Adventure: Mangroves to Tall Grass
“Indy, come on!”
“I don’t want to go into the tall grass.”
“Fine. I’ll go by myself,” I said. The tall grass was really sharp. Then I noticed a small grass tunnel. “Indy,” I said, “come over here.”
“What is it?” said Indy.
“Maybe it leads to the mangroves?” I said.
“Let’s go!” said Indy.
As we walked and crawled through the grass tunnel we saw a spider’s web blocking our way. “Indy,” I said, “pass me a stick.”
I used the stick to take down the spider’s web and we went on our way. Soon we could walk without bending in half. About five meters from the start of the tunnel was a bridge – not a car bridge, but a tree bridge. One of the thick roots of the tree went from one side of the tunnel to the other side of the tunnel. We went under the tree bridge and kept walking forward, and soon we found the mangroves. But instead of mud there was water around the bases of the trees.
“Where is the mud?” asked Indy.
“The mud is underwater, Indy,” I said. “But if we come back tomorrow or the next day at low tide, we will see the mud.”
And a few days later we came back and saw the mud, but that is a different story!
“That was a good story, honey,” I said as I finished reading. “Should we go out and take some photos for your post?”
Stylish zipped out of the cockpit with Indy close behind. An Antarctic wind gusted up, nearly blowing me off the ladder, and the drizzle started up. Again. Huddled up in my three layers of fleeces, I wondered how Indy could traipse around the yard in a summer dress and bare legs without turning into an Indysicle. Maybe I was warm at that age, too.
“Over here, Mom. That is where we went.” Stylish guided the way to the metal skeleton of a hull form.
She kept up a steady patter as we went. “The grass tunnel is right here. You’re probably too big for it, but I can go through and take pictures. Give me the camera.”
Moments later, I heard a howl: “Moooom!” I scrambled around the side of the form to find Stylish and Indy standing in a tiny clearing dotted with tree stumps.
“It’s gone,” said Stylish sadly. “All of it. The tree bridge… gone.” Her eyes narrowed. “I know who did this.”
I did, too. We now depart, dear reader, from the realm of eyewitness account, and dip a toe into the murky pool of hearsay evidence. A couple of days ago, Stylish stomped aboard the boat. She was all in a lather because someone was cutting down trees on the edge of the yard. We have taught the kids not to pick flowers, plants or leaves; our rule is, if it has already fallen to the ground you can have it, but if it is still alive, you leave it alone. I guess that stuck, because she was pretty angry.
What we didn’t realize was that she confronted the tree killer and gave him a solid tongue lashing. What we further didn’t know was that said tree killer owns the boatyard. This story reached me through a chain of at least three other people, so blow-by-blow dialogue is impossible to guess at. From what I gather, the owner felt that Stylish emerged like the Lorax from the stump of a victim tree, and viewed him in no uncertain terms as the Onceler of the piece. I’m told the owner explained his position (pollen was getting into the paint), and Stylish immediately offered up alternatives to cutting down the tree. When he told her he wouldn’t be dictated to by an eight-year-old, she shot back that her age wasn’t the issue at hand. And neither backed down.
So I was a little alarmed when I realized that her nemesis had cut down her precious grove. We only have a handful of days left in the yard, and I’d really like to leave by our own choice rather than be ejected over tree-related issues.
Call me an old stick-in-the-mud, but I’ll see what I can do to keep the two parties apart between now and departure.
This article was syndicated from Sailing Papillon