Paul E. Beard - The Last Ride (A Survival Story): The Beginning?

The Last Ride

(A Survival Story)

ISBN: 9781618424020

Introduction

We had known each other since the first grade. Michael and Willie lived in the same block as I. Tommy and French Albert lived within a few blocks from us. We always got together and did young teenager stuff like work odds jobs selling newspapers, pop bottles and cutting lawns. We played sports, played at the beach, and played with the girls. Our motto was: Work Hard, Play Hard and Love Hard.

Im apologizing to you folks in advance because someone told me that I should include last names for the characters in this story, even if I have to use fictional ones. Since, this is a true story; I feel that I got to use true names. I wont use last names for fear that someone may sue my socks off. Most of the names are pretty common, except for Yours, French Albert. Everyone is going to know who you are.

Prelude

When they found Tommy, he was 100 yards to the west of where we last saw him go under. and an hour and a half later. When they pulled his lifeless body aboard the small rescue vessel, I instantly obtained a great deal of respect for the ocean. We had been playing a dangerous game, where the winners only reward ------was to survive. Tommy paid the ultimate price and had taken.his last ride.

The Big Spinners

Galveston Island, Texas is located 40 miles due south of the metropolitan of Houston, in the Gulf of Mexico. Many people have heard of it, and most of them do not realize it is surrounded by water. The only thing connecting Galveston to the rest of the Lone Star State is a two-mile long bridge. When I was a child back in the fifties, the bridge was a narrow two lane concrete structure that also included a train track with a drawbridge near the middle to allow large vessels to past. To me, it was a major event to be caught on the span and watch the enormous section raise high in the air as a huge barge or tanker slowly navigated through the cuts, in and out West Bay. Many people from the mainland found jobs on the island at the many restaurants, stores, or the famous John Sealy Hospital,(where I was born),and The University of Texas Medical Branch. They soon built, what is referred to simply as the causeway. The drawbridge was closed to thru traffic, (except for trains), and yielded to two arch-shaped bridges to accommodate the heavier traffic flow. Not counting being air lifted, sailed or the ferry, which takes you to and fro to the Bolivar Peninsula, the causeway was the only escape from natural disasters like, the Storm of 1900, Carla, Beulah, Alicia, and the most recent of the Big Spinners, Ike, The Great Hurricanes of Galveston.

A Senseless Death?

My mother died in John Sealy Hospital shortly after my childbirth from blood loss. I weighed eleven lbs. at birth and if you were poor and black like we were, with no insurance to cover your hospital expenses, you did not receive proper care. I was told that a simple operation could have stopped the bleeding, but the doctors opted for the cheap way outto allow for coagulation, but by then the loss was too great to sustain life.

The next step was a blood transfusion, but since my mother was a Jehovahs Witness, that was not an option. The doctors talked to my father in private and said that they could put her to sleep and when she woke up, she would never know the difference and would be able to go home in a few days.

Let me go talk to her, my dad said to them.

As soon as he entered her room and before he could open his mouth, she said, Harvey, I know what youre doing in here, but if you love me, you wont let them give me any blood. Please, dont let them do it.

That must have been the hardest decision of my fathers life. He was of the Baptist persuasion, who sometimes believes that anything goes. (Do not ask me how those two religions got together. Baptist and Jehovahs Witnesses do not agree with each other on a good day.)

If it were I faced with that dilemma, I might have said, Shut up woman and go to sleep! (Then again, I might not.)

I now find comfort in my fathers decision believing that my mother got her wings for being obedient to Gods word and my father got his for obeying her last wishes.

A Raising of the Son

As you might imagine, I had a thousand questions about my mama and what happened to her after I was born. My dad always seems to not want to talk about it, or not give me a straight answer.

He told me one time, after one of my cross-examinations about, What happened after mom died?

I left you at the hospital and put you up for adoption, he said with a grin on his face. Now, when he said that, I gasped, but the grin threw me off. I didnt see a darn thing funny about that.

Why did you go back and get me? I asked in hopes of a loving or caring story with some sentimental value.

He replied, Well, I felt sorry for ya. You see, after a baby is left there moren tens days, dey put dem in dis long tube that stretches from the hospital, goes underground and empties out into the ocean. Dey shoot you out thoo dis tube and the sharks are always waitin at the end, with dey moff wide open.

Of course, when he told me that one, I was still young enough to believe it, but as I grew older, I came to realize it was just another diversionary tactic to avoid giving me a straight answer.

There were times when I wished he had left me at the hospital. I grew up in the era of whippings, or whoopings, as we, southern blacks referred to it. (Nowadays, its called child abuse). Society wouldnt call what my father used to give me a whooping or even child abuse. They would call it assault with a deadly weapon.. with intent to kill! Most times when he whooped me, hed use his leather belt.

There was no particular place he had in mind for the belt to land on my body. Hed start by telling me to lay across the bed face down. As the belt landed on my butt, back or legs, I would jump up and down timing each blow as not to let it strike me twice in the same place. That was extreme pain when that happened. When I was well-done on my backside, I would flip over to catch a few licks on the fresh tender flesh of my front legs, abdomen, chest area and I couldnt hear myself think over my screams.

Whenever a swing seem to be heading for my face, Id instinctively raise my forearm to block, often leaving visible marks made by the tip of the belt that the kids at school called Us, (Yoos). The rest can usually be covered up with clothes.

My dad believed in beating me long and hard, only stopping after fatigue set in or I could no longer defend myself by blocking and jumping or, he got tired from swinging and yelling, whichever came last. Ive had whoopings that lasted well over 30mins.

When he was real mad, hed use whatever he got his hands on at the time, for example, tree limbs, sticks, brooms or even his fist. He has broken several brooms either across my back or across my forearm when I tried to block a swing from hitting me in the face and head area.

He really got upset one day after he broke his walking cane on my back. The brooms back then were much thicker and stouter than the cheaply made ones of today, but that walking stick was even more solid and thicker than the brooms and was treated with some sort of lacquer coating to ensure sturdiness and durability.

He stood on the porch calling me for some reason and I could tell in his voice that I was going to get a beat down about something. (Probably, for going out to play before washing the dishes). I ran when I heard the call, but of course, a couple of my friends, Willie and French Albert also recognizing the tone, followed close behind, so that they could get in a good laugh. For some reason, catching a whooping was always funny, when