My father had ready advice for my teen years. I’m sure I let much of it go in one ear and out the other. I’m sure he had much more advice that he mostly kept to himself, seeing I was not too receptive to it. But there was one piece of advice that really made a difference in my life. He told me to learn how to talk to people. How to make speeches, to talk to crowds.
I went on to talk to groups large and small for over 30 years after that advice. Sometimes I felt it was very fruitful, other times not so much. People are going to do what they want to do and if you are preaching to them to get them to change in some way, you have to become sneaky like the dentist that hides that big tranq gun he slithers into your mouth just before he says you’re going to feel a little pinch or some other such understatement. Sometimes people don’t want to be told they should do this or do that.
That makes preaching a very special work of art and science. Public speaking as well. And yes, the two are different. But I went on to give speaking to people my all and I told a lot of stories along the way. I figured if people would more readily listen to a story, then they might go away with something useful to make life better.
Last week I was asked if I wanted to participate in a story telling event. The request sparked my interest for a moment and I wrote the following story, true or not true you can judge for yourself. But it sounds like something I would know about. Here it is.
New York Boat Ride
There are places near New York City that feel like Wilderness. Harriman State Park is one of those places. A more popular spot is called Bear Mountain and a more well known place is called West Point. They are all part of the same area a bit north of the city, up the Hudson River. It’s a landscape that is often breathtaking and deeply secretive at the same time.
Three young men knew it well, Chip, Andy and Mick. They had camped in Hariman a lot, with their fathers, their scout troop and on their own. This weekend, they had sweet talked Micks mother into taking them up there from their homes in Jersey so they could camp for the weekend on Tiorati Lake. There are seven large freshwater lakes along Seven lakes road, Tiorati being a favorite. A lakers paradise, boating, swimming, fishing.
The three came well prepared to fish as they had done many times before. It was early spring and the trout were favored catches but the Yellow Perch while smaller and just as good eating. After getting settled in and camp set up and supper finished, it was off down the rocky hill from the campground to cast a line. The rocks in the area were some of the biggest boulders they had ever seen, the size of a small house in fact. They made great perches to cast far into the water.
Andy, Chip and Mick had some luck but nothing to brag about. One of them, kept looking over to the cafe and recreation office that was still closed for the season. It was fenced in and held a small navy of row boats in the side of the building. Oars and other craft were there as well. Which one had the bright idea to climb the fence and launch one of the rowboats was probably Mick but anyone of the three could have suggested the idea.
They all agreed that after dark they would slip over the fence and into the water with their pirated ship. They took lots of fishing gear along and aluminum C battery flashlights so they could haul in the anticipated fish bounty. Poles, nets and tackle boxes were all passed over the fence to Chip and Andy, finally Mick climbed over and the three were in Navy Seal mode, carefully moving their upside down tub into the water and launching it into the cold dark waters of Lake Tiorati. They had lots of experience on this water and this should be an easy row and productive endeavor.
As quietly as they could row with squeaky oar locks and keeping their voices down as they moved out into the middle of the lake and down toward the dam, the deepest part, they started fishing. There was a bit of water in the bottom of the boat, but no sweat, they could handle that.
Up on the ridge to the north, the Appalachian trail made its way along the side of the lake, perhaps 6 or 7 hundred feet towering above the calm waters of Tiorati. Several lean to shelters were up there along the trail and a park road wound its way up and over the ridge. Pine trees, Blueberry and Azalea bushes, other hard wood trees filled the hillside with shelter and shade.
Suddenly appearing in the deep dark, a vehicle, perhaps a half a mile away or so came over the ridge and made its way left and right turning back on itself several times as it came down toward the lake. The lights were bright and penetrated the darkness powerfully. At first, they did not shine upon the lake, but about halfway down the hillside, Chip, Andy and Mick knew they were in trouble.
One more turn and the head lights landed right on the three in the boat. They ducked down and found the water in the bottom to be very cold and instantly soaked into their clothing as they tried to get low. The light went right past them and they held their breath. But then it stopped abruptly. They were spotted. The vehicle backed up a bit and the lights had them in their sights now. An added searchlight seemed like a scene from a concentration camp where you were about to be shot in the spot light if you didn’t get your hands up.
Chip, Andy and Mick all had the same thought, row, and row fast. The lights took off down the hill much faster now. They rowed as fast as they could for a cove they knew well and would get them close to their camp. About the time they hit the shore and started bailing out of the boat it felt like landing at Normandy Beach. Hearts were beating much faster than they should have been beating and staying hidden was all that mattered.
Out of the boat, onto the shore, the ranger truck was now down along the lake road. The loudspeaker was blaring. They were busted and they might as well give up. But they didn’t see it that way. The truck passed by the hidden three on down toward the dam and they saw their chance and took it. Off they went across the lake road where the ranger had just gone by and made their way up the hillside toward their tent.
Arriving there only made them wonder if they somehow miraculously escaped. In the chaos, they left all their gear in the boat. Getting to sleep was going to be tough that night. But they finally convinced themselves that the worst was over. Their tent was poorly placed on a slope and they went to sleep with their heads down hill. The headache the next morning in each of their heads was debilitating. And they were so thirsty. Pounding heads and thirst combined with the sunshine on the tent to rouse them. They woke up in a dream state, unsure that what had just happened really happened. But it did.
As they made their way out of the sack and the tent, they stood up outside and at their feet was all the gear they left in the boat. The fishing poles were smashed, the net was bent like a pretzel and someone had taken a hammer to all the lures and fishing gear. Somehow, the tackle box was unbruised. The message was heard loud and clear. They snuck up and quietly placed all that trashed gear three feet from the tent. The three thought they were the ones operating like Green Berets, turns out, they were in the presence of professionals. The three teenagers were heartbroken at the loss of their gear, but glad they weren’t in jail. Mick had to go down to the pay phone at the cafe stand and make a call to get his mother to come out and get them before they got totally busted. She did and they escaped with their lives.
By the way, I still have that tacklebox.
I’m not much for public speaking anymore, not sure why, but I plan on writing till I die. So I probably won’t tell this story in public, but maybe I just did.
