Quicksand Mud

Standard

Many years ago, they built a major highway just a half of a mile from my neighborhood. D___, my brother, C___, the neighbor, and myself decided one weekend, after a week of rain, to check it out.

Three boys on an adventure, exploring the muddy beginnings of a major highway at the bottom of Clifton hill.

We put our boots on. Mine were missing, so I grabbed my mother’s. C___ took the lead; he was tall and lean, with long legs. D___ was next and I was last. I was as wide as I was tall. Following them through the mud was fun, until I began to sink in the mud of a puddle they had just trudged through.

“D___! Help! It’s quicksand mud. I’m sinking!”

They came back and carefully grabbed my hands without stepping too close, but I was going in deeper. Then the inevitable happened: because of the fear and straining, I shit my pants.
The smell was suffocating. C___ and D___ must have gotten a whiff, because they let my hands go, turned and started walking.

Hadn’t they watched old Tarzan movies were somebody dies in the quicksand?!?

That’s when I realized this was a life or death situation. With all my effort, I jumped, I jumped right out of my mothers boots. I landed on my side, rolled to my back and did a backstroke with a kick, moving maybe three feet to safety. That was the longest walk home ever: only socks, uphill, and soiled pants. I made it through, even though I did suffer some third degree chafing. Thank God for petroleum jelly.
I was tough. I didn’t cry until after I told mom I lost her boots.
The boots were never found.

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