The Boonies

Feet trudge, trudge, trudge through the rocks and sludge and pot holes, between the flamboyantly colorful artwork masking the drudgery of the old train cars and the barbed wire fence, keeping us out of the cement and metal castle that awkwardly lines the Petaluma river. Trudge, trudge, trudge past a mangled futon, fallen trash and a suspicious pile of discarded children's clothing until you find the kind of trash you are looking for. Trudge, trudge, trudge until the fast, bright blip of a teenager fades from the radar of society and , finally, peace can be found.

In groups of twos and threes, friends flock to their hideaway, making the long march from houses, theaters and restaurants to stake-out the cold, to elude into the mists and the wind, to share with friends the same longing for solitude, to evade the watchful eye of authority and to assure ones place in a group of friends.

To enter, one must become accustomed to the the ominous creak of a footstep, to the sound of a foot, tentatively pressing itself against a surface much to weak to uphold itself, much less the weight of a partially grown adolescent. It is not until you can cease the fear of a plummeting into the river that you can enjoy the seclusion this iron stronghold has to offer. After assuring the safety of all those who have ventures this far, words begin to drift across the water, lapping against your ears like the waves again the sides of the boat, caressing the rust stained sides that hold you in. The safety of the iron surroundings comfort you the only way they know how, by scraping and scratching your undercarriage as you sit listening to the ongoings of others who's problems highly resemble your own.

But problems dissolve here, into the squawks of geese and the gentle moan of the freeway. You imagine dreams, aspirations, reaching them with your mind like the threes reaching for the sky, reaching for the mists as they sink to greet the outstretched members held to the ground by the cold soil. Held down by their Earthly obligations to feed and protect, they are trapped here. Maybe that is why they reach for the sky.

Focusing your vision on your immediate surroundings, Gator San Fransisco floats into your vision. Chipped and worn, the name of this treasure fades into out memories, to keep until our fortress has floated away, to keep until our lives have drifted apart and to keep into all we have it what we would give our lives to keep. What used to a shiny new, navy blue innovation is now painted orange, brown and green by it's endless relationship with the river. It serves as a reminder that what we as children surround ourselves with will scar us just as the river has scarred the boat. If something as strong as this garrison can be broken, hope for us is slim.

The only thing keeping the fort and its inhabitants from drifting away with the current are large tentacle-like ropes entangles in cracks and crevices, holding us against the shore, giving us a gateway back to our lives, making sure we can never escape completely. Like the rain trapped inside the massive stomach of this floating beast, in pools separated by small hills of rust: some will be restored to the clouds and some will be trapped in the shadows, untouched by the liberating sunlight. Unfortunately, not even the sun could could free a person if they, too, were to be captured inside the the heaving gut of this sleeping giant. It is easy to imagine one's own demise in the pit: entering for the thrill of endangerment, being devoured by the elements and leaving in the stomachs of the nearby geese.

However, this is all part of the adventure, not knowing whether you will return to school, to your family, or if your deliverance will swallow you entirely. What if the ropes fall, what if the currents
change and what if what you thought would be a short expedition led to the experience that changed your life, or ended it? Becoming just as broken and decrepit as the boat itself is a risk all who board take. A risk happily taken for the disappearance of responsibility, supervision and judgment. Children risk death for freedom.


- Mary