Swimming with
the Dolphins

Prologue

I reached down to separate a fan-shaped cockle shell from the millions of shell fragments that built Captiva Island, known to stooping shell pickers around the world. To my right and left were hundreds of people of all shapes and sizes. Young people mixed with older who were sunning, swimming, and strolling in the warming breeze of a late December day. My grandfather, Robert “Bucky” Ahern, his friend Carlos Mantia, John, and I stood in front of a sign reading “Private Property – Please Respect.” The yard of tufted sea grass was defined by a rope hanging from stubby posts haphazardly buried in the shells and sandy soil. The chipped façade of the white cottage trimmed in pink and aqua was insignificant among the new glass and bleached wooden houses. A dolphin shaped windmill atop the cottage leaned petrified in place.

We stood quietly as the yellow Caterpillar crawler creaked and moaned toward us. Bare, barrel-chested men in tight, cutoff jeans and dusty work boots moved up close to the house and waited for the demolition to begin. Once in place, the shovel crashed down on the back porch. A scratched, red dump truck chugged up waiting for the bites of cottage to spew into its bed. The wooden railing around the tiny sun deck shook as the machine crunched the fragile skin of the cottage.

Tears filled grandfather’s eyes as we watched the destruction. I looped my tanned fingers on top of my surfer shorts. Grandfather smiled at me. “Rob, I was a handsome, young man once. My back was straight like yours when we first came to Captiva.”

Our eyes locked and I could see his sadness. I spoke, “Even though they’re tearing her down they can’t take the memories away. I wonder why they didn’t renovate her.”

“Too lazy, I guess. People want it all new.”

The four of us walked along the beach. I decided on that walk that future generations of the Hearn family would know about the Captiva cottage. That was six years ago. Grandfather died recently and I decided it was time to write this story. This family saga largely takes place in the little white cottage with pink and aqua trim sitting on a shell ledge beside the Gulf of Mexico. The cottage was never named but was alive with Hearn flesh and blood for years.

John and I are proud, out gay men who have been together for fifteen years. Five years ago we got married in the short window when we could get married in California. We live in San Francisco where John provides executive leadership for the enterprises of the late Lee Kwan. I am a freelance writer. He and I sit as two of the five board members of the Andrew Henley Charitable Foundation. More about John and the foundation are chronicled in a novel titled, Why Did He Die?

***

On my last trip to Captiva in 1992 grandfather gave me a dusty box full of family documents and pictures. The sections that follow except the last two were written utilizing my great grandfather’s, great, great uncle’s and grandfather’s journals and letters as source material. My life was so busy when my grandfather gave me the box I only found the following letter when I opened the box after his death. The last two sections describe my life as a gay man in the late twentieth century.

December 30, 1992

Dear Rob,

“It was wonderful having you and John here on Capitva for the past few days. Thank you for coming and I wish you and John the best, if it is meant to be.

My personal memories of Captiva began in 1932 when the Hearn family first traveled to Captiva. We annually vacationed on Captiva until the late 1940’s when my parents bought a cottage at the Jersey Shore and a camp in Winter Harbor, Maine. They sold the Captiva cottage in 1953. We found out yesterday from Ted Jones that the Jones’s bought the cottage in 1961. Your grandmother and I planned a Captiva reunion which occurred at South Seas Plantation during Christmas week of 1990 which you attended. Jeanne, your grandmother, died six months later of breast cancer. I was certainly sad after forty-two years of marriage. However, her death gave me an opportunity to start a late authentic life as a gay man. You met Carlos who I first met in 1942 on a Captiva trip. I am so happy that he and I are together again. If you decide to write about anything you find in this box, I ask you be completely truthful. I wish you the very best in life.

Love, Bucky

I feel comfortable revealing these family secrets. All the principals are gone except for John and me. The Captiva dolphins played a major role in this story. These friendly, gray mammals brought joy and excitement to all who got to be with them over the past ninety years.

Robert T. Hearn, III

June, 2013

Section 1

Great Grandfather Robert’s
First Trip to Captiva

The first Hearn trip to Captiva was made by my great grandfather, Robert and his brother, my great Uncle Peter, in 1920. This section was taken from his incomplete journal which my great grandfather wrote after he returned from their first trip to Captiva.

***

March 22, 1920:  I am Robert Allen Hearn, born in 1902 at Lankenau Hospital on the Philadelphia Mainline. In the fall I plan to attend Columbia University in New York to study economics and business management. I first saw Captiva with my brother, Peter, in 1920. Our trip planning started last fall when my brother, Peter, who had returned from fighting in Europe, visited me at the Lawrenceville School.

Peter was sitting on my bed at Lawrenceville on a dreary November morning when he blurted, “Goddamn, let’s go someplace. You and me, maybe to Florida or some goddamn place where it’s warm.” Peter’s a sullen, hard-to-read guy but we get along better than most brothers do. He hasn’t said much about the war since he returned home. I know he had some horrid experiences fighting in France. He and some guys from his house at Lawrenceville went to fight but they didn’t have to.

This is how Peter and I got to Captiva. Mr. Maurice Chandler brought us into the mangrove and palm vegetation on the high shell ledge beside the Gulf of Mexico to fish. He told us that the incessant waves, the periodic, violent hurricanes and billions of sea creatures created the island off of the west coast of Florida. I am ahead of my story so let me start again.

During and after my Christmas break Peter kept talking about me going with him. Peter and I would be entering college at the same time even though he was two years older than me. Peter convinced me that we should take the month of March and explore Florida. Mother and father were not excited. He insisted that he would “look after me.” I finished my term exams on March 1 and came home to get my things. Peter fit his clothes into an old Boy Scout knapsack. He told me to take two short sleeved shirts, one pair of khaki trousers and one pair of khaki shorts plus underwear, socks and tennis shoes. He wanted me to bring my white bucks which I knew he coveted. I threw in a swimming suit and a sweat shirt at the last minute.

We boarded the train at the Thirty Street Station in Philadelphia and got off in Panama City, Florida two days later. Thomas Edison, who Peter idolized, had a laboratory and warm weather home Ft. Myers. Peter convinced me that it had to be a special place if Edison would travel so far to establish his laboratory. He wanted to travel by steamer the way Edison would have traveled when he started coming to Ft. Myers in the 1890’s.

The trip took most of two days with stops in Tampa and Sarasota before Ft. Myers. The rusty steamer belched black coal smoke. Our inside cabin was hot and smelly so we spent our time outside as we plied the gentle swells of the Gulf of Mexico. The second afternoon an older gentleman with a full head of long stringy gray hair and a black captain’s goatee approached us. He introduced himself, “Boys, I am Mr. Maurice Chandler from New Awlins.” We both stood politely and firmly shook his outstretched hand. “Where you Yankee boys from?”

We politely answered his question and a few others about our purpose and destination. Peter said, “I am returning from the fighting in Europe.”

Mr. Chandler’s gaze intensified as he spoke in his heavy Southern accent, “Boy, tell me about the Argonne. Was it bad as the papers described?”

“It was worse than anything you can imagine. It was shit. It was mud and crap and bodies…” Peter abruptly stopped and stared off to the horizon.

I couldn’t believe how rude Peter was to this gentleman. I glared at him but he didn’t seem to see me.

“You lose a buddy, son?” Mr. Chandler asked.

“Plenty…I don’t want to discuss it.”

“Sorry, I fought once upon a time in Cuba against the Spanish. I have no right to intrude on you boys’ peaceful afternoon.”

Mr. Chandler lingered and Peter mumbled, “I saw plenty of gruesome things happen over there. I thought the war was noble but it was shit, just shit. We were mud covered, cold and wet for days at a time.” Tears came into his eyes. Mr. Chandler rose to leave but Peter urged him to stay. He rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder like a grandfather would do.

The three of us sat quietly as the sun edged toward setting. The colors were brilliant oranges and whites against a gray backdrop. Peter and Mr. Chandler compared the oranges and the pinks to the battlefield shades and hues that lingered after guns cascaded down on their respective positions. I watched Mr. Chandler pull his black goatee with his right index finger and his thumb. He’d clutch it then stroke it as he listened intently to Peter. A dinner bell sounded in the distance.

“Boys, you go pack and join me for dinner. We will dock before nine in the morning so we should be ready.” He stood before us erect as if still in the army. He walked with a slight left-side limp that he told us it was not a war wound but rather one he sustained falling from a horse on his farm.

At dinner he asked, “Where you boys staying in Ft. Myers? If you don’t have a place you can stay at my house. I live close to Mr. Edison and maybe can to arrange a visit for you to the Green Laboratory. Mr. Edison is usually in Ft. Myers at this time but his habits are not predictable.” I felt we were getting trapped but Peter did not seem to mind.

We were met as we disembarked by a stooped black man. “Charles, get the boy’s luggage. These boys are our guests,” Mr. Chandler ordered.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Chandler.” He smiled as he gathered our duffels and placed them in the trunk of a shiny black Buick. He held the back door open and Mr. Chandler got in. Peter followed. I climbed in the front seat beside Charles. Mr. Chandler’s facial expression told me I had done something incorrect but he didn’t say anything. The powder of crushed shells made a cloud behind the car. Shortly Charles turned the gracious automobile onto a street lined with palm trees and fichus hedges. Mr. Chandler pointed to Mr. Edison’s house as we drove past. He also pointed out his laboratory across the street. Next he pointed out the house of Mr. Harvey Firestone, the tire maker.

About two blocks further we turned into the yard of what Mr. Chandler called “the cottage.” The cottage was a two story rambling house with a porch that swept halfway around the house. The grounds were lush with moss draped cypress and palms of all varieties. Two black men were raking the fallen magnolia leaves and bougainvillea. The gardens were iridescent with pink and yellow blossoms and the red streaked crouton leaves.

Mr. Chandler said, “Boys, I take no credit for the gardens. They were my wife’s pride and joy. She got plenty of help designing them from her friend, the naturalist, John Burroughs who lives next door.”

Peter asked, “Is your wife here? Will we meet her?”

“No,” was his flat response.

Peter didn’t follow up but we had an answer shortly. Mr. Chandler was met at the door by Mrs. Mason, the housekeeper who spoke “Mr. Chandler, I am so sorry about Mrs. Chandler. She was a lovely person. We will miss her.”

Peter and I just looked at each other. I said, “Mr. Chandler we are sorry we didn’t know.”

He brushed the comment aside and proceeded to introduce us, “Mrs. Mason, this is Peter Hearn, a war hero who is vacationing in Florida. And this is his brother, Robbie.” We followed Mr. Chandler straight through the dark, cool house to the back deck. The beautiful gardens continued in the backyard but did not obscure the view of the Catchaloosie River. Mr. Chandler told us that he would walk us through the garden and tell us as much as he could about the succulents that his wife and Mr. Burroughs had planted.

Peter and I stared at the brilliant blue water that must have been two miles wide. There was a pier that extended twenty-five yards into the river.

Mr. Chandler insisted we continue our tour of the dim, cool house. The house had a slightly damp, close smell. The windows in the living room were doors that lead in two directions onto a screened porch filled with wicker chairs and tables with pillows of floral and vegetation patterns. Neither Peter nor I said much as Mr. Chandler led us to the stairs. “Upstairs are the bedrooms. Let me show you your room.” Our footsteps on the stair treads and the soft swishing of the ceiling fans were the only sounds. Mr. Chandler stood in the doorway and motioned us into a room with two beds each draped with mosquito netting. “It’s a little too early to need these but in a couple of weeks you couldn’t sleep here without the net.” He turned and we followed him. He pointed out the bathroom shower stall covered by a curtain. We had showers like this at school but not at home.

Mr. Chandler led us onto a sun porch whose windows provided a majestic view through the live oak tree branches to the river. The room was bright with colorful, overstuffed pillows on sofas and daybeds lined the wall. He said, “Take your pick.”

Peter said, “Can we stay out here? I bet it will be cooler.”

“You won’t sleep late out here. It’s plenty bright. No shutters on the windows and no door. Not private.” Mr. Chandler pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter. Robbie can sleep through a hurricane,” Peter smirked. “Is someone else staying up here?”

“Only my room which is up in the front,” Mr. Chandler replied. “That’s all.”

At supper that night Mrs. Mason cooked crispy chicken with fried banana chips, rice and black beans and watermelon. We ate quietly until Mr. Chandler asked “What do you want to do tomorrow?”

“Is there a beach we can walk to?”

He laughed, “Not walk to, but you could drive out. Charles can take you.”

“No, that’s too much trouble. We can take the street car,” I said.

At that he roared, “Son, the streetcar in this town goes about eight blocks leaving you five miles from the beach.”

I felt foolish but how could I know. He detected that he embarrassed me and offered us a car to drive ourselves. He said, “Boys, I have a Model-T that you could drive to get yourselves around if you’d like that better. The best beach is south of town about twelve miles. He paused as if thinking and continued, “Yes, I think that would be best. You boys go ahead. I want you boys to do me a favor. On Wednesday night I would like you boys to come to the Club and meet a few of my friends.”

Peter respectfully turned toward Mr. Chandler and said, “We’d be honored to join you but we didn’t bring clothes appropriate to a club. We only brought a minimum of clothes.”

He puzzled momentarily and said, “We can fix that easily. We’ll see what my son has left here and if necessary I’ll buy what you don’t have. You will have to delay your beach outing until we’ve secured the necessary clothes.” We did not argue.

Immediately after dinner we followed Mr. Chandler onto the porch where we sipped port wine. I thought about Congress and the unpopular law they passed to impose the Volsted Act. I surmised that the law would not have an effect on the way Mr. Chandler led his life. He had the money to get the best port wine he wanted. Mr. Chandler insisted that Peter tell more about the war. Peter seemed easier with the stories as he vividly related the horrible conditions that the men endured. Neither Mr. Chandler nor Peter seemed to question the unsatisfactory outcome. Even as retched as Peter described the whole experience, he didn’t question the purpose of the war. I could not believe it was worth the pain and suffering for so many American and European men. He talked about individuals and their heroism. He described the times away from the front where the men gathered to drink and take women. Mr. Chandler cried and smiled many times. I did not mention the stupidity of the idea that we create a League of Nations. It was an idiotic idea.

The port wine was having its effect on Mr. Chandler as he began to lecture Peter and me on the lost tradition of honor and sacrifice. He chided our generation for the cynical and insulting way that they treated the old men who fought for what they believed. I was feeling the effects of the wine when I said, “What about the Civil War?”

He replied, “You mean the War of Northern Aggression? I don’t want to spoil our evening, Robbie, by giving you my views on that subject. Suffices to say I think the southern states were raped. With stubbornness and determination of families like mine we have dragged the south back on her feet. My father worked for thirty years getting our business respectable. Me and my son are reaping the benefits.”

Wanting to quickly get away from the ‘Civil War’ subject I asked, “What kind of business are you in?”

“Coffee,” he snapped. From that moment on I was an outsider. He was warm and expressive toward Peter and ignored me. Mr. Chandler seemed to lose himself in Peter’s experiences. He finally suggested bed. The electric lights had been turned off and the kerosene lamps provided a soft, sooty glow that reflected off of the polished floors and cut glass vases filled with flowers from Mrs. Chandler’s garden. We followed Mr. Chandler upstairs.

The windows on our sleeping porch were wide open letting in warm, sultry air. We took showers to cool our bodies. The evening air dried us as we lay naked on top of the sheets wanting little touching our sticky skin. We spoke quietly about what time we wanted to leave for the beach. Peter assured me that he could drive the Model T and find his way to the beach and back. We fell asleep.

Midway through the night, stillness turned into a noisy thunderstorm. Peter and I jumped up closing the porch windows to the illumination of lightning flashes. I stepped into the hall and saw Mr. Chandler’s naked body rushing around. I watched realizing I had never seen a man his age naked. I politely turned my eyes away. He called, “Rob, get the windows in that room.” Peter laughed as we watched Mr. Chandler’s long penis swing as he rushed to finish closing up. He shouted: “Grab that... don’t knock the lamp over…the floor’s wet don’t fall.” Our naked general was commanding his naked troops. In a few minutes we had things secure. He lit the kerosene lamp as we stood for a few more minutes. He was watching us as intently as we were checking him out. We retreated to our porch and opened the windows after the storm subsided.

***

April 2, 1920:  Whether it was the port wine or after the storm we slept soundly. Sunlight streamed into the room but didn’t disturb us until after nine. I nudged Peter’s butt and suggested that we needed to get going. At breakfast Mrs. Mason thanked us for closing the windows and pointed out the damage in the garden. From the back porch we could see the gardening crew gathering leaves and broken branches. Mr. Chandler was not around.

I asked, “Mrs. Mason do you think we can delay trying on the clothes you found for us until we return?”

She looked surprised and exclaimed in her understated Southern way, “I don’t think you boys should go today. The roads out that way will be a mess of potholes. You might get stuck.” She turned away and pushed open the swinging kitchen door.

I said to Peter, “Guess we won’t go?”

“What the hell we goin’ do around here all day? Maybe we can get some fishing poles from Charles.”

We did get poles and dug around in the garden for grubs for bait. With towels and poles we made our way down to the dock. We wanted to get away from the house and strategize how and when we were going to leave Mr. Chandler’s. The midday sun was hot so we got into the water and floated around not coming up with any good answers. While we lay on the deck Mrs. Mason brought us lemonade and delicious chicken sandwiches. We were getting too comfortable and we knew it.

Sometime between three or three-thirty we went back into the house to shower. Mrs. Mason reminded us that we needed to try on the clothes. We followed her up to our room opened a tall oak wardrobe where she had hung the clothes she had found in various closets. Shortly Mr. Chandler came upstairs to supervise and comment on the fits and misfits. I was lucky because my long lanky body looked good in several pair of seersucker trousers. There was a white pin-striped shirt that fit adequately and I had my white bucks. They set off the navy blue double-breasted blazer that looked like it was made for my long skinny arms. I was missing a bow tie which Mr. Chandler assured me he had.

Peter, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. His extra thirty pounds and exceptionally broad shoulders worked against his fitting anything that was in the wardrobe. Mr. Chandler said, “Let’s go to the tailor shop and see what they might have. They will be closing soon.” He and Peter left. I stayed behind to write a letter home to let our parents know where we were and what we were doing. I assured my father I would be back at Lawrenceville in time for the start of classes. I knew he thought Peter might try to convince me to stay. I didn’t want to miss graduation at Lawrenceville.

Peter returned smiling and told me about his new seersucker suit which was being made and showed me a starchy a white shirt and a flowery bow tie. He was obnoxiously proud of the new saddle oxfords Mr. Chandler bought for him. We found Mr. Chandler on the back porch talking to a salty character who he introduced as Mathias Draper. Mr. Chandler did not introduce him to Peter so I assumed that Draper had come to the house when they returned from the shopping trip. Mrs. Mason brought them a drink and asked us what we wanted. We both answered “gin fizz.” She turned without further comment to return a few minutes later with our drinks.

As the men talked I concluded that Draper was Captain Draper of the steamer Tampa, the sister ship of the St. Petersburg which brought us to Ft. Myers. Mr. Chandler was a frequent enough passenger so he knew Captain Draper. He was telling Mr. Chandler about the horror of the 1919 hurricane and how he managed to survive the storm at sea. The stories went on until Mrs. Mason called us to dinner. Their drinks had loosened and fowled their tongues. With dinner Mrs. Mason brought of bottle of red wine decanted. Mr. Chandler said, “French Bordeaux.” I wondered to myself how much stored booze and wine Mr. Chandler had. He never mentioned prohibition.

The wine was served in tall stemmed bowl goblets. I watched as Mr. Chandler swirled the glass which nested in his right hand. He sipped it gently. After we finished that bottle another was uncorked. I was feeling dizzy and couldn’t keep from talking. Mr. Chandler and the Captain conspired quietly as we got up from the table. Mr. Chandler said, “No, we shouldn’t.” A few more exchanged whispers and Mr. Chandler came over and stood between Peter and me putting one hand on each of our shoulders. He slurred, “Boys, Captain Draper and I are going to take you to a special place. Rob you may be surprised but, I suspect, Peter, you won’t be. Soldiers know these places, especially heroes.” He stumbled as he stepped back. Peter caught his arm.

Mr. Chandler asked Mrs. Mason to instruct Charles to bring the Buick around. I heard the motor start and in a matter of moments the sleek vehicle moaned ever so slightly as we stepped inside. I got in the front seat and Peter sat between Mr. Chandler and Captain Draper in the back. We drove slowly through town and past the city dock where the Tampa was moored. Captain Draper commented: “We’ll push back at ten thirty, next stop Port Charlotte.” We continued past shanties and fishing docks on a potholed, chalky street until we stopped at a house surrounded by a chipped picket fence. The street was dark except for this house. There were several other automobiles and a team of mules being watched by big black man who snoozed on his seat. We got out of the car and Mr. Chandler said: “Charles, be back before midnight. We’ll be ready.”

The clinking of the out-of-tune piano enticed us inside the white bungalow with a raised front porch. Peter and I walked behind Mr. Chandler and the Captain onto the sagging porch. Mr. Chandler’s soft knock was acknowledged by an enticing, brown female face who invited us inside.

Mr. Chandler spoke in a gentle southern way, “Miss Margarita, Good evening.” We followed her through a small entry vestibule into the living room. An old Negro man sat at an upright piano, his fingers slowly playing as his eyes focused to some distant space. The music made the dimly lighted place dreamy. The room was filled with badly worn, upholstered chairs and one hard horse hair sofa long out of fashion. The kerosene lamps flickered and the lacy curtains moved slowly in time with the music.

Mr. Chandler spoke, “Miss Margarita, the boys would like to meet your prettiest girls.” Her gesture invited us to sit. I could not take my eyes away as her black wavy hair draped gently on her brown shoulders. I didn’t think she was American and she wasn’t a Negro. I caught Mr. Chandler’s eyes and he whispered, “Miss Margarita is from Cuba.” My eyes followed her hair onto the top of her ample breasts that were uncovered over the top of a flowered, silky dressing gown worn over her yellowed white slip.

I leaned Peter’s direction and softly spoke, “A brothel, I believe.” Peter didn’t answer. We waited. Soon a young girl maybe fifteen with pasty white skin entered swinging her hips. She approached Peter and extended her hand without a word. He took it and rose at her invitation. He followed her as she snapped her chewing gum. He did not look back. My girl was chocolate. Her face had fine features and she smiled at me. “I’m Marlene. Do you like the way I look?” I must have smiled approvingly because she pulled me up from my seat. She guided me down a short hall into a small bedroom. The door closed and we were alone.

I waited. She turned and began to unbutton my shirt. I was the audience for her provocative dance. She pushed me onto the single bed and continued undressing me. The piano notes drifted into the room as I lay back on the bed. She smiled frequently with her eyes closed as she moved up and down on my rock hard cock. Miraculously I lasted a reasonable time until I could hold back no longer. She cleaned me, dressed me and opened the door. She stayed behind. Mr. Chandler’s chauffeur was in front of the house as the clock by the front door was striking twelve. I got into the front seat. I smiled thinking about the experience.

Peter and I slept until eleven thirty. Mr. Chandler came upstairs. My eyes were opening when he entered the sun porch. “Lunch in twenty minutes. You boys hungry?”

“I am. I’ll get Peter.” Peter was in the bathroom peeing as I walked in with Mr. Chandler.

You boys have a good time last night?”

Peter dropped his towel. “Some dessert,” he smirked as he pushed the shower curtain to the side. He smiled at Mr. Chandler as he disappeared into the splashing water. Mr. Chandler stepped away as I brushed my teeth.

We joined him downstairs. As we entered Peter said, “The beach today?”

“Too late, we are expected at the club at five. Swim or maybe fish?” he admonished us.

Mrs. Mason brought coffee on a giant silver tray and placed it on the table before Mr. Chandler. He poured and we loved the liquid.

We did swim and lounge on the long pier. A bench under a covered section shielded us from an intense sun. We didn’t say much to each other. We were just together until we showered and dressed for the occasion. Charles turned the shiny black Buick off of MacGregor Street toward yacht club. The doorman opened the heavy carved doors for us. Peter looked fantastic dressed in his bow tie and new seersucker suit. He was ecstatic about his saddle oxfords. I looked pretty good myself considering I was wearing someone else’s clothes. Mr. Chandler lent me a navy spotted bow tie to complete my outfit. He put his proud hands on each of our shoulders as we stepped through the entrance. He could have been our grandfather but his speech gave him away.

Peter and I were nervous because Mr. Chandler had told us nothing about the occasion or who we would be meeting. He avoided answering my inquiry and said, “I’ll introduce you when we get to the club.”

We were met by a tall black man wearing white gloves. “Good evening Mr. Chandler, these must be your guests. Your table is ready. Would you like to be seated?” He paused and turned to face Mr. Chandler, “I was sorry, Sir, to hear of the death of Mrs. Chandler.” His condolence evoked a silent nod and that was all.

We walked down a long hall to a glassed room that provided a view of the harbor and boats of many sizes. There were only a few yachts and skiffs because most were motor launches. We were seated at the table set for nine. There was clamor behind us and across the room came a rumpled man with a famous face. I worked to keep my jaw from falling. Peter said out loud, “It’s Thomas Edison!”

Mr. Chandler replied, “He is joining us for a drink, maybe dinner. He wants to meet you and talk about the war. He was a Navy commissioner or something like that. He developed a way to detect submarines under water. He wants to talk to you about communication devices and how we can improve them.” He stopped speaking as Edison approached us.

Introductions were made and we were soon joined by several other men – Admiral Herbert Halsey, Harvey Firestone, and John Burroughs. Mr. Chandler introduced Peter as a war hero. Peter tried valiantly to correct Mr. Chandler but to no avail. This event was important to Mr. Chandler so we listened as the men conversed. Our party was completed by a Mr. Harold Hudson and his grandson, Chad. Chad shook hands with each man and merely nodded to Peter and me.

After one round of drinks dinner was served. Mr. Edison and the admiral intensely cross examined Peter about his experiences. “Were you an officer, young man?” the admiral asked

“No, Sir, I enlisted straight from school.”

“General Pershing’s Expeditionary Army?”

“Yes, Sir, 3d Division.”

Mr. Edison pelted Peter with a myriad of questions about the exact location of his unit. In the beginning Peter answered his questions with short, exact details. The admiral joined Mr. Edison in the interrogation.

Peter loosened up after he finished his whiskey. He explained, “My unit was in the trenches first near the Marne River and then in the Argonne forest. In early fall the Germans began to move in on us. We heard scouting reports that they were moving artillery, armored tanks and infantry toward our position. Our guys were stretched over a quarter mile in a newly fortified trench that we captured from the Germans four months before.” No one spoke as Peter took a swallow. I could see his eyes glaze. “Goddamn, stupid trench was not straight and snaked around leaving some of our guys in front of the rest of us. We were afraid that we would shoot each other if the Germans came at us from the left. We had figured out verbals that were supposed to warn the guys up front. But that told the Germans we were moving. It was goddamn, stupid.”

Mr. Edison interrupted, “The radios didn’t work?”

“What radios? No one had radios,” he blurted in anger. “At sundown the first German units were moving. We advanced on the enemy before it got completely dark because we were afraid of shooting our guys. We ran their butts back into the woods. We luckily had only a few casualties.”

“The army does have radios,” Mr. Edison puzzled.

“Well, sir, we didn’t. It sure would have helped to be able to talk in those muddy shit holes. Excuse my language, Sir.” Peter grimaced but got no negative response except from Mr. Burroughs. “Sir, radios are too big. How’s a soldier going carry a clumsy radio into battle? The weight would drag him down.”

“I’m working on a smaller battery in New Jersey right now.” Edison continued, “I have in mind a radio you could carry on your back with a battery that allows you to talk to people as far off as several hundred yards. A telephone without wires.” We listened intently to the great inventor. No one questioned that he would solve the radio problem.

The conversation turned to international affairs and the exporting of Ford automobiles. Mr. Hudson chided Edison for driving around Fort Myers in his six year old Model T. Edison paid no attention. Abruptly before dessert Mr. Edison rose from his chair. He looked at Peter and said, “Why don’t you boys come over to the lab in the morning. I’ll be there by four thirty. Why don’t you come around at six thirty?” Firestone excused himself as well. The admiral, Mr. Hudson and his arrogant grandson, Chad walked with us to the smoking lounge. Mr. Chandler beamed and exclaimed that he was proud of us.

He said, “That was a nice invitation from Mr. Edison. He rarely keeps a schedule but never stops working. We were very fortunate that he joined us. He hates social things. You should feel good. He likes you.” He laughingly added, “Can you get up that early?”

“Sure,” Peter gushed as I silently gritted my teeth. We had not been up anywhere close to six thirty the entire trip. I knew neither of us wanted to miss an opportunity to see the lab where Mr. Edison worked to perfect the light bulb and more recently artificial rubber. As we sipped brandy while the admiral tried valiantly to convince Peter to apply for an appointment at the Naval Academy at Annapolis. He volunteered that he would call Senator Boies Penrose from Pennsylvania to assure him of an appointment. Peter was polite but said firmly that he did want a military career.

Around eight Mr. Chandler thanked the men and Chad for coming and we left. Peter and I lay in bed recounting the conversations and the accomplishments of the men we had met. Mr. Chandler gave us an alarm clock already set. He instructed us to dress casually for our visit to the building that was called the “Green Laboratory” across from Mr. Edison’s house.

Miraculously, we walked into the lab building at precisely six thirty. The light was on in one of the front rooms and we could see Mr. Edison slumped over his desk. Our immediate reaction was that he was sick or ill. We broke into a run down the short hall to the lighted opening. We paused momentarily and heard Mr. Edison snoring.

The commotion caused Mr. Edison to stir but not awaken completely. He lifted his head and returned it to his arms. He kept that position for another thirty or forty minutes while we silently watched Thomas Alvin Edison sleep. Mr. Chandler told us later that Mr. Edison often works all night and all day on a project only taking brief catnaps. We watched one of his naps.

Workers began arriving at seven and one man came in and gently woke him. He looked up and said: “Good, you boys are here.” He stayed with us for two hours and explained projects and experiments on rubber, the recording machine and the light bulb. He went into great detail regarding the difficulty of finding successful filament. The subject of portable radios never came up. He was called away and didn’t return. We were told he had been called into an important meeting and we shouldn’t expect him to return. We went across the street shortly after nine o’clock for breakfast.

After having been in his presence for more than two hours we knew that a genius is different.

Walking by the Edison house we could see Mr. Edison sitting in a big chair on his porch. We looked at each other and smiled. As we entered we met Mrs. Mason. Peter asked, “Have you seen Charles? We would like to take the Model T and go to the beach.”

“No, boys you will be leaving today.”

We looked at each other not knowing what we did to get us evicted. She broke into an annoying chuckling, “Everything is fine. Obviously you haven’t seen Mr. Chandler this morning.”

“Did we do something wrong?”

Trying desperately to keep her laughing under control she stammered, “Mr. Chandler has decided to take you to his fishing camp on the island of Captiva. He and Mr. Hudson are getting the launch ready and securing the supplies. I understand there will be the two of you, Mr. Chandler, Mr. Hudson and his grandson.”

Peter said, “That Hudson guy is a pompous jerk.”

She seemed puzzled, “You are going, right?”

“I guess so we don’t have anything else going.” She turned away and returned to the kitchen.

***

April 3, 1920:  Peter and I sat on the back porch waiting for Mr. Chandler. The humidity glued my clothes to my skin. A sleek mahogany launch edged up to the pier about thirty minutes later. Behind it trailed a big flat boat with an outboard motor pulling two smaller row boats. A young Negro man was driving the launch which was filled with boxes and other paraphernalia. We headed out the door to find out the plans.

Mr. Chandler walked up the lawn and said, “Boys get dressed. We’re going to my fishing camp on Captiva. You want to go to the beach. Well, I will show you beach. I asked Mr. Hudson and his grandson, Chad, to come with us.”

Besides the Negro fellow there were other people involved in our adventure. Peter and I walked onto the pier as the flat boat was tying up behind the launch. The crew looked gruesome. Mr. Chandler came back onto the pier and said, “I have secured provisions for ten people for a week on the island which has no food and little drinkable water. We have bread and dried meat but hopefully we will not need it if our fishing is successful.” We could see ten or twelve large jars of water. Watching our eyes Mr. Chandler said, “There is a cistern at camp that we can clean out in a day or two. If it rains which it usually does in the afternoon we should have plenty of water. These are just in case.” He had a crate of oranges and grapefruit but said they were the last in town. There were lanterns, a big duffel bag containing a tent. There was fishing gear and cooking equipment.

Mr. Chandler continued, “There is only one small shanty. That is the reason for the tent. Cots and mosquito netting are essential. It will be late afternoon when we arrive.”

Mrs. Mason appeared carrying a large basket. In her soft Southern voice she relayed the contents, “Boys, I have fixed fried chicken and other picnic food for your first meal. There are cookies and sliced up tomatoes, cucumbers and bell peppers.” When I picked up the basket on the pier the contents seemed sufficient for an army. Mr. Chandler walked onto the pier and didn’t acknowledge our crew of two Negroes, two browns and one Indian

We walked toward the house as Mr. Hudson and his obnoxious grandson, Chad, came through the backdoor. Mr. Hudson was dressed from the Abercrombie & Fitch outfitter catalog that I flipped through in Mr. Chandler’s front porch. Chad, on the other hand, was dressed in white duck pants and short sleeved blue and white pin stripe. Mr. Chandler said, “Chad, I don’t think you are going to stay clean very long where we’re going.” He abruptly replied to Mr. Chandler that he had not planned to go fishing or camping and did not have the gear. His grandfather scowled.

I knew how he felt. Peter asked Mr. Chandler what we should wear since he had seen our entire wardrobe and knew that we had not planned a camping trip either. He said, “Wear and bring as much brown and khaki as you have or can find in the closets upstairs. There may be something for Chad as well.” We had khakis but shirts were more of a problem. We did find flannel shirts in the closets. I had my Lawrenceville sweatshirt. This long sleeved stuff seemed ridiculous with the temperature hovering at 90 degrees.

After we gathered our duffel we joined Mr. Chandler to find a high-powered rifle cradled in his right arm. My eyes must have gotten big because Mr. Chandler said, “Rob, it’s only a precaution.”

I thought –“for what!”

As we trooped toward the pier I thought of the book The Empire Makers which we read for world history class. During the Boer War the white hunters took off to tame the great game herds of the South Africa. When we reached the launch the young Negro sat before the wheel. He couldn’t have been any older that I was and maybe younger. I was more qualified than he to pilot the launch and I would happily have volunteered. The five of us got into the sleek, highly polished craft.

At precisely 3:00pm we pulled away. Mr. Chandler was irritable because it was late. He admonished our driver to get going. The river got wider as we approached the gulf. We occasionally slowed so that we kept the flat boat in view. We rounded Pine Island shortly after four-thirty and started north. The tide was out so we stayed in the middle of the channel. The Negro driver intently watched every ripple and movement of the water. Mr. Chandler commented, “We don’t need a broken propeller blade or a bent shaft.”

We stopped for fifteen minutes to let the fishing boats catch up. During the break Mr. Hudson told us about the crew as if our driver wasn’t even there. He said, “The old Negro man with no front teeth is our cook – Miser Jones. He is helped by his nephew, our driver.” He gave us no name and neither Mr. Chandler nor Mr. Hudson seemed to know what his name was and neither asked our driver his name.

“The Indian is a Seminole or Cherokee, I can’t remember which. I knew his father who was one of the best fishing guides I even had. He seemed to intuitively know where the fish holes were. I was always amazed. The father disappeared or was killed I don’t remember but the son seems to have his gift. The boatmen are James and Hillborn. The one steering the boat is James, I think. The guys are rough so don’t be offended by their swearing. They have spent much of their lives in these waters and on the islands.”

I had noticed that their faces and hands were smooth like shoe leather and deeply tanned. We hadn’t heard any of the crew speak. The launch finally approached a little pier with many planks missing. James and Hillborn took the fishing boats into shore and sauntered out onto the pier checking to see that the remaining planks were secure. Our driver shut off the motor about twenty feet out. We glided to the pier where James caught the front rope and the Hillborn the back.

The light was disappearing fast. Mr. Hudson’s main concern seemed to be getting the tent erected near the fishing shanty. That was our first mistake. We discovered that the tent was missing a center pole so we decided to let it droop in the middle until morning. It was dark and the light of the kerosene lanterns barely cut through the impenetrable night curtain that hung sticky and hot over us. It was mandatory to don our long sleeves to ward off the phalanx of mosquitoes that was attacking our head and ears. Mr. Jones got a fire started and the smoke seemed to disperse the bugs close to the fire. Our second mistake was not attaching the mosquito netting so we spent a miserable night. No one undressed we just lay on our cots and listened to the mosquitoes dive at our ears. No breeze was available to disperse the creatures. Chad Hudson pulled his cot across the tent opening effectively blocking any air flow. The night passed slowly.

At the first sign of light the three of us were up. We left the tent and walked toward the sound of the surf. We didn’t see anyone stirring. Our steps crunched the dried leaves of the thick mangrove bushes that disguised a path that snaked toward the water. We came out of the vegetation about 100 yards from the camp.

The beach stretched to the horizon right and left in a spectacular panorama. The surf slowly rose and fell sending small swells to drop onto the shell ledge. We stood quietly looking and listening. An abundance of birds flew around. Sandpipers scampered up and down the water line. The sand was alive with crabs running in all directions trying not to be breakfast for the birds. Three brown pelicans flew inches above the swells in search of their breakfast. They would suddenly float skyward and then dive into the surf. They did it over and over.

Peter shrieked, “Sharks!” Chad and I stared equally startled. “They’re not sharks. Look at their curved heads and the round noses,” Chad countered.

“You’re right,” Peter reluctantly conceded. The gray mammals rhythmically nosed out of the water to full length only to gently descend into the gray-green water. A total of four or five swam northward along the coast. We quietly watched as the dolphins appeared and disappeared.

We started walking in their direction. Chad said little which pleased Peter and me. We all simultaneously noticed that there were no mosquitoes. Peter pulled off his shirt and threw it on the sand. He proceeded to pull off his shoes and socks, then his khakis, finally his boxers. He trotted down to the ocean and plunged in. His head came up and he took strokes outbound.

Chad said, “What’s that silly bastard brother of yours think he’s doing. There really maybe sharks in the water. I didn’t respond and felt obliged to follow Peter after Chad’s stupid remark. I disrobed down to my boxes intending to swim in them and then thought otherwise. I dropped them beside my clothes. Who cared if I was naked? No one other than Chad was around and I really didn’t care what he thought. I entered the surf as our driver walked out of the brush onto the beach about twenty-five yard away from us. He turned and started walking toward Chad.

He said something to Chad who showed no expression and rudely turned away. The boy just walked on. He didn’t approach the surf. Every time a wave came up the beach he stepped away and seemed to be frightened. Chad stood watching us for a few minutes and finally stripped to his boxers and came in for a swim. He was a strong swimmer and took strong strokes out thirty yards before turning back to where Peter and I were floating.

“What did that boy ask you?” I inquired.

“He said something about breakfast being soon.”

Peter proceeded to stride out of the surf holding his soggy boxers and sat down. He watched the tall boy whose skin was brown not black walk down the beach and turn around. He returned. Peter said to no one in particular, “I’m tired of him being ‘boy’. I’m going to ask him his name.” He called, “Goddamn, what’s your name?”

“Marcus.” He smiled shyly but seemed happy to have been asked. We had nothing to dry ourselves so let the air do the job. I smiled as Chad considered his dilemma of wet boxers. If he dressed he would get his other clothes wet and look like he wet his pants. He decided to expose his bare butt to us. Even though the muggy air was not drying us too fast we dressed because we were all starving. Marcus was standing there with us. We all walked toward the camp together. Misser Jones had the coffee boiling. It smelled burnt and strong. He opened the chicken packets which had not been touched the night before. We ate ravenously.

Mr. Hudson and Mr. Chandler emerged from their cabin ready to fish. Mr. Chandler told James to get the boats ready. We ate our breakfast and drank two cups of Misser Jones stout coffee laced with plenty of milk and sugar. Mr. Chandler assigned us: “Robert, you and I will go with Showalter, we call him Soo, in the flat bottom boat with the outboard; Mr. Chandler and Peter will go with James; and that leaves Hillborn and Chad in the last boat.”

Once on the water Soo towed the two row boats to spots that he thought would be best. They would then move around with their oars. We stayed close to shore on the bay side of the island. Soo showed me how to put sand flies on my hook. He showed me how to stand in the boat without falling out and where to cast the bait to increase my chances of getting a strike. His time tested intuitions were successful. Mr. Hudson and I had a plentiful catch. We had drifted away from the others.

By nine-thirty I was uncomfortable. I had not used nor had I seen anything the resembled a latrine. I could not concentrate and finally ask Soo if we were returning to camp soon. He didn’t respond but Mr. Hudson became aware of my plight suggested that I hang my butt over the side. I blushed, “I can’t do that.” He smiled and waved for Soo to take us to shore. It was only five minutes but seemed like forever.

My pants were at my knees almost before the boat stopped. There was no paper so a few leaves had to suffice. I felt one hundred percent better but both men were smiling ear to ear as I approached the boat. Nothing was said.

We didn’t fish much longer. The inventory from the three boats was eight big snappers, 2 groupers, and Hillman had snagged a crab as big as a dinner plate. We arrived back at camp about eleven-thirty. Misser Jones was cooking but said lunch wouldn’t be ready for about an hour. He told Marcus to clean the fish.

In consultation with Mr. Chandler Peter said, “Why don’t we move the tent closer to the ocean? There is more breezes out there.”

“I was hot as hell last night. How’d ya’ll sleep?”

“Not at all,” Peter retorted. “Goddamn mosquitoes.”

“OK with me if you move out to the beach.”

While we were fishing Marcus found a center pole which we appreciated. We took the tent down and folded the cots and trooped out to the beach. In a friendly gesture Peter said, “Chad you pick the spot.” He picked a spot right on the beach. “Goddamned not there. Up here where we can get the tent pegs in the ground and maybe they’ll hold.” Chad seemed miffed that we hadn’t selected his site but pitched in as we cleaned the debris of leaves and pine cones. There was a significant Banyan tree nearby which provided us the roots to tie down the tent leads. Mr. Chandler came to inspect the work. He gave his approval but felt we were too far from the main camp if there was trouble.

“Is there likely to be trouble? I saw the gun you brought.”

“There are only two kinds of trouble that I can think of. There are a few wild pigs roaming the island. I don’t think they’ll bother you. The real reason I brought the gun is the pirate boats that still occasionally go into Gasparilla Island about twenty miles north. I have never seen any but I’ve heard they can harass fishermen.

“Let’s go back,” Chad whined. Peter and I convinced him we would be safe. We reassembled the tent and put the cots in. The biggest challenge was finding a way to rig the mosquito netting. The best we could figure out was to put our cots close together near the entrance and have two of the white nets cover all three of us. In the daytime we could push the cots to the side. We strung a line for clothes and Chad white boxers were the first thing on the line. When we finished Mr. Chandler led us back to camp. Misser Jones had fixed fantastic gumbo soup using some of our fresh fish. The spicy soup lit a fire in my mouth but I was so hungry I endured the fire for the sustenance. He brought out some cookies for dessert.

Hillborn leaned over to Soo and not so quiet said, “Why’d you’ens go in?” Soo remained quiet, but Mr. Hudson indelicately said looking my direction, “You should have seen this young man with his pants coming down as he flew into the woods.” Everyone broke out laughing at my expense.

The water was going fast so Mr. Chandler drawled orders: “James and Hillborn check for leaks and clean out the cistern and the collection roof. It looks like we might get some rain. You boys clean the campsite and then gather a large pile of firewood for Misser Jones cooking fire. Mr. Hudson with Marcus will check the pier and cut new planks to fill the holes.”

By mid-afternoon Soo, James and Hillborn had disappeared. Misser Jones was working away with his supplies and the fish. Marcus watched. Mr. Chandler suggested a swim which seemed like a great idea. Everyone suited up and swam and splashed for an hour. Mr. Chandler and Mr. Hudson walked to the other side of the island. Someone suggested a nap since we slept little the preceding night. We pulled the cots out and let the mosquito nets down. The breeze moved the netting like it weighed a thousand pounds. I fell asleep hypnotized by the slow movement. No one woke up until Marcus came to let us know that supper was going to be ready in thirty minutes. We put our long sleeves on to ward off the squadrons of inserts that descended at sunset. Fortunately the breeze stiffened and we were hardly bothered.

We had fried snapper that was piled high on our plates. I loved that we caught the fish ourselves. During dinner Chad began expounding on some subject he was studying at school. He was finishing in the spring like I was. He was planning to go to Harvard or Yale. His attitude about “Harvard or Yale” was repulsive to me and Peter. I knew those were good schools but no better than Columbia, Princeton or the University of Pennsylvania that I was considering. I really detested his Eastern snobby manner.

Peter and I were totally irritated by Chad. We quietly vowed to humble him before the trip was over. Peter suggested several ideas then I had a great idea and quietly shared my plan. He concurred but said that we had to wait until tomorrow night and we would need Marcus to execute our plan.

As we finished dinner there were blackening skies to the west. The wind was whipping things around. Mr. Chandler sent us to our tent but said to come back to the cabin if there were problems. Peter led the way for Chad and I. Marcus followed us carrying a lantern. Obviously mosquitoes were not a problem but the mosquito netting and the tent flaps were flapping noisily. We were tying things down when Marcus motioned me over, “Master Rob can I sleep in the corner of your tent? I’m really a’scared of storms.” I was startled that he called me “Master.” I thought calling white guys “Master” went out with the Civil War.

I ask the others and they had no problem with Marcus sleeping in the corner of our tent. Just as the flaps were tied closed the rain started. It was torrential rain to start with and then settled into gentle tapping on the canvas that went on all night. Chad was first out of the tent. I saw the sun when he opened one of the flaps. He was dressed only in his shorts as he walked out. I walked to the flap and peeked out and saw him slip them off. He had a nice trim body with well muscled shoulders and a nice round butt. As he dived into the water I thought we had converted him. Au natural I joined him. We swam around for ten or fifteen minutes before Marcus came out. Chad and I correctly assumed that he could not swim. I felt devious and said to Chad, “Lets see if we can get him into the water.” We motioned for him to come in.

He shook his head, “No.”

“Let’s pull him in.” We walked toward him. He acted surprised as we each grabbed a hand. “Come with us.”

He said unashamedly, “No, Master, I cannt swim. I be afraid of the fishes. There sharks in thar.” We laughed and started to pull at his arms. He gave a little resistance and then followed along. All Marcus was wearing was a pair of torn brown pants with holes in both knees and various other places.

“Do you want to get you pants wet or take them off.” He stopped, untied the rope that held them up and let them slide down his legs. Chad and I had another lesson at that point. We found out that black boys are different than white boys. His dick was three times as long as ours. Marcus followed Chad and I into the water up to his waist. He stopped. As much as we tried we couldn’t convince him to get his chest wet. We were having a water fight until Mr. Chandler came onto the beach from behind the tent. He could see we were playing with Marcus. The look on his face told us he did not approve. Marcus quickly ran for his pants and disappeared into the bush. Nothing was said about the incident. Peter and I were aware of Mr. Chandler’s disapproval. Marcus was invisible most of the day.

That day we fished south of our Captiva Island camp at Blind Pass which separates our island from Sanibel Island. Soo told us that the tide was very high and fishing would be good. Some of the time we fished from the sand bars and from the shell piles on the west side of the island. There were piles and piles of beautiful shells at Blind Pass. We caught plenty of fish, got tired of the fishing and began to look more closely at the shells. The cockle shells looked like fans. Striking pink and ivory spiral cork screw shells and millions of shell pieces were piled at our feet. Peter and I had been on beaches in New Jersey, New York and Delaware but had never seen so many different varieties and so many sizes.

Peter asked Mr. Chandler at lunch if we could explore Blind Pass and look for shells. Soo indicated that the tide was too strong to swim in the pass. But Mr. Chandler told us that exploring was for another day. Misser Jones had our catch and was cleaning it. Quickly he had fish soup and crab cakes ready. We couldn’t figure out where he got the crabs. They were delicious.

Early afternoon it started to rain and we went inside our tent. The continuing rain was making our practical joke less likely. Peter and I resigned ourselves to doing it another day, but we couldn’t find Marcus to tell him about the delay. He had been scarce since the morning when Mr. Chandler saw him with us. Peter and I had been hoping for a sweltering night so we could really get Chad.

The rain stopped but Misser Jones dinner was later than usual. We sat around the fire until it was very dark. A gigantic silver moon rose over the bay. It dodged clouds and then settled directly overhead. The light was bright enough to read by. We hung around as long as we could listening to Chad brag about this trip or that conquest. Finally Mr. Chandler and Mr. Hudson had enough and retired to the shanty.

As we walked back to the tent Peter said, “Let’s go for a night swim. It’s not dangerous. It’s too bright to be dangerous.

Chad said, “Not me.”

“You afraid,” Peter chided. “Do only sissies go to Choate?” We were acting juvenile but we had to get him swimming. Our clothes were thrown on our cots and we walked down to the surf line.

“Goddamn, you,” he screeched. He stripped and raced toward the water. Chad plunged in, followed by Peter and me. It was eerie hearing but barely seeing the other guy’s heads. We had a good time and I was beginning to feel guilty. While we were swimming Marcus was watching from the shadows of the tent. After we left he hid Chad’s underwear who we wanted to get in bed in his birthday suit. Normally he didn’t do that. We hoped he wouldn’t pull out pajamas or something else to sleep in. It was dark in the tent so we didn’t think he would.

When it became clear that we were walking back toward the tent Marcus was supposed to let a bag of sand crabs out in Chad’s sleeping sheets. The air was warm and we were comfortable standing before the tent. Chad said, “What’s the scariest thing that ever happened to you?”

Peter immediately began to describe an incident that happened on a camping trip. I knew he was lying because I was on the trip and nothing like that happened. He made his voice raspy, “A mountain lion came into camp while we were in the Estes Park, Colorado. I spotted something moving by the campfire after we were in our tents but we weren’t asleep. It prowled around for thirty minutes and tore into a container where we had our meat. He wrecked it but seemed to be satisfied and left. No one moved for a long time.”

I picked up on his drift and told him how a snake had crawled into my sleeping bag at Boy Scout camp in the Pocono Mountains. “I wasn’t bitten but I could have been. I almost wet my pants when I slipped my legs into the bag and felt his cold, clammy skin. I slowly extracted myself and promptly threw up my entire dinner.” Chad sat quietly listening to the stories.

We knew we had to go in or there weren’t going to be any sand crabs left. Peter fumbled around with the lantern and couldn’t get it to light. Chad moved his clothes but couldn’t find his underwear. Peter and I had already lowered the mosquito netting. Chad didn’t say a word and seemed resigned himself to sleep as he was. Chad crawled in between the bed clothes.

Peter and I had not seen Marcus but we knew he had been there because Chad’s shorts disappeared. We were both about to explode. Within ten seconds Chad was screaming and yelling “Fuck you guys. Fuck you. You fucking bastards.” He grew stone quiet as he pulled all his covers off. He ordered Peter to light the lantern. He ran outside. He ran back in and started pushing Peter around as he tried to light the lantern. Peter and I were bent over laughing.

Chad was so mad but he couldn’t do anything except cuss. “I hate you guys, you mother fuckers. I’m out of here. I’m staying with grandpa tomorrow. I’ll get you guys and Marcus. I’ll tell Mr. Chandler that he was part of your little stunt.” Suddenly the tables had turned.

I said, “Why would you be such a bastard and say anything about Marcus? You don’t know if he is even around.”

“He had to be.” In a while he calmed down. He pulled his cot to the other end of the tent. He put on his clothes. He continued to fume around.

Peter said with conviction, “Chad we are tired of your fucking attitude.”

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