for a quick check on his direction.
Everything was on schedule. The GPS unit showed it to be 2.1 miles to Forest Road 77. Putting the GPS unit back into the pack he took out the compass.
The compass was light and slipped in to his pocket easier than the GPS unit. In reality all Ryan needed to do was to stay on the compass bearing until reaching the forest road, and then turn right for two miles to Highway 19 to flag down the ranger by one o’clock sharp. Ryan slipped the compass into his pocket and leaving the backpack and machete at the raft, headed up the embankment to look at what was on the other side.
From the top of the bank Ryan pointed his compass to S20°W and looked out across the foggy swamp. The fog was thick—it suppressed all sounds— there was nothing but the sound-of-silence.
There is a sound to silence , and if you’re lucky enough and privileged enough to hear it you will have to be in a spot such as the Oklawaha River basin when the fog rolls in on an early morning. And if you are devoid of all things manmade and of man, and there are no planes flying overhead, then you will be fortunate enough to hear the sound-of-silence.
It is a sound you will never forget. It starts out a low buzz and then rises to a loud hum as your ears beg for a sound, any sound. The rush of the wind, a falling acorn, your ears ache for something to fill the void. Then it happens, there is a splash in the swamp or the wind blows and then instantly the sound-of-silence is gone.
As Ryan looked across the swamp towards his destination he was caught up in his own moment with the sound-of-silence. It had built-up to a loud hum. This, along with the fog made him feel closed in and alone.
Behind him lay a dark wide river, and several miles away his father. Ahead there lies miles more of a fog shrouded swamp. Fear begins to creep in like the dampness into his clothing. The mind can play tricks and a man-alone can be a man in trouble. A chill runs over his body. He shudders and shakes it off. His courage begins to wane.
Courage is a fickle thing. You seem to have it most when you are surrounded by others of like -mind. You wouldn’t just climb the ladder and walk out to the edge of the high-board, if it were not for your friends down in the pool egging you on. Nor would you walk through a graveyard on a moonlit night alone. Ryan would not have come this far were it not for the courage his father instilled in him at the wreckage. That inoculation of courage was wearing off. And now for the first time since he left his father he needed another dose of it.
Out towards the edge of blackness that makes up Rob’s comatose world a towering thunderstorm rapidly builds to an enormous height. Lightning flashes from within revealing a face, a bearded face amidst the clouds. It is a face that Rob had seen once, many years before.
The end to Ryan’s moment with the sound-of-silence came not with a splash or with the rustle of the breeze, but it was ushered away with a metal “click.”’ It was the cocking of the hammer of a gun! Ryan turned around to find himself staring down the barrel of a rifle, a very long rifle.
The end of the barrel was mere inch es from his forehead. At the other end of the barrel was a scruffy face.
“Who you scouting for?” said the man from behind a beard.
Ryan was taken by surprise. He did not know whether to feel joy or fear. He felt nothing as the seconds dragged by.
“I said, who you scouting for?” came an angry growl from the bearded stranger.
Ryan shuffled his feet to the left and then he shuffled them to the right trying to escape t he aim of the long rifle barrel but it was no use. He started to speak but the man cut him off.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time and then I’m going to blow your brains out! Who, are you scouting for, boy?”
“Hold on a minute! I’m not scouting for anybody! I don’t even know what you’re talking about!” Ryan managed to blurt out a
Everything was on schedule. The GPS unit showed it to be 2.1 miles to Forest Road 77. Putting the GPS unit back into the pack he took out the compass.
The compass was light and slipped in to his pocket easier than the GPS unit. In reality all Ryan needed to do was to stay on the compass bearing until reaching the forest road, and then turn right for two miles to Highway 19 to flag down the ranger by one o’clock sharp. Ryan slipped the compass into his pocket and leaving the backpack and machete at the raft, headed up the embankment to look at what was on the other side.
From the top of the bank Ryan pointed his compass to S20°W and looked out across the foggy swamp. The fog was thick—it suppressed all sounds— there was nothing but the sound-of-silence.
There is a sound to silence , and if you’re lucky enough and privileged enough to hear it you will have to be in a spot such as the Oklawaha River basin when the fog rolls in on an early morning. And if you are devoid of all things manmade and of man, and there are no planes flying overhead, then you will be fortunate enough to hear the sound-of-silence.
It is a sound you will never forget. It starts out a low buzz and then rises to a loud hum as your ears beg for a sound, any sound. The rush of the wind, a falling acorn, your ears ache for something to fill the void. Then it happens, there is a splash in the swamp or the wind blows and then instantly the sound-of-silence is gone.
As Ryan looked across the swamp towards his destination he was caught up in his own moment with the sound-of-silence. It had built-up to a loud hum. This, along with the fog made him feel closed in and alone.
Behind him lay a dark wide river, and several miles away his father. Ahead there lies miles more of a fog shrouded swamp. Fear begins to creep in like the dampness into his clothing. The mind can play tricks and a man-alone can be a man in trouble. A chill runs over his body. He shudders and shakes it off. His courage begins to wane.
Courage is a fickle thing. You seem to have it most when you are surrounded by others of like -mind. You wouldn’t just climb the ladder and walk out to the edge of the high-board, if it were not for your friends down in the pool egging you on. Nor would you walk through a graveyard on a moonlit night alone. Ryan would not have come this far were it not for the courage his father instilled in him at the wreckage. That inoculation of courage was wearing off. And now for the first time since he left his father he needed another dose of it.
Out towards the edge of blackness that makes up Rob’s comatose world a towering thunderstorm rapidly builds to an enormous height. Lightning flashes from within revealing a face, a bearded face amidst the clouds. It is a face that Rob had seen once, many years before.
The end to Ryan’s moment with the sound-of-silence came not with a splash or with the rustle of the breeze, but it was ushered away with a metal “click.”’ It was the cocking of the hammer of a gun! Ryan turned around to find himself staring down the barrel of a rifle, a very long rifle.
The end of the barrel was mere inch es from his forehead. At the other end of the barrel was a scruffy face.
“Who you scouting for?” said the man from behind a beard.
Ryan was taken by surprise. He did not know whether to feel joy or fear. He felt nothing as the seconds dragged by.
“I said, who you scouting for?” came an angry growl from the bearded stranger.
Ryan shuffled his feet to the left and then he shuffled them to the right trying to escape t he aim of the long rifle barrel but it was no use. He started to speak but the man cut him off.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time and then I’m going to blow your brains out! Who, are you scouting for, boy?”
“Hold on a minute! I’m not scouting for anybody! I don’t even know what you’re talking about!” Ryan managed to blurt out a
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