 This is a story about childhood and friendship. Do you remember a good friend that you had in your younger days? Do you still keep in touch with him? Maybe this story will bring back some memories for you...
* * * * * I first met him during my elementary school. We were around twelve years old or something like that. He was lean and tall. His arms and legs were slightly muscular for his age. His skin was tanned with a shade that said he's probably seen a lot of outdoors in his life. His soft brown eyes were kindly but deep. When he looked at you, you could almost feel him looking into your soul, but with curiosity, neither with judgment nor with the penetrating depth that would make you feel uncomfortable. He wore a slightly faded grey t-shirt and a pair of old blue jeans that had frayed at the bottom. He had on a pair of shoes in which his left toe poked out.
He leaned on his bicycle nonchalantly, looking across the playing field in our school. A couple of older boys were playing soccer on the wet muddy field. It had just rained cats and dogs an hour before and the air had a fresh, clean smell to it. I had always liked the feel in the air after a heavy downpour. It felt as if the earth had been cleansed somewhat and everything now had a fresh start. The game the boys were playing was rough. They were all muddied and wet from the rain water still on the field. Sometimes a small fight would ensue after some disagreements in the game and they would get even dirtier.
"Look at them, rough as hell, just like the jackdaws when they're feeding," he said with an off-sided grin that showed his slightly crooked front teeth. We both watched the boys playing till dusk came and they decided to pack up and end their game.
"I lived yonder," he said, pointing to a small village in the distance, a small place with some humble wooden houses sitting on the side of a small hillock beyond the field. There was only one road out of our school, so we walked out together. He pushed his bicycle and I walked beside him. We talked as we walked, mostly about school, about girls and about the teachers - the usual teenager talk I supposed. It was a mile later when I reached a branch on the road which leads to my home. He looked at me, "I'll see you around!" Then we parted ways. His name was Sam. We became friends that day.
One afternoon after school, a group of us decided to try 'tarzan-ing' from a spot which we've found. Next to a small trail up a hill, there was an old tree which grew on a ledge. The drop from the ledge was all the way down to the bottom - some two hundred feet. It would have been a short but messy trip to heaven (or hell), if any of us had fallen from it. Hanging from the topmost branches of the tree were a couple of vines. The plan was to hang onto those vines and swing ourselves out of the ledge, and land back from where we started when the momentum brought the swing back to the starting point. Some of these vines overhung the ledge. If the momentum of the swing had not been enough, the poor guy would hang on his vine over the two hundred feet drop. He would either have to attempt swinging himself back to the ledge, which wasn't as easy as it seemed, as the vine was not very stiff and you would end up wriggling the end of the vine which you were holding on to but very little swinging would occur. Fear probably had something to do with it as well. You were basically hanging on to a slippery vine with a long, long drop below you. We try not to look down! When the poor boy was stuck that way, he would have to be rescued. The rescue operation involved someone climbing up an adjacent vine to the top branch of the tree where the vines grew, and attempting to reach for top-end of the vine which the hapless boy was hanging from. He would then try to swing the vine, slowly at first, then gaining momentum, a wider swing, until the 'victim' managed to swing himself back on the ledge. We would all have a good laugh after that, poking fun at the 'rescued' victim. At the back of our mind, we knew that if the vines were to break suddenly, it would have been a horrific end to one of us. But we put our weight on the vine to test it before we made the swing and it seemed safe enough. Safety was not exactly on our minds at this point, we were a bunch of kids having a lot of fun. Of course our parents knew nothing about our little game and we made sure it remained that way.
It became a sort of rite of passage for our gang of boys. When a new guy came to join us, he would have to make a swing out of the ledge before he became 'one of us'. Of course, he would have to make it back to the ledge too, without being rescued. If you didn't make that swing, you'd be a 'chicken', and chickens were treated as lesser members of the gang. We also made a hero out of the guy who swung the furthest from the ledge. To get this record, you'd have to make a running start to the edge of the ledge and grab hold of a vine before you reached the edge and swung yourself off. It was scary, but hey, that's why we called these boys heroes. There were not many of those.
Sam never made those swings. He always stood aside watching us play. He never chided us or said anything, he just watched. Nobody called him chicken. Maybe being bigger than most of us had something to do with it. But Sam had an air of confidence about him. He was someone that you just didn't call chicken.
Then it was my turn to make my swing from the ledge. I was determined not to be 'chicken' for too long. I tested out a vine that looked pretty strong, thick and not too slippery. Holding onto it with both my hands, I edged my way to the side of the ledge. I looked below. Suddenly I felt sick. The two hundred feet drop fell straight onto hard granite stones below. I could hear the soft rustle of the vine-tree as the wind blew, caressing my face, as if daring me to make the swing. I could hear the birds chirping. Everything was as clear as crystal. I stood frozen by the side of the ledge, the vine gripped tightly in my hands. I couldn't make the jump. I had a fear of heights!
Behind me, shouts and jeers of 'chicken' and clucking sounds started coming from the rest of the gang. I couldn't do this, I thought. I closed my eyes. As I stood there frozen, I felt another pair of hands grabbing hold of the vine which I was holding on to. I opened my eyes. Sam was there beside me. "You can do this, it's easy. It's just the getting to do it which is scary."
Looking back at the jeering boys, Sam yelled, "Look out, we're gonna do something which no one has done before, we are going to swing this vine, together!" Sam grabbed hold of my waist with his left hand and pushed both of us out of the ledge. I felt the earth gave way beneath my feet. Suddenly I was in the air, holding on to the vine with white knuckles, my eyes closed tight. "See, it was easy," Sam whispered. The wine swung as far as our momentum had got it, stopped like a pendulum at the far end of the swing and began its return swing. Then we were back on the ledge. I opened my eyes. We've made it.
Because of Sam, I have gotten high respect from the gang from the stunt that we did. I left that bunch of boys as I grew older. But Sam was still around. We went to the same class together. Sam chose the same subjects that I did. Partly because he was weak in his lessons and I could help him if we took on the same stuff. I taught him mathematics and sciences. He showed me how you could make a sling with a piece of Y-shaped rubber wood and some latex we got from tapped rubber trees. He showed me how to make a blowpipe out of a mechanical pencil, by unscrewing the innards and using just the outer tube as the 'pipe'. Our 'ammunitions' were made from rolled pieces of small paper. When inserted into the 'pipe' and blown with a short, sharp breath, the impact felt like a bee-sting on your bare skin. We had a lot of fun together and he showed me a lot of neat stuff.
When we graduated from high school, I got accepted into college at a town two hundred miles away. Sam did not make it to college. He decided to try for an apprenticeship with a local mechanic. Of course he got the job; he was always good with his hands.
We parted ways at the bus station on the week before my college starts and he told me, "Doing is easy. It's just the getting to do it which is scary." We hugged each other and he told me to watch myself in the big city. I promised to call him when I return. He told me he'd get the fishing rods ready and we would go fishing in the small stream again when I came back.
I gave him a small salute as the bus pulled out and he gave me his off-sided grin. I thought he looked a bit sad. I watched him as he faded into the distant. We would meet again when I come back, I thought.
I never did come back. My parents decided to move with me to the city shortly after and I'd never found a good reason to go back to that small town. I found a good job after graduation and those 'good ole times' faded into memories for me in the busy schedule of my work, life and then family. I was not sure if it had been the same for Sam. Sam never had a phone and I never did get his address. * * * * *
The last time I went back to my hometown was for Sam's funeral. He had been in a car accident. I was told that he had passed away immediately on the spot. That gave me a small measure of comfort. I placed my sling which Sam had made for me on his coffin. I just wanted him to have it. I had never given much back to him in our years as friends and he'd never asked for anything in return. "Friends don't count with each other," Sam had said.
After the funeral, Sam's parents led me to his bedroom and handed me a pair of fishing rods which were neatly stowed together with a box of old but unused hooks and tackles. "He said that when you come back, you'll both go fishing together. That was the first thing he'd bought with his first paycheck. I reckon he'll want to you to keep these." I fought to keep the tears from my eyes. Sam had never asked for anything in return, and I couldn't even keep the one promise that I had made to him.
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