The Sun Dancer

The other day I had a conversation with a friend of mine, Hanly Funderburk. Of course I don’t remember how we got on topic, but we had a discussion about hunting. Living in Alabama, it is inevitable that a lot of our friends hunt deer, quail, dove, or what-have-you. For both Hanly and me, the problem with “hunting” is the lack of interaction with nature. At its core, I believe that hunting is a means of perfect interaction between man and nature. People feel this innate need to interact with nature, for it to be a part of their lives. I would know as well as anyone – we have four dogs, two cats, several fish, etc. We plant trees and bushes and flower gardens, and even keep the pretty plants inside our houses. We eat animals and plants we keep in our fridge, our house is made of wood just like my guitar and our furniture. All the clothes we wear are essentially natural substances: cotton, wool, and leather. In short, we interact with nature more than we know. Hunting is simply a manifestation of that innate need to interact. Those animals too wild to tame as pets, or too large to keep still roam out there in the woods, unknown and unrestrained – that drives people to go out there and interact with nature at her rawest. The problem we have with some kinds of hunting is the lack of interaction. People want to treat hunting like they treat a television, and the rest of their modernized life. They sit in a box above the ground and look out a little window with a high-powered rifle. Three pounds of pressure against the trigger is all it takes to rip a piece of metal through a deer’s chest. Yes, the hunter is interacting. They are ending and destroying. It’s like the 6 year old child’s edification at tearing down a sandcastle his brother built. An effective way to experience is often to destroy. Hunting in this manner is a crude and cheap way to achieve some sort of interaction with nature. Of course, there are nobler ways to pursue this goal: hunting with a bow, stalking on the ground, using the woods instead of a planted field. To really learn a skill and apply it in the wild is to connect with nature. In addition to our need to interact, we feel the need to pursue the mysteries of our lives, like how so many big animals like deer can walk around the woods, and yet we rarely see them – the same goes for fish. In fact, I believe that the ocean is far more intriguing and dangerous than anything on land.

If deer are hard to kill, imagine trying to hunt a dolphin. With a bow. The ocean is so much older than anything on land, so much more advanced, has so much more depth. We know more about the land on the moon than the bottom of the ocean. Personally, I’m scared to death of it. Being a terrible swimmer, I really dislike the idea of being stranded out there by myself. But it’s thrilling. It’s like standing on top of an unknown world that could swallow you at any moment. The power of the ocean is such that it may harbor monsters greater than any that could exist on land, and yet is calm and peaceful on the surface. And it's so stinkin' big. All the deserts of the world would not compare to the ocean floor, stretching cold and silent for thousands of miles between the continents with mountains that dwarf Everest concealed beneath the waves along with deep endless chasms unexplored by humans, but left to be owned by any creature with the ability to survive its cruel conditions.

When I was about ten years of age, I had the chance to explore the vast expanses of the ocean. My grandfather owned this immense white boat built specifically for deep sea fishing, and upon entering the fourth grade, I was old enough to accompany him on fishing trips. My grandfather’s Hatteras, the Sun Dancer was sixty-five feet long, with a tuna-tower three stories tall and a Boston Whaler (a smaller boat) attached to the bow. It could sleep about twelve people comfortably with a spacious inner cabin. At a top speed of twenty-eight knots, you could (and I know this is cheesy, but it’s for real) go to the front of the bow, grab the rail and feel like you were flying across the waves, except a lot wilder and rougher than whatever happened in Titanic.

I’ll never forget the coarse brawling drone of the twin diesel engines starting up at 6am, knowing they would not cease for the next twenty hours. I learned to love that endless growl that pushed the boat forward, spitting out ocean water and plowing a row through the endless waves ahead. We always idled proudly through the harbor like a hot rod sports car coasting in neutral until the light turns green. I was only a child then, but I had a certain unidentified pride in being on a boat that wonderfully large and powerful. Under the bay bridge, getting further and further from the safe dock behind the Pink Flamingo, I watched the water getting deeper and darker. Soon we were at full speed, crashing through the oncoming waves with the engine’s full roar thrusting us from shore. The ride seemed like an eternal engagement, pushing further and further on until the beach was but a memory of a mirage, and the only thing to be seen was endless ocean going on forever in all directions. Soon enough the sun had climbed from port to starboard side and was falling down into the ocean, creating a sunset of such magnificence that few land loving people ever see one like it. The entire earth was committed to this spectacular event, every part of the ocean reflected its glory, and the heavens erupted with color and clouds while the big white boat, awash in amber light, danced on the waves.

We kept riding due south where the big fish swam, the billfish. Yellowfin Tuna, Mahi Mahi, Wahoo, and the mighty Blue Marlin – those were the big four, the beasts everyone wanted to catch. Before the sun passed completely the captain decided we would fish.

Now, on the ocean no lights shine for miles around except those on the boat, so if dark exists on the earth, it’s out over the ocean for sure. The one exception is the giant oilrigs placed about like rural skyscrapers, raising their metal heads above the ocean as if there were miniature cities in their hair. These rigs were bright and beautiful in the night; we would circle them while trolling, and watch the big fish come up as darkness descended. The water was very clear, especially under the lights you could see tuna and dauphin (another name for mahi mahi) gliding silently under the boat, most being as long as a man’s outstretched arms, some even larger, so big that you only saw an immense shadow thirty feet below the surface.

Then, the first tuna thrust itself straight up and out of the water in pursuit of a flying-fish and caught it, suspended in midair well above the broken surface of the ocean, to fall clumsily back with the fish wriggling in its mouth. This chase persisted for some time; the tuna in packs leaping vertically out of the water as high as they could and splashing back into the sea with their captured prize. It was like some strange ritualistic dance they performed every night, their bodies twisting and turning elegantly through the air. Soon, the display was over and it was quiet again.

The captain led us away from the rig, so that we may drift freely while everyone slept, in preparation for the next day’s fishing. Unable to sleep, I stayed outside with the first mate, Ricky, while he tied lines and prepared bait. We turned the lights on that shone down into the ocean and watched dozens of squid, each perhaps a foot or two long, sneezing their way through the water. Earlier my uncle had caught one. It came up to the boat spitting ink and turning several different shades of angry red, flailing its tentacles about; it got off the hook.

Once the captain turned the engines off, it was eerily quiet. The waves made some sound lapping against the side of the boat, but it was silent when compared to the engine’s loud gruffling. With everyone gone to sleep, I looked out upon the silent swells of the ocean, black as oil and shiny with the reflection of the moon. The stars imposed themselves upon the night, as there was no fit challenge to their light. If ever one were to feel insignificant and small, it is out there over the sea.

The next day was hot. Hot takes on a new meaning in the gulf. The sun does not merely shine down on you, it is a constant presence. It comes at you from every direction the ocean does, it warms you from the inside out. The diesel engines were slowly churning us through the swells as we dragged bait behind. It seemed an eternity to me, waiting for a fish to hit the line. Eventually one did, and a rod tip turned itself down, telling us about the fish on the other end. We fought it and fought it, back and forth. I went up into the tower to see that it was a great big bull dauphin. The tropical green Mahi Mahi beautifully swam and dove and jumped out of the ocean in a ferocious display as its feral instincts fought against us. Once all of its energy was sapped, and it could push itself away from us no longer, we drug it to the side of our boat and the first mate gaffed it. He poked a hole through its back with a large hook attached to a handle from which red blood began to run. With that, the Dauphin was pulled up into the boat and out of the sea.

I remember a strange feeling then. Everyone cheered upon the Mahi Mahi’s final defeat, but it was sad. This great, fierce animal was dead. It would no longer swim and fight and hunt in the great free range of the sea. For awhile this troubled me, seeing something so beautiful and noble die as it did. Now, it seems to make sense. We traveled a hundred miles out into the sweltering sea. We witnessed nature in her most primal and glorious form, and in return received a gift from the depths, that we may have some hint of the greatness that lies below.

Emerald Mountain

These past few months, I have been forced to come to terms with the frailty of my own body. This summer, I was indestructible. Easily I was the strongest, fastest, biggest, and most conditioned I had ever been in my entire life. 205lbs, 5'9" I really thought I couldn't be touched until a preseason injury yielded me unable to effectively exercise my legs for the next 11 weeks (and counting). The anguish from a ruined football season is nothing compared to the helplessness I feel at being unable to function as I did this summer. Now, I sense that God has allowed this in order to show me how unimportant that part of my life is, and how relevant the areas I neglected are. With this dimension subtracted from my life I've been forced to look at other outlets for my energy and time. School was already a very large factor. The largest increase has been in my spiritual life. I have also renewed my interest in reading, writing, and music.

I heard a commercial today that said being young means knowing that the best part of your life lies ahead. Certainly it is a pretty thought, but I tend to disagree - unless they are saying "best part of your life" and meaning heaven. Is it necessarily negative if you've passed the apex of your life? Perhaps the topic is different from a Christian viewpoint because the world we live in is only a temporary blip on the radar compared with the rest of our existence. So far, I believe the best time of my life was when I was about 8 years old.
Reflecting on my childhood is like reading a modern day Twain novel. I lived in a sprawling, island of a suburb in Elmore County where all the kids came out on the communal lawns during the summer evenings and played together.

My best friend was a kid named Daniel Vanderberry. He lived about a mile, or a six-minute bike ride away. His house was down a significant hill and then maybe a half a mile of flat pavement away. I was so ecstatic the very first day my parents let me make the trek on my own, making me promise to call the moment I arrived. I practiced the trip so many times while my parents jogged, pedaling furiously down "Hickory Hill" so that my momentum would carry me as far across the flat pavement as possible. I even learned to ride without using my hands. Then I'd do something obvious with my hands like adjust my helmet strap so that the girls on the main street who probably weren't watching could tell, "he's not using any hands!" Then, I'd arrive at Dan the man's house and we would immediately grab a drink and begin the journey down the drop-off behind his house to the valley below, absolutely filled with trees and forest and wild. I think that neither my parents nor his knew exactly what went on down there, for if they did, our escapades through the woods would have been halted immediately. Sometimes we'd have bottle-rockets left over from the Fourth of July, or if it were spring, we'd bring our snake-hunting sticks we fashioned ourselves.

Looking back on these adventures, I realize many things could have seriously gone awry. Deadly poisonous snakes, at least deadly to the average 9 year old, were in the plenty down there. Steep ravines - seriously some were about 20 or even 30 feet tall - nearly vertical clay walls. We would crawl like spiders down the steep sides of the ravine and climb back up (a team effort) with shirt loads of clay that we would mold into action figures we didn't already possess. It was not unusual for one of us to get a whole leg stuck in the putty-like wet clay, and on at least one occasion Dan lost a shoe for our cause. I don't remember what the said objective was that trip but likely it involved M90's. Some expeditions were far more planned out. We used the entire [school] week to pack things in our backpacks: water, comic books, firecrackers covertly secured from our respective houses, flashlights, matches, walkie-talkies, various snacks also covertly secured, and depending on the expedition's proximity to Christmas, the latest Comanche Jr. Bow and Arrow Set may be brought along.

We would disappear in the woods on Dan's side of the neighborhood and reappear in the ravine across from my house. I can remember medieval, untouched landscapes like those you see in movies. We would walk along streambeds, through gullies with emerald greed trees embracing overhead, water clear as glass running swift and shallow or slow and deep over sand - real white sand - creek beds, with smooth skipping rocks scattered about. Then, the clay ravines would have every color from solid white to pink to red to purple, perfect clay, painted upon the steep sides of the ravine as if some ancient abstract painter covered the place in his nonsense frescoes. These are the memories you can never seem to capture the whole beauty of - even the day afterwards. There is simply no way to remake the 8 year old conscience - to say I was carefree was quite the understatement.

An entire nature trail infrastructure was financed by the neighborhood in the surrounding woods, including wooden bridges, benches, signs, and I think I remember a random water fountain somewhere. Hurricane Opal came through while we lived there - Dan and I were the first to discover a washed out bridge along with scores of fell trees. I want very badly to go back to these places, to walk where I walked as a kid 9 years ago, but I am afraid that my childlike impressions may be forever tarnished by adult perceptions. It is difficult for me to believe that school, sports, or anything else went on during this period of my life, because these adventures dominate my memories.

Ever since I moved from Emerald Mountain, it seems that these things have steadily faded, some of the real things being turned into myth, some of the myth being mixed with real things. I'm fairly certain of what happened, but some things can seem a bit unlikely - like finding Jim Allen (the neighborhood owner)'s walkie-talkie frequency and playing pranks on him. The four-foot long copperhead I almost stepped on in the creek, that just sat there and watched us instead of swimming away. The time the creek in the valley behind Dan's house froze, but nothing else did. The July we fried an egg on someone’s utility box. The night we rolled six houses on his street and put honey on the mailbox handles to watch the mailman come the next day. The - wait. I can't tell about that one yet.