini-white caps appear.

At home I noted the rapid change of weather and hopped in the car thinking I'd encounter the boys riding towards home. No. They weren't on the dock. Their bikes were lying nearby, carelessly discarded in the usual spot by a clump of live oak trees. I crossed the street to the fire station figuring the boys were pumping the firemen with questions. The firemen always welcomed them to climb on the trucks and taught them to slide down the pole.

Rumble of thunder in the distance.

"We'll put in a call to the police," the fireman offered. "If they see the boys, they'll send them home. Probably went to a friend's house. You know kids," and as he glanced outside added, "Looks like an early season storm is brewing."

Almost on cue, a flash of lightning appeared above the far end of the lake and thunder followed in the distance. A few raindrops began to fall. By the time I crossed the street the rain progressed from drizzle to heavy downpour. It pelted me and unintentionally I found myself at the edge of the dock considering what the fireman said. Ten-year-old boys!

Without thinking, I stared out into the middle of the lake. My eyes focused on a dot -- no two dots -- probably visible all along but I never noticed. I squinted. No, it couldn't be! They wouldn't! How could they -?

"BOBBY! BOBBY! DAN! BOBBY!" I cupped my hands and yelled. No reply.

A bolt of lightning and within a second an ear-splitting crack of thunder bellowed above. The lightning struck a nearby oak and its heavy limb crashed across the road.

Taking a deep breath to get my loudest voice, I tried again, "BOBBY! BOBBY!"

Acknowledgement. A wave from one of the figures in the plastic raft.

I began signaling by making a full circle of my left arm as I motioned to them to come towards me with my right arm. I continued to scream, "Get in now! Bobby, Dan, hurry!" and I pointed to the sky.

The two figures, their small bodies exaggerating every arm paddle as they propelled themselves towards shore, gradually grew larger. I focused and trained my eyes on them, as if I personally was enlarging an object encased in glass below the lens of a microscope.

The sky illuminated with color, a double crack of thunder. "Hurry, Bobby, hurry boys! Oh God, please get them in safely."

Their individual faces were now discernible. Rain pummeled their bodies and I heard their panting as I waded into the water to pull them in. And just as rapidly as the storm blew in, it abated. By the time I touched the raft, thSon Sets Sail

April first was a typical spring day. Sunny. Warm. Summer's storms and humidity hadn't arrived yet in Central Florida, the "Lightning Capital of the United States."

After the morning's baseball practice, our ten year old son, Bobby, and his Little League buddy, Dan, pedaled to Lake Orienta and positioned themselves on the dock to fish. Bobby, a blonde haired youngster, with safety goggles over his eyeglasses that magnified his aqua eyes, thought that made him look cool like a pro basketball player. He and Dan, a red-haired, scrawny, freckle-faced kid, with a permanent and mischievous twinkle in his eyes, were inseparable friends.

Dan found a deflated, dirty chaise, the kind adults relish lying on while floating in a backyard pool. The pals abandoned their fishing tackle and rods on the dock, blew up the craft and pushed off into the lake, creatively using their arms as oars. Our modern day Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn forgot the taboo: Don't go in the water; they knew Central Florida lakes are havens for alligators.

The adventurers were also unaware of the towering cumulous clouds in the sky, those imminent harbingers of storm. A half hour passed. As tiny as our one square mile lake is, when the wind blows strong enough, mini-white caps appear.

At home I noted the rapid change of weather and hopped in the car thinking I'd encounter the boys riding towards home. No. They weren't on the dock. Their bikes were lying nearby, carelessly discarded in the usual spot by a clump of live oak trees. I crossed the street to the fire station figuring the boys were pumping the firemen with questions. The firemen always welcomed them to climb on the trucks and taught them to slide down the pole.

Rumble of thunder in the distance.

"We'll put in a call to the police," the fireman offered. "If they see the boys, they'll send them home. Probably went to a friend's house. You know kids," and as he glanced outside added, "Looks like an early season storm is brewing."

Almost on cue, a flash of lightning appeared above the far end of the lake and thunder followed in the distance. A few raindrops began to fall. By the time I crossed the street the rain progressed from drizzle to heavy downpour. It pelted me and unintentionally I found myself at the edge of the dock considering what the fireman said. Ten year old boys!

Without thinking, I stared out into the middle of the lake. My eyes focused on a dot -- no two dots -- probably visible all along but I never noticed. I squinted. No, it couldn't be! They wouldn't! How could they -?

"BOBBY! BOBBY! DAN! BOBBY!" I cupped my hands and yelled. No reply.

A bolt of lightning and within a second an ear-splitting crack of thunder bellowed above. The lightning struck a nearby oak and its heavy limb crashed across the road.

Taking a deep breath to get my loudest voice, I tried again, "BOBBY! BOBBY!"

Acknowledgement. A wave from one of the figures in the plastic raft.

I began signaling by making a full circle of my left arm as I motioned to them to come towards me with my right arm. I continued to scream, "Get in now! Bobby, Dan, hurry!" and I pointed to the sky.

The two figures, their small bodies exaggerating every arm paddle as they propelled themselves towards shore, gradually grew larger. I focused and trained my eyes on them, as if I personally was enlarging an object encased in glass below the lens of a microscope.
The sky illuminated with color, a double crack of thunder. "Hurry, Bobby, hurry boys! Oh God, please get them in safely."

Their individual faces were now discernible. Rain pummeled their bodies and I heard their panting as I waded into the water to pull them in. And just as rapidly as the storm blew in, it abated. By the time I touched the raft, the thunder was a mellow roll and a ray of sunlight appeared.

Bobby braced for the whack. It didn't come nor did I yell or speak. Instead I pointed to their bikes. They mounted and pedaled their two-wheelers faster than they paddled the raft, each to his own house, and I drove home.

Bobby was waiting for me under the portico, shivering both with chill and fear. I led our son into the bathroom, undressed him, towel dried his body, and brought him clothes, all without uttering a word. As Bobby dressed, I made him a ham and swiss sandwich, put it in a paper bag with an apple, and then motioned for him to follow me. The terrified imp obeyed. I drove to the picnic area by St. Mary Magdalene and instructed, "Sit on this bench and eat. When you finish go into the church and think about what you did today. I'll be back for you in half an hour."

I knew he'd be safe there and immune from distractions. And then I drove around the corner, parked the car, placed my head upon the steering wheel and wept. "My son, my son! You could have drowned, been eaten by a gator or struck by lightning, but you're safe. Thankfully, you're safe."

Later that night, when Bobby and I picked up my husband, Bob, at the airport, we told him the entire story. Bob glanced at the calendar of his wristwatch and said, "Great joke for April Fool's Day!"

"No, Dad, I swear it's not."

A flash of lightning colored the sky and Bobby buried his head in my chest, and then Bob knew the tale was true. Sometimes the best punishment is no punishment at all.

e thunder was a mellow roll and a ray of sunlight appeared.

Bobby braced for the whack. It didn't come nor did I yell or speak. Instead I pointed to their bikes. They mounted and pedaled their two-wheelers faster than they paddled the raft, each to his own house, and I drove home.

Bobby was waiting for me under the portico, shivering both with chill and fear. I led our son into the bathroom, undressed him, towel dried his body, and brought him clothes, all without uttering a word. As Bobby dressed, I made him a ham and swiss sandwich, put it in a paper bag with an apple, and then motioned for him to follow me. The terrified imp obeyed. I drove to the picnic area by St. Mary Magdalene and instructed, "Sit on this bench and eat. When you finish go into the church and think about what you did today. I'll be back for you in half an hour."

I knew he'd be safe there and immune from distractions. And then I drove around the corner, parked the car, placed my head upon the steering wheel and wept. "My son, my son! You could have drowned, been eaten by a gator or struck by lightning, but you're safe. Thankfully, you're safe."

Later that night, when Bobby and I picked up my husband, Bob, at the airport, we told him the entire story. Bob glanced at the calendar of his wristwatch and said, "Great joke for April Fool's Day!"

"No, Dad, I swear it's not."

A flash of lightning colored the sky and Bobby buried his head in my chest, and then Bob knew the tale was true. Sometimes the best punishment is no punishment at all.

Bonnie Yarry © 2009

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