A Teenage Story of Terror

By Phillip Saunders, Montgomery, Alabama

__________

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR of SOUTHERN EXPOSURES

I have had the pleasure of knowing Phillip for quite a few decades. I knew that he grew up on the Tennessee River and have been bugging him recently about writing a story I could publish on Southern Exposures. Below is that story, and it is a good one! Phillip and his wife, Betty, live in Montgomery, not far from my brother. Therefore, we had lots of fishing and hunting trips to relive over the cheapest beer that Phillip could buy at Costco! Those stories are often told over platters of fried fish which makes beer brewed yesterday less significant than it might otherwise be.

—–Mickey Dunaway—–

While Edgar Allen Poe could have told this story, even his description of terror did not do it justice to our teenage psyches. Here’s what really happened.

As teenage boys, we had free range of the slough and surrounding banks of the Big River for our almost continuous fishing adventures. We put trot lines everywhere we thought a catfish would habituate, but that’s another story. Although we had plenty of areas to fish, we were intrigued by the adventurous thoughts of what we might find on the south side of the Tennessee. Those hills and sloughs on the opposite side call to us like a siren’s song. Although begged in our best teenage whining voices, we were forbidden by the older members of our family to cross the Tennessee River.   It was too wide and treacherous, and our boat was a 14-foot aluminum skiff powered by my dad’s 7.5 horsepower 1949 Evinrude outboard, top speed, probably around 10 MPH on smooth water.

My Cousin and I (approximate age 13-14) spent our summers and most weekends the rest of the year at our cabin on Wilson Lake, part of the TVA system of lakes on the mighty Tennessee River in northwest Alabama. Our place was on a large slough off the river called Four Mile Creek. Four Mile Creek is about 300 yards wide at its mouth and rambles about three-quarters of a mile deep into the hills of the north side of the Tennessee River. Now, the Tennessee River is at least a mile wide at the mouth of Four Mile Creek. It is a considerably large body of water with large commercial barge traffic, pleasure boats, jet skis, people fishing, and folks floating by on inner tubes.

The word “forbidden” meant very little to us boys in those days—”in one ear and out the other!” We translated it as do typical Southern teenage boys, “Don’t get caught.” There was an unspoken list of rules for our own good that the adults assumed we would adhere to when we were out by ourselves. Some were taken seriously, such as “Don’t go hunting alone.” That made sense even to us numbskulls. Another was, “Stay out of the local pool halls since they were obviously the pits of hell.”  We didn’t know a cue stick from a baseball bat in those days and had no interest in visiting the pool parlors except that we were told not to. We stayed away from the poolrooms since they were in the middle of town, and our folks had spies everywhere.

At the slough across the river, no one was watching as we left the dock that beautiful afternoon with a tank full of gas, our flyrods armed with small popping bugs for the giant bull bream, and the confidence as teenage boys that we would slay those bream that we knew surely must swim among the roots in slough on the far-off southern side of the mighty Tennessee. 

“Merrily, did we drop, below the kirk, below the hill, below the lighthouse top.” No, wait, that’s another story by another, much better writer.

My Cousin ran the motor and kept us aimed at a cut in the hills on the south side of the river that mirrored hills around Four Mile Creek. On the calm surface of Big River, we made good time and arrived at our fishing spot in 15 minutes.

This slough on the south side was another big slough like Four Mile Creek. We had pondered its potential during every trip on Four Mile Creek. Almost as soon as we arrived at the slough of our dreams, we began catching bream on our flyrods, laughing as only teenage boys can about our success in this adventure—never considering what we would tell the adults waiting on the other side worrying about us.

During this time, in our boasting and braggadocio, we failed to observe the monstrous storm of Noah’s Ark proportions moving up the Tennessee River from the west. All at once, in mid-cast, my Cousin astutely observed that the sky was getting darker. Suddenly, reality set in. This was not the first time we had seen a thunderstorm pop up on the river, and we had an immediate glimpse of our whole lives flashing before our eyes.

As fast as two teenage boys could move, we stashed the fishing rods, and Cousin cranked the Evinrude. Off we went, into the teeth of the gale, which had now reached the mouth of the slough we were in. 

The wind was gusting, probably around 40 MPH, but it felt like a Category Five hurricane. Rain pelted us in torrents. The brave little Evinrude kept churning while my Cousin and I saw our lives pass before our eyes! My Cousin was steering and wiping his eyes every second. I was in the bow, bailing and praying. At this point in my life, I had never read Mark 4:35-41. Overwise, I would have been whining like the Disciples. “Master, save us!”

Meanwhile, back at our home slough, the adults gathered on the pier to gaze at the river. They were still in the sunshine on the north shore because the storm had not yet penetrated Four Mile Creek. 

Over the years since, I have imagined the conversation between our guardians that day.

“Well, would you just look at that? Have you ever seen such a storm?”

“Ah, that’s nothin’ – I remember one-time years ago…”

“Wow, it’s a regular hurricane out there! I wonder where the boys are.”

“Oh, they’re fishin’ back up the slough. They’ll be here in a minute.”

“Well, they better hurry their tails up, or they’re gonna get soaked.”

“Lawd, I wish y’all would look out there! Two fools are tryin’ to cross the river in that storm in a little bitty boat. What a couple of idiots!”

“I wonder where the boys are.”

Momentarily, it began to sink in (no pun intended) on the old folks that the two idiots were their idiots!

Yep, we got a well-deserved tongue-lashing when we finally made it back to the pier and beached the boat in its usual spot on the bank by the seawall. There wasn’t much time for a full-blown chewing-out because the storm had followed us into the slough, and we all had to run up to the house. 

Once back at the house, my aunt told us we were grounded while my stepmom was just chuckling at our near-death experience. 

UNC, who highly valued his regular fried catfish dinners, offered a few calming words: “Let’s not be too hasty here. The trotlines need to be run and rebaited this evening and in the morning. Then, the grounding can begin, but only for a day.” 

“We’ve got to keep fish on the table,” said Auntie as she gave him a malicious look to make sure he knew she was still boss!

As lovers of fried “Tennessee River cats” ourselves, my Cousin and I saw a way out of trouble by agreeing with UNC’s wisdom. Nevertheless, we learned a couple of valuable lessons: 1) Don’t mess with Mother Nature, and 2) convince your elders that you listened to their advice and will never act like teenagers again! 

___________

All men are equal before fish. – Herbert Hoover