Tales from The CryptKeeper's Daughter

It was the summer of 1998 when freedom really started shouting my name.

I was fifteen years old and landlocked. My circumstance that year was not that much different than any of the years before—I was and always had been a country kid; it was simply a fact of life. But that summer, my skin had started to itch for something more. My freshman year was done and over with and now I felt restless, just dying for something different. But the road to independence still seemed like light years away.

294 days until I could take my driver’s test…

306 days until I was allowed to date…

1,095 days until I turned eighteen…

Eighteen, that was the big one—the age when according to Mom, I could do whatever I wanted.

Until then, she kept me on a short leash.

My only chances at escape from the ball and chain of my own backyard were the times I could convince Mom to let me stay at a friend’s house, and Mom’s list of allowable friends was even shorter than my leash.

Autumn’s name was on it though!

(Although it was probably printed in yellow for caution.)

I caught Mom on a good day and made plans to spend the night.

Autumn was smart, funny, beautiful, and athletic, but most importantly, she was an extrovert. I had learned way back in the first grade that if you were going to survive school as an introvert, you had to find yourself an extrovert for a friend.

Autumn had no problem picking either truth or dare (I could only choose truth), she knew the words to every song on the radio (and wasn’t afraid to sing them out loud), and she never passed up a chance at having fun (no matter how big the crowd).

Or a chance at broadening my horizons…

What I remember about that particular year is that all the cool kids were jumping off the abutments. Back then I called them “abumpments” because I had no idea how the word was spelled, let alone its definition.

Anyhow, when we were talking about the abutments, we were talking about these big concrete structures that sprouted up from the waters of Lake Chapin, the lake that bordered our town.

Once upon a time, before I was even born, an electric railway ran across Lake Chapin. It was built to be part of an interurban system that connected a bunch of small towns. A pretty cool idea, but I guess it didn’t work out.

The line was eliminated, but only partially demolished; the tracks were removed but the concrete supports remained. The one closest to town had sunk, but the other six were still standing, and the one closest to Autumn’s house was the one kids jumped from.

Now when I say, “the one closest to Autumn’s house” I don’t mean that she was right next door to the thing. Like me, Autumn lived outside of town. She wasn’t as landlocked as I was, but it was still a half mile walk to the nearest convenience store (which was at least another two miles from town) and another quarter mile to the park where the secret path to the abutments was.

This wasn’t just some leisurely little stroll we could take whenever we wanted.

You had to decide you were going to do it.

The day we decided was hot as heck, so Autumn, who hated being hot, was all for it. Besides the excuse to cool off, both of us knew we were running out of time. Summer was more than halfway over and Mom only had so many “Yeses” left in her. If we were lucky, we could squeeze in one more jump before school started with a larger group of people—a group that included boys. But that invitation was out of the question until I got my first jump out of the way.

The decision was obvious: it was now or never.

Autumn loaned me some swim gear—a t-shirt and some boxer shorts, then we took off on foot and headed for the path, our giddy excitement fueling the way. Before we knew it, we had reached the grassy lane and were tromping through the dewy blades, closer and closer, until the trees fell away and all that was left was an open clearing…

…surrounded by water.

Calm and glistening, it greeted us with a sparkling smile. And directly down the middle of our view stood the concrete abutment, proud and tall.

We had finally made it. Today was really going to be the day.

The only problem was, I couldn’t swim.

It was something I had always been ashamed of…

When I was younger, a neighbor’s granddaughter that had been visiting asked me to go swimming and I had to say no. Dad must have known I was disappointed because that night he went out and bought a kiddie pool for Gabby and me.

One year during high school track season, the coaches took our team to practice at the public pool. I made sure to get my position at the pool’s divide, that spot where it turns from shallow to deep. I kept one foot on the floor bottom and with the other, pretended to tread water so no-one would know.

Getting invited to pool parties was the worst. When I did attend, I had to spend the whole time hanging on to the side, pretending like I was just resting when the truth was I couldn’t let go.

I wanted so badly to not be afraid. I wanted so badly to be able to swim.

Now here I am, standing on the soggy bank of Lake Chapin, facing my chance…

I dip my toes into the water and stare at the abutment, trying to gauge the distance.

It’s about a thirty-yard swim.

I take a deep breath and step in a little further. Water wets my skin, slowly climbs my clothes.

It’s not that far, I tell myself. Yeah, it’s kind of close.

I take another step forward and the bottom drops out. Startled, I cling to a nearby branch and look for Autumn.

“You can do it,” I hear her say. “I’m right here.”

She’s treading water, waiting for me as I make my way deeper into the lake. This branch I’m clinging to is attached to the trunk of a downed tree; the remains are sprawled along shore, its fingers extending in the direction of my destination.

I tighten my grip and analyze the course. If I can make it to the tip of this tree, I’ll be that much closer to the abutment; it would cut my swimming in half.

But the limbs are slippery, weed-ridden and more vine-like than branchlike. The wood is dark in color from being wet. A purplish-brown film comes off on my palms, leaving a stain like an oil slick.

I feel around underwater with my foot and locate a more substantial branch to follow out to Autumn. It wobbles as I walk. My footing falters and I find myself up to the chin in weedy water, getting tangled in the tree’s tentacles and muddled in the muck-covered stalks beneath me.

All of it—the tree, its branches, the weeds, the stalks, the lake slime—they snag my shirt and tug at my body, like they know I can’t swim.

I feel myself start to panic.

I’m going to drown. I haven’t even gotten started and already, I’m going to drown. 

I claw and scratch until I rip myself free, find my grip, and pull myself up. But I know that it’s time to let go. I’ve used this crutch as long as I can, and now I have to go for it. I kick off as best I can and begin to doggie paddle towards the abutment.

My teeth are chattering, my jaw is trembling, but I can’t see my breath. Because I’m not cold, I’m tired.

I’m already tired.

Autumn calls to me but I can barely hear her. The distance between us is growing and growing, and now I regret the whole thing but know that it’s too late to turn back.

I paddle harder, fighting my own body and all of its weight, which seems to have doubled in the water. I curse its unwillingness to be buoyant, then notice a bubble in the seat of my pants.

A bubble in my boxer shorts, I’m pretty sure that’s how I got across. Those borrowed britches must have filled up with air and acted as a floatation device.

The next thing I know I’m next to the ladder.

It’s a rope ladder, scraggly and coming undone, with missing rungs and shredded twine, and the climbing is difficult. The ladder sways and shifts so that our toes and knees scrape against the concrete, leaving tiny tears in our skin.

We make it to the top, but we’re winded.

“We did it,” Autumn says. She catches her breath, walks up to the edge, and plunges into the water. Then she climbs back up and has another go.

“You can do it,” she tells me. “All you have to do is say, ‘One, two, three, f*** it!’”

I stand at the edge and peer down at the water. It is black, rushing, endless—daring me to enter so it can swallow me whole.

I sit back down.

I knew I couldn’t do it.

Looking back on it now, it was probably best I didn’t jump. What person in their right mind who can’t swim would jump off a 20- or 15- or even 10-foot tall structure into a body of water of an unknown depth?

Still, a twinge of disappointment went with me as I climbed back down that rickety old rope, scraping my toes and knees for the second time. It followed me across the lake as I doggie-paddled back to shore. It stayed with me on the walk home.

There would be no story of triumph for me on that day.

Fear has prevented me from doing a lot of things in life. Trying new things, going new places, achieving my goals. Even to this day, crippling thoughts sometimes sneak into my mind.

What if your story is no good? 

What if you never get published? 

Who’s going to want to read this?

But I’m learning to move past it.

Two years ago, I took a class at the Y and finally learned how to swim.

A month ago, I enrolled as a mentee in the Crystal Lake Mentorship program to improve my writing.

Conquering your fears feels good. Really good. Especially when it could mean the difference in missing out on doing what you love in life.

I’m still hard at it on the stories. I know I’m slow, but I want them to be the best they can be, which means writing, rewriting, and rewriting some more.

I better get back to it.

Thanks for sticking with me folks, and thanks for reading all the way to the end. It really means a lot that you’re here. Hope you’ll come back and visit.

Until next time,

Maegan